He reminds me of a slave I once had in Rome with those sullen dark eyes and that wistful pout. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. No, let us dine here, and then go and have our coffee on the boulevards. That is my real milieu, and one that I am convinced you would not only adorn but delight in. ” “Why on earth—? A man ought to be labelled.
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