This same good old Consul had ignored me, hearing that I had the audacity to give at my table _filet de boeuf aux truffes et champignons_.

I returned home feeling sure that these young noblemen would be but a few hours under my roof before Her Majesty's Consul would give me the honour of a visit." He was right.

The strangers had not been settled an hour when the tactful Briton rushed up the front steps.
Throwing his arms around McAllister's neck, he exclaimed: "My dear boy, I was in love with your mother thirty years ago; you are her image; carry me to your noble guests." "Ever after," is the naive record of our hero, "I had the respect and esteem of this dear old man." Let us get back to our sheep.

The narrative has been rambling too far from Fifth Avenue, and it is with the arbiter of the Avenue that we have to do.

Behold him launched, laughed at perhaps, occasionally, but feared and courted.