“So I supposed. How do you get on?”
“Brilliantly—and you? When did you arrive?”
“By the last Cunard steamer. Is it possible you haven’t seen me announced in the newspapers?”
“I never read them. I consider newspapers a bore.”
“Ha! I understand. Beau Shatterly thought the same of parish registers—‘a d—d impertinent invention!’ So they are—as thus; Beware of imposition: A scoundrel calling himself Count Tousky Wousky, but whose real name is—”
“Hush! Are you mad?”
“Ah! Philippe! Philippe! The chief cook at Vevay’s always used to say you would come to the gallows—eh?”
As he revived the recollection of this pleasant vaticination, Count Deflamzi poked the end of his cane at one of Tousky Wousky’s ribs, in a manner which partook more of the familiar than the dignified. Poor Tousky Wousky bent his body to escape the blow, while he looked the picture of despair—the more so as at that moment old Remnant’s carriage drew up near the curb-stone, and Sophy’s mother put her head out of the window to speak to her intended son-in-law.
“Good-bye, Alphonse; I will see you again soon,” said Tousky Wousky, endeavoring to shake off his unwelcome friend, and darting towards the carriage.
Deflamzi followed him, and after permitting him to greet Mrs. Remnant, and receive from her some intelligence in regard to Sophia Ann, he pulled Tousky Wousky by the skirt, and said; “My dear fellow, this is really embarrassing. Why don’t you introduce me to the lady?”