body who knew Trimalchio, and enjoyed his
famous dinners) left but very poorly off, lets the house, and the
rich, chaste, and appropriate planned furniture, by Dowbiggin, and the
proceeds go to keep her little boys at Eton. The next year, as Mr. Clive
Newcome rode by the once familiar mansion (whence the hatchment had been
removed, announcing that there was in Coelo Quies for the late Sir
Brian Newcome, Bart.), alien faces looked from over the flowers in the
balconies. He got a card for an entertainment from the occupant of the
mansion, H.E. the Bulgarian minister; and there was the same crowd in
the reception-room and on the stairs, the same grave men from Gunter's
distributing the refreshments in the dining-room, the same old Smee, R.
A. (always in the room where the edibles were), cringing and flattering
to the new occupants; and the same effigy of poor Sir Brian, in
his deputy-lieutenant's uniform, looking blankly down from over the
sideboard, at the feast which his successors were giving. A dreamy old
ghost of a picture. Have you ever looked at those round George IV.'s
banqueting-hall at Windsor? Their frames still hold them, but they smile
ghostly smiles, and swagger in robes and velvets which are quite faint
and faded: their crimson coats have a twilight tinge: the lustre of
their stars has twinkled out: they look as if they were about to flicker
off the wall and retire to join their originals in limbo.

* * * * * *

Nearly three years had elapsed since the good Colonel's departure for
India, and during this time certain changes had occurred in the lives
of the principal actors and the writer of this history. As regards the
latter, it must be stated that the dear old firm of Lamb Court had been
dissolved, the junior member having contracted another partnership. The
chronicler of these memoirs was a bachelor no longer. My wife and I had
spent the winter at Rome (favourite resort of young married couples);
and had heard from the artists there Clive's name affectionately
repeated; and many accounts of his sayings and doings, his merry
supper-parties, and the talents of young Ridley, his friend. When we
came to London in the spring, almost our first visit was to Clive's
apartments in Charlotte Street, whither my wife delightedly went to give
her hand to the young painter.

But Clive no longer inhabited that quiet region. On driving to the house
we found a bright brass plate, with the n