"No," said I, "I've not, but I am determined to have that pleasure soon."

"You will do as you please," said Vincent, "but you will be like the
child playing with edged tools."

"I am not a child," said I, "so the simile is not good. He must be the
devil himself, or a Scotchman at least, to take me in."

Vincent shook his head. "Come and dine with me at the Rocher," said he;
"we are a party of six--choice spirits all."

"Volontiers; but we can stroll in the Tuileries first, if you have no
other engagement."

"None," said Vincent, putting his arm in mine.

As we passed up the Rue de la Paix, we met Sir Henry Millington, mounted
on a bay horse, as stiff as himself, and cantering down the street as if
he and his steed had been cut out of pasteboard together.

"I wish," said Vincent, (to borrow Luttrel's quotation,) "that that
master of arts would 'cleanse his bosom of that perilous stuff.' I should
like to know in what recess of that immense mass now cantering round the
corner is the real body of Sir Henry Millington. I could fancy the poor
snug little thing shrinking within, like a guilty conscience. Ah, well
says Juvenal,

"'Mors sola fatetur Quantula sint hominum corpuscula.'"

"He has a superb head, though," I replied. I like to allow that other