Mr. Mellasys took a cigar, lighted, whiffed, looked at me, whiffed again,—
"Sir," says he, "dashed if that a'n't the best cigar I've smoked sence I quit Bayou La Farouche!"
"Ah! a Southerner!" said I. "Pray, allow the harmless weed to serve as a token of amity between our respective sections."
Mr. Mellasys grasped my hand.
"Take a drink, Mr. ——?" said he.
"Bratley Chylde," rejoined I, filling the hiatus,—"and I shall be most happy."
The name evidently struck him. It was a combination of all aristocracy and all plutocracy. As I gave my name, I produced and presented my card. I was aware, that, with the uncultured, the possession of a card is a proof of gentility, as the wearing of a coat-of-arms proves a long line of distinguished ancestry.
Mr. Mellasys took my card, studied it, and believed in it with refreshing naiveté.
"I'm proud to know you, Mr. Chylde," said he. "I haven't a card; but Mellasys is my name, and I'll show it to you written on the hotel-books."
"We will waive that ceremony," said I. "And allow me to welcome you to
Newport and the Millard. Shall we enjoy the breeze upon the piazza?"