, but puffed his cigar in perfect contempt of his questioner.

"Who is this coming up here?" said one; "he looks like a new arrival.
He is English, certainly; that frock has a London cut there's no
mistaking."

"By Jove, it's Norwood!" cried Haggerstone, edging away, as he
spoke, from the group. Meanwhile, the noble Viscount, a well-dressed,
well-whiskered man, of about thirty, came leisurely forward, and
touching his hat familiarly, said,

"Ha! you here, Haggerstone! What is Florence doing?"

"Pretty much as it always did, my Lord. I don't think its morals have
improved since you knew it a few years ago."

"Or you wouldn't be here, Haggy, eh?" said the Viscount, laughing at his
own joke. "Not suit your book if it took a virtuous turn, eh?"

"I plead guilty, my Lord. I believe I do like to shoot folly as it
flies."

"Ah, yes! And I've seen you taking a sitting shot at it too, Haggy,"
said the other, with a heartier laugh, which, despite of the Colonel's
efforts not to feel, brought a crimson flush to his cheek.

"Is there any play going on, Haggy?"

"Nothing that you would call play, my Lord; a little whist for Nap
points, a little ecarte, a little piquet, and, now and then, we have a
round game at Sabloukoff's."

"Poor old fellow! and he 's alive still? And where 's the Jariominski?"

"Gone back to Russia."

"And Maretti?"

"In Saint Angelo, I believe."

"And that little Frenchman what was his name? his father was a Marshal
of the Empire."

"D'Acosta."

"The same. Where is he?"

"Shot himself this spring."

"Pretty girl, his sister. What became of her?"

"Some one told me that she had become a Soeur de Charite."

"What a pity! So they 're all broken up, I see."

"Completely so."

"Then what have you got in their place?"

"Nothing fast, my Lord, except, perhaps, your friends the Onslows."

"Yes; they 're going it, I hear. Is n't there a rich niece, or cousin,
or something of that sort, with them?"

"They've got a prettyish girl, called Dalton; but as to her being rich,
I think it very unlikely, seeing that her family are living in Germany
in a state of the very closest poverty."

"And Master George, how does he carry on the war?" said the Viscount,
who seemed quite heedless of the other's correction.

"He plays a little peddling ecarte now and then; but you can see that he
has burned his fingers, and dreads the fire. They say he 's in love with
the Dalton girl."

"Of course he is, i