r bosom friend was a
huge, overgrown everyday Briton with a broken nose! _I_ saw what he was
at, from the low cunning in his face as he listened; and felt that every
single unguarded word you dropped was a dollar in his pocket! How we've
all had to live down that dreadfully facetious and grotesque and
familiar article he printed about us all in those twenty American
newspapers that have got the largest circulation in the world! and how
you stamped and raved, Barty, and swore that never another American
'gentleman' should enter your house! What names you called him: 'cad!'
'sweep!' 'low-bred, little Yankee penny-a-liner!' Don't you remember?
Why, he described you as a quite nice-looking man somewhat over the
middle height!"

"Oh yes; damn him, _I_ remember!" said Barty, who was three or four
inches over six feet, and quite openly vain of his good looks.

_Leah._ "Well, then, pray be cautious with this Monsieur Paroly you
think so much of because he's French. Let _him_ talk--interview
_him_--ask him all about his family, if he's got one--his children,
and all that; play a game of billiards with him--talk French
politics--dance 'La Paladine'--make him laugh--make him smoke one of
those strong Trichinopoli cigars Bob gave you for the tops of
omnibuses--make him feel your biceps--teach him how to play cup and
ball--give him a sketch--then bring him in to tea. Madame Cornelys
will be there, and Julia Ironsides, and Ida, who'll talk French by
the yard. Then we'll show him the St. Bernards and Minerva, and I'll
give him an armful of Gloire de Dijon roses, and shake him warmly by
the hand, so that he won't feel ill-natured towards us; and we'll
get him out of the house as quick as possible."

* * * * *

Thus prepared, Barty awaited M. Paroly, and this is a free rendering
of what M. Paroly afterwards wrote about him:

"With a mixture of feelings difficult to analyze and define, I bade
adieu to the sage and philosopher of Cheyne Row, and had myself
transported in my hansom to the abode of the other great _sommite
litteraire_ in London, the light one--M. Josselin, to whom we in
France also are so deeply in debt.

"After a longish drive through sordid streets we reached a bright
historic vicinity and a charming hill, and my invisible Jehu guided
me at the great trot by verdant country lanes. We turned through
lodge gates into a narrow drive in a well-kept gard