“Exguse me, your honour,” said the person, “but haf you seen Mister Fox?”
I said that I, too, was waiting for him, whereat he cast at me a cunning look beyond my comprehension. Surely, I thought, a man of Fox's inherited wealth and position could not be living in such a place! Before the truth and humour of the situation had dawned upon me, I heard a ringing voice without, swearing in most forcible English, and the door was thrown open, admitting a tall young gentleman, as striking as I have ever seen. He paid not the smallest attention to the Jew, who was bowing and muttering behind me.
“Mr. Richard Carvel?” said he, with a merry twinkle in his eye.
I bowed.
“Gad's life, Mr. Carvel, I'm deuced sorry this should have happened. Will you come with me?”
“Exguse me, your honour!” cried the other visitor.
“Now, what the plague, Aaron!” says he; “you wear out the stairs. Come to-morrow, or the day after.”
“Ay, 'tis always 'to-morrow' with you fine gentlemen. But I vill bring the bailiffs, so help me—”
“Damn 'em!” says the tall young gentleman, as he slammed the door and so shut off the wail. “Damn 'em, they worry Charles to death. If he would only stick to quinze and picquet, and keep clear of the hounds*, he need never go near a broker.”
[* The “hounds,” it appears, were the gentlemen of sharp practices at
White's and Almack's.—D. C. C.]