in reply to his saying Mr. Finley was dressing for a party, that he had pressing business, and must speak with him. The servant left Aikin in the entry, and, entering the drawing-room, pushed the door to after him, but not so close as to prevent Aikin hearing the following dialogue:—
"There's somebody, ma'am, in the entry, wants to speak with Mr. Finley."
"Why did not you tell him he was not at home?"
"Because he is, ma'am."
"Pshaw, Tom, you know he is going out immediately, and it's all the same thing. Do you know who it is?"
"No, ma'am."
"Is it a gentleman?"
"He speaks like one, ma'am."
"You certainly know, Tom—is he a gentleman, or only a man?"
"He is dressed like a man, ma'am."
"Tom, you must get over tormenting me this way: I've told you a hundred times the distinction." Tom smiled. He evidently had in his mind something like the old distinction of the poet, though he could not, or dared not, express it—
"Worth makes the man—the want of it, the fellow."
"Well, well," added Mrs. Finley, "show him in, and tell Mr. Finley."
Aikin entered with that air of blended modesty and independence that characterized him; certainly with no look of inferiority, for he felt none; and, as Mrs. Finley's eye fell on his fine countenance, hers relaxed, and she was in the dilemma, for a moment, of not knowing whether to class
