Well, then, Clarence Bulbul, because he has made part of the little tour
that all of us know, comes back and gives himself airs, forsooth, and
howls as if he were just out of the great Libyan desert.

When we go and see him, that Irish Jew courier, whom I have before had
the honor to describe, looks up from the novel which he is reading
in the ante-room, and says, "Mon maitre est au divan," or, "Monsieur
trouvera Monsieur dans son serail," and relapses into the Comte de
Montecristo again.

Yes, the impudent wretch has actually a room in his apartments on the
ground-floor of his mother's house, which he calls his harem. When Lady
Betty Bulbul (they are of the Nightingale family) or Miss Blanche
comes down to visit him, their slippers are placed at the door, and he
receives them on an ottoman, and these infatuated women will actually
light his pipe for him.

Little Spitfire, the groom, hangs about the drawing-room, outside the
harem forsooth! so that he may be ready when Clarence Bulbul claps hands
for him to bring the pipes and coffee.

He has coffee and pipes for everybody. I should like you to have
seen the face of old Bowly, his college-tutor, called upon to sit
cross-legged on a divan, a little cup of bitter black Mocha put into his
hand, and a large amber-muzzled pipe stuck into his mouth by Spitfire,
before he could so much as say it was a fine day. Bowly almost thought
he had compromised his principles by consenting so far to this Turkish
manner.

Bulbul's dinners are, I own, very good; his pilaffs and curries