"Hadn't you!" rejoined his uncle gruffly; "well, I suppose it is! This is my twenty-seventh season—I've got over my first raptures by this time."
"I don't believe I could ever come back to the same place twenty-seven times."
"Think it argues a lack of originality? It would depend on its attractions. You don't want to go back to Perapore twenty-seven times, eh?"
"By Jove, no—nor twice!" he answered, with emphasis.
"But here it is different, my boy. It is good for one's liver, it is gay, and, as you remark, pretty. There is any amount of entertaining; dinners and luncheons; there is golf and tennis. I meet the people I know—or want to know. In short, Homburg has become an agreeable habit, which there is no occasion to relinquish. And here we are!" he announced, as they emerged from a shady walk into a wide and crowded promenade.
At one end of this promenade was the celebrated well, at present closely invested by a number of votaries, who were sipping their first glass, or waiting to be served by the active, blue-gowned maidens.
Here were young and old, society folk and nobodies, a Russian Grand Duke stood elbow to elbow with a Scotch grocer, and the Countess of Marmalade was patiently waiting till Cora Sans Souci was served.
As soon as Sir Horace had swallowed his glass (he took it warm), and having vainly urged his nephew to pledge him in another, he carried him off to stroll up and down, between the bandstand and the jewellers' shops. As they sauntered along he saluted almost every second person, and indicated the chief notabilities to his relation.
"Here comes the Duke of Luxembourg," and he swept off his hat, "getting very shaky on his pins, poor old boy. This man passing now with the lady in the Ascot frock is De Jeers, the great Jew financier. She is Lady Merrythought, and getting all she can out of him, I'll lay long odds. The pale girl in the white linen gown is the notorious 'Sauta'—the Spanish dancer. She stabbed a man with a hat pin the other day. This couple comparing prescriptions are the Bishop of Timbucktoo and Dooley, the steeplechase jock. The lady with the herd of Borzois is the Duchess of Valetta, and the little woman with the brown poodle is Madame Cuzco; that poodle is a European celebrity, and has his own manservant and barber. Now let us go and sit on one of the seats and watch the madding crowd."
"All right," assented his nephew, "they certainly are a wonderfully-mixed lot! Look at these two swarthy giantesses—regular six-footers—a most formidable couple!"