Russelton now turned to me, and invited me, with a tone of the most lady-
like languor, to sit down near the fire. As I am naturally of a chilly
disposition, and fond, too, of beating people in their own line, I drew a
chair close to the hearth, declared the weather was very cold, and rung
the bell for some more wood. Russelton started for a moment, and then,
with a politeness he had not deigned to exert before, approached his
chair to mine, and began a conversation, which, in spite of his bad
witticisms, and peculiarity of manner, I found singularly entertaining.

Dinner was announced, and we adjourned to another room--poor Sir
Willoughby, with his waistcoat unbuttoned, and breathing like a pug in a
phthisis--groaned bitterly, when he discovered that this apartment was
smaller and hotter than the one before. Russelton immediately helped him
to some scalding soup--and said, as he told the servant to hand Sir
Willoughby the cayenne--"you will find this, my dear Townshend, a very
sensible potage for this severe season."

Dinner went off tamely enough, with the exception of "our stout friend's"
agony, which Russelton enjoyed most luxuriously. The threatened mutton-
chops did not make their appearance, and the dinner, though rather too
small, was excellently cooked, and better arranged. With the dessert, the
poor baronet rose, and pleading sudden indisposition, tottered out of the
door.

When he was gone, Russelton threw himself back in his chair, and laughed
for several minutes with a loud chuckling sound, till the tears ran down
his cheek. "A nice heart you must have!" thought I--(my conclusions of
character are always drawn from small propensities).

After a few jests at Sir Willoughby, our conversation turned upon other