Miles, whose delicious every other Wednesdays in Montague Square are supposed by some to be rival entertainments to Mrs. Newcome's alternate Thursdays in Bryanston Square, pinched her daughter Mira, engaged in a polyglot conversation with Herr Schnurr, Signor Carabossi, the guitarist, and Monsieur Pivier, the celebrated French chess- to point out the Boyar. Mira Miles wished she knew a little Moldavian, not so much that she might speak it, but that she might be heard to speak it. Mrs. Miles, who had not had the educational advantages of her daughter, simpered up with »Madame Newcome pas ici – votre excellence nouvellement arrivé – avez-vous fait ung bong voyage? Je reçois chez moi Mercredi prochaing; lonnure de vous voir – Madamasel Miles, ma fille;« and Mira, now reinforcing her mamma, poured in a glib little oration in French, somewhat to the astonishment of the Colonel, who began to think, however, that perhaps French was the language of the polite world, into which he was now making his very first entrée.

Mrs. Newcome had left her place at the door of her drawing-room, to walk through her rooms with Rummun Loll, the celebrated Indian merchant, otherwise His Excellency Rummun Loll, otherwise His Highness Rummun Loll, the chief proprietor of the diamond mines in Golconda, with a claim of three millions and a half upon the East India Company; who smoked his hookah after dinner when the ladies were gone, and in whose honour (for his servants always brought a couple or more of hookahs with them) many English gentlemen made themselves sick while trying to emulate the same practice. Mr. Newcome had been obliged to go to bed himself in consequence of the uncontrollable nausea produced by the chillum; and Doctor M'Guffog, in hopes of converting his Highness, had puffed his till he was as black in the face as the interesting Indian – and now, having hung on his arm – always in the dirty gloves, flirting a fan whilst his Excellency consumed betel out of a silver box; and having promenaded him and his turban, and his shawls, and his kincob pelisse, and his lacquered moustache, and keen brown face and opal eyeballs, through her rooms, the hostess came back to her station at the drawing-room door.

As soon as his Excellency saw the Colonel, whom he perfectly well knew, his Highness's princely air was exchanged for one of the deepest humility. He bowed his head and put his two hands before his eyes, and came creeping towards him submissively, to the wonderment of Mrs. Miles; who was yet more astonished when the Moldavian magnate exclaimed in perfectly good English, »What, Rummun, you here?«

The Rummun, still bending and holding his hands before him, uttered a number of rapid sentences in the Hindustani language, which Colonel Newcome received twirling his mustachios with much hauteur. He turned on his heel rather abruptly, and began to speak to Mrs. Newcome, who smiled and thanked him for coming – on his first night after his return.

The Colonel said, »To whose house should he first come but to his brother's?« How Mrs. Newcome wished she could have had room for him at dinner! And there was room after all, for Mr. Shaloony was detained at the House. The most interesting conversation. 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 May Fair 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. »I supposed you dined here to meet the black Prince. I came to ask him and my uncle to meet you at dinner on Wednesday. – Where's my uncle, ma'am?«

»Your uncle is gone to bed ill. He smoked one of those hookahs which the Prince brings, and it has made him very unwell indeed, Barnes. How is Lady Ann? Is Lord Kew in London? Is your sister better for Brighton air? I see your cousin is appointed Secretary of Legation.