"I will give him as much love as you send
him; and shall not waste much breath. Again
good night."

"Good night, my bear."

He had never taken a seat during the
interview, but had half stood, half lounged, against
the console on which he had placed his hat.
Without directing another glance towards her,
he left the room. His face had turned white,
and he was trembling all over. But he had great
command over his emotions, and by the time he
reached the salle à manger his countenance was
as unruffled as ever.

Rataplan had gone to bed. Constant, however,
was an old habitué of the house, and made himself
comfortable with the female night-porter, La
Mère Thomas. He was no smoker; but she
brewed him some mulled claret, of which he
partook in moderation. And so remained, after a
game or two at dominoes, with the mahogany-
coloured sentinel, until past four in the morning.
His conversation was mainly about the
"countess" and her temper.

CHAPTER XIII. TO GAMRIDGE'S.

Gamridge's Hotel was in Pump-street,
Regent-street. Gamridge's was much frequented
by the junior members of the aristocracy, and by
officers bearing his Majesty's commission.
Gamridge's was the legitimate and lineal successor of
the old Slaughter's Coffee-house in St. Martin's
lane, of whose ancient waiter and young military
frequenters Thackeray's Vanity Fair discourses
delightfully. Gamridge's, in 1836, was at the
apogee of its popularity and renown; but, a few
years afterwards—such is the mutability of
human affairs—Gamridge's was destined to be
eclipsed by the Rag and Famish.

Why "Rag" and why "Famish"? I, as a poor
slouching civilian, am not, I hope, bound to
know. The Rag and Famish seems to me a
most palatial edifice, superb in all its exterior
appointments. I have heard that its inner
chambers are decorated in the most lavish style
of Oriental splendour; that its smoking-room
vies in gorgeousness with the Court of the Lions
at the Alhambra; that, in its drawing-rooms, the
genius of the most eminent upholsterers in London
has run riot. Nobody can be in rags,
nobody can possibly be famished, at the R. and F.
The cuisine, I have heard, is exquisite, the wines
and liquors are beyond compare. The lightest-
vested and brightest-buttoned foot-pages in the
parish of St. James's gambol and grin behind the
plate-glass doors. The most majestic and the
longest-moustached military bricks puff their
cigars on the steps. There are always half a
dozen Hansoms in waiting before the portal.
On the Derby Day, drags by the score start from
the Rag. The prizes in the race sweeps at the
Rag are said to be enormous.

Let me see, what is the pay of a subaltern in
the Line? Some seventy or eighty pounds a year,
I believe. What is the half-pay of a general
officer? Not many hundreds per annum, I am
afraid. It strikes me that the establishment,
not only of the Rag, but of the Senior and Junior
United Service Clubs, must have been an
inestimable boon to the young warriors who are
ready to fight their country's battles, and to the
old braves who have fought them, and retired to
grass, and whose helmets are now hives for bees.
To live like a fighting-cock, and to be housed
like a prince; to have all the newspapers
and periodicals, and a first-rate library; billiard
and smoking rooms, baths and lavatories, lounging
and elbow-resting room; a numerous staff
of silent, civil, and deferential servants in
imposing liveries, and as much stationery as ever
you want; these are joys familiar to the members
of the Rag, and of other cognate mansions. The
young fellow on active service can run up from
Chatham or Aldershot, and have the free range
of a Venetian palace till his leave is out. The
battered half-pay has but to provide himself with
a bedroom at half a guinea a week in Jermyn-
street, or St. Alban's-place, and, from nine of the
clock on one morning till two or three of the
clock on the next, he may live as luxuriously as
a Sultan of Cathay. The annual subscription is
moderate. The table-money is inconsiderable.
Beer, bread, and pickles are dispensed gratuitously.
The cigars are foreign. The provisions
and wines are supplied at rates very little
exceeding cost price.

Whereas, I can't see what a civilian wants with
a club at all. He has a home, which the soldier
and sailor, as a rule, have not. He has a cook at
home. He may refect himself in a decorous
dining-room at home. If he wants books, let him
subscribe to the London Library, or ask Mr.
Panizzi for a ticket for the Museum Reading-
room. He needs no smoking-room. Civilians
have no right to smoke. He needs no billiard-
room. Civilians should be men of business, and
men of business have no right to play billiards.
"Clubs," says Solomon Buck, in one of his wisest
apophthegms, "are weapons of offence, wielded by
savages for the purpose of keeping off the white
women." S. B. is right. Clubs, for your dashing,
rollicking, harum-scarum soldiers and sailors, are
all very well. The gallant fellows need a little
relaxation after the irksome restraints of
barracks or ship-board; but clubs, to the unworthy
civilian class, are merely the meanest pretexts
for selfishness and self-indulgence.

Having, I flatter myself, in the preceding
paragraph, set myself right with the ladies (whom I
am always trying to conciliate, and always
unsuccessfully), I will proceed to the consideration
of Gamridge's. Social clubs of the palatial order
were rare in 1836. St. James's had its exclusive
political reunions—White's, Brooks' s, Boodle's,
and the like; but none save the elect of the elect
could obtain admission to them. Crockford's
was very fashionable, but it was a gaming-house.
The Carlton wasn't built. The Athenæum and
the Reform were arrogant with the flush of the
March of Intellect, and looked down upon the
men of the sword. The members of the now