o
intelligent!

"The Indian what?" asks Colonel Newcome. The heathen gentleman had gone
off, and was seated by one of the handsomest young women in the room,
whose fair face was turned towards him, whose blond ringlets touched his
shoulder, and who was listening to him as eagerly as Desdemona listened
to Othello.

The Colonel's rage was excited as he saw the Indian's behaviour. He
curled his mustachios up to his eyes in his wrath. "You don't mean that
that man calls himself a Prince? That a fellow who wouldn't sit down in
an officer's presence is----"

"How do you do, Mr. Honeyman?--Eh, bong soir, Monsieur--You are very
late, Mr. Pressly.--What, Barnes! is it possible that you do me the
honour to come all the way from Mayfair to Marylebone? I thought you
young men of fashion never crossed Oxford Street. Colonel Newcome, this
is your nephew."

"How do you do, sir?" says Barnes, surveying the Colonel's costume with
inward wonder, but without the least outward manifestation of surprise.
"I suppose you dined here to meet the black Prince. I came to ask him
and my uncle to meet you at dinner on Wednesday. Where's my uncle,
ma'am?"

"Your uncle is gone to bed ill. He smoked one of those hookahs which the
Prince brings, and it has made him very unwell indeed, Barnes. How is
Lady Anne? Is Lord Kew in London? Is your sister better for Brighton
air? I see your cousin is appointed Secretary of Legation. Have you good
accounts of your aunt Lady Fanny?"

"Lady Fanny is as well as can be expected, and the baby is going on
perfectly well, thank you," Barnes said drily; and his aunt, obstinately
gracious with him, turned away to some other new comet.

"It's interesting, isn't it, sir," says Barnes, turning to the Colonel,
"to see such union in families? Whenever I come here, my aunt trots out
all my relations; and I send a man round in the mornin to ask how they
all are. So Uncle Hobson is gone to bed sick with a hookah? I know there
was a deuce of a row made when I smoked at Marblehead. You are promised
to us for Wednesday, please. Is there anybody you would like to meet?
Not our friend the Rummun? How the girls crowd round him! By Gad, a
fellow who's rich in London may have the pick of any gal--not here--not
in this sort of thing; I mean in society, you know," says Barnes
confidentially, "I've seen the old dowagers crowdin round that fellow,
and the girls snugglin up to his india-rubber face. He's known to have
two wives al