fashion, hesitated to recognise the pinched and shabby air of his

companion.

'What!' he cried, 'Paul Somerset!'

'I am indeed Paul Somerset,' returned the other, 'or what remains

of him after a well-deserved experience of poverty and law. But in

you, Challoner, I can perceive no change; and time may be said,

without hyperbole, to write no wrinkle on your azure brow.'

'All,' replied Challoner, 'is not gold that glitters. But we are

here in an ill posture for confidences, and interrupt the movement

of these ladies. Let us, if you please, find a more private

corner.'

'If you will allow me to guide you,' replied Somerset, 'I will

offer you the best cigar in London.'

And taking the arm of his companion, he led him in silence and at a

brisk pace to the door of a quiet establishment in Rupert Street,

Soho. The entrance was adorned with one of those gigantic

Highlanders of wood which have almost risen to the standing of

antiquities; and across the window-glass, which sheltered the usual

display of pipes, tobacco, and cigars, there ran the gilded legend:

'Bohemian Cigar Divan, by T. Godall.' The interior of the shop was

small, but commodious and ornate; the salesman grave, smiling, and

urbane; and the two young men, each puffing a select regalia, had

soon taken their places on a sofa of mouse-coloured plush and

proceeded to exchange their stories.

'I am now,' said Somerset, 'a barrister; but Providence and the

attorneys have hitherto denied me the opportunity to shine. A

select society at the Cheshire Cheese engaged my evenings; my

afternoons, as Mr. Godall could testify, have been generally passed

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