"God bless me," cried Guloseton, with an air of vexation, "here comes the
Duke of Stilton, a horrid person, who told me the other day, at my petit
diner, when I apologized to him for some strange error of my artiste's,
by which common vinegar had been substituted for Chili--who told me--what
think you he told me? You cannot guess; he told me, forsooth, that he did
not care what he eat; and, for his part, he could make a very good dinner
off a beef-steak! Why the deuce, then, did he come and dine with me?
Could he have said any thing more cutting? Imagine my indignation, when I
looked round my table and saw so many good things thrown away upon such
an idiot."

Scarcely was the last word out of the gourmand's mouth before the noble
personage so designated, joined us. It amused me to see Guloseton's
contempt (which he scarcely took the pains to suppress) of a person whom
all Europe honoured, and his evident weariness of a companion, whose
society every one else would have coveted as the summum bonum of worldly
distinction. As for me, feeling any thing but social, I soon left the
ill-matched pair, and rode into the other park.

Just as I entered it, I perceived, on a dull, yet cross-looking pony, Mr.
Wormwood, of bitter memory. Although we had not met since our mutual
sojourn at Sir Lionel Garratt's, and were then upon very cool terms of
acquaintance, he seemed resolved to recognize and claim me.

"My dear Sir," said he, with a ghastly smile, "I am rejoiced once more to
see you; bless me, how pale you look. I heard you had been very ill. Pray
have you been yet to that man who professes to cure consumption in the
worst stages?"