ietly
than in a hotel. He called it a hotel. Mr. Binnie was a North Briton,
his father having been a Writer to the Signet, in Edinburgh, who had
procured his son a writership in return for electioneering services
done to an East Indian Director. Binnie had his retiring pension, and,
besides, had saved half his allowances ever since he had been in
India. He was a man of great reading, no small ability, considerable
accomplishment, excellent good sense and good humour. The ostentatious
said he was a screw; but he gave away more money than far more
extravagant people: he was a disciple of David Hume (whom he admired
more than any other mortal), and the serious denounced him as a man of
dangerous principles, though there were, among the serious, men much
more dangerous than James Binnie.

On returning to his hotel, Colonel Newcome found this worthy gentleman
installed in his room in the best arm-chair sleeping cosily; the evening
paper laid decently over his plump waistcoat, and his little legs
placed on an opposite chair. Mr. Binnie woke up briskly when the Colonel
entered. "It is you, you gad-about, is it?" cried the civilian. "How
has the beau monde of London treated the Indian Adonis? Have you made a
sensation, Newcome? Gad, Tom, I remember you a buck of bucks when that
coat first came out to Calcutta--just a Barrackpore Brummell--in Lord
Minto's reign, was it, or when Lord Hastings was satrap over us?"

"A man must have one good coat," says the Colonel; "I don't profess to
be a dandy; but get a coat from a good tailor, and then have done with
it." He still thought his garment was as handsome as need be.

"Done with it--ye're never done with it!" cries the civilian.

"An old coat is an old friend, old Binnie. I don't want to be rid of one
or the other. How long did you and my boy sit up together--isn't he a
fine lad, Binnie? I expect you are going to put him down for something
handsome in your will."

"See what it is to have a real friend now, Colonel! I sate up for ye,
or let us say more correctly, I waited for you--because I knew you would
want to talk about that scapegrace of yours. And if I had gone to bed, I
should have had you walking up to No. 28, and waking me out of my first
rosy slumber. Well, now confess; avoid not. Haven't ye fallen in love
with some young beauty on the very first night of your arrival in your
sister's salong, and selected a mother-in-law for young Scapegrace?"

"Isn't he a fine fellow