The Hon. Adolphus Lightfoot, 87 



miles an hour, in the wind-up galop. At all the prin- 

 cipal races he puts in an appearance, you may be sure. 

 Cowes knows him; so does Scotland, on the 12th of 

 August. 



He comes south about Doncaster time, and from that 

 right away to Christmas he visits in turn, and is 

 welcome in all — for he is capital company — the best 

 country houses in England. 



One July, wanting a little change, we took it into our 

 head to run over to Boulogne for a few days. We went 

 accordingly, and, not being able to get a room at the 

 Hotel de Paris, put up at another hostelry, whose name 

 we forget, situated exactly opposite the famous Etablisse- 

 ment. The day after our arrival, betaking ourselves to 

 the little restaurant on the pier for the purpose of 

 luncheon, who should we find, presiding over the very 

 noisiest party of ladies and gentlemen we ever came in con- 

 tact with, but Dolly Lightfoot ! Nothing would satisfy him 

 but that we must join his party at once. And we are bound 

 to say we never enjoyed a dejeuner more than this particular 

 one. The ladies — English actresses all of them — were over 

 at Boulogne taking holiday — high holiday indeed — and 

 were apparently, one and all, enjoying themselves to their 

 hearts' content, so much so that it was quite a treat to 

 see them. How they pitched into the soles a la Normand 

 and the sweet champagne, and laughed and chaffed ; bless 

 their little hearts ! Dolly, too, was in his element. Al- 

 together, it was about the cheeriest meal we ever sat 

 down to, and one we recall to our minds with pleasure. 

 That evening Dolly engaged himself to dine quietly with 

 us at our hotel, to hear all the news from Buttercupshire, 

 as he said. Now, opposite to us at the table d'hote were 



