"I meant Mr. Ravenslee."

"Then may I beg that you'll allood to him 'enceforth as Young Har? This
is Young Har's own room, sir. These is Young Har's own picters, sir.
When Young Har is absent, I generally sit 'ere with me cigar and observe
said picters. I'm fond of hart, sir; I find hart soothing and restful.
The picters surrounding of you are all painted by Young Har's very own
'and--subjeks various. Number one--a windmill very much out o' repair,
but that's hart, sir. Number two--a lady dressed in what I might term
dish-a-bell, sir, and there isn't much of it, but that's hart again.
Number three--a sunset. Number four--moonlight; 'e didn't get the moon
in the picter but the light's there and that's the great thing--effect,
sir, effect! Of course, being only studies, they don't look
finished--which is the most hartisticest part about 'em! But, lord!
Young Har never finishes anything--too tired! 'Ang me, sir, if I don't
think 'e were born tired! But then, 'oo ever knew a haristocrat as
wasn't?"

"But," demurred Mr. Stevens, staring down into his empty glass, "I
thought 'e was a American, your--Young Har?"

"Why, 'e is and 'e ain't, sir. His father was only a American, I'll
confess, but his mother was blue blood, every drop guaranteed, sir, and
as truly English as--as I am!"

"And is 'e the Mr. Ravenslee as is the sportsman? Goes in for boxing,
don't 'e? Very much fancied as a heavyweight, ain't 'e? My governor's
seen him box and says 'e's a perfect snorter, by Jove!"

Mr. Brimberly sighed, and soothed a slightly agitated whisker.