The things we do!

The Indian Prince was so
intelligent!
"The Indian what?" asks Colonel Newcome. The heathen gentleman had gone
off, and was seated by one of the handsomest young women in the room,
whose fair face was turned towards him, whose blond ringlets touched his
shoulder, and who was listening to him as eagerly as Desdemona listened
to Othello.
The Colonel's rage was excited as he saw the Indian's behaviour. He
curled his mustachios up to his eyes in his wrath. "You don't mean that
that man calls himself a Prince? That a fellow who wouldn't sit down in
an officer's presence is----"
"How do you do, Mr. Honeyman?--Eh, bong soir, Monsieur--You are very
late, Mr. Pressly.--What, Barnes! is it possible that you do me the
honour to come all the way from Mayfair to Marylebone? I thought you
young men of fashion never crossed Oxford Street. Colonel Newcome, this
is your nephew."
"How do you do, sir?" says Barnes, surveying the Colonel's costume with
inward wonder, but without the least outward manifestation of surprise.


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