and vanished. At that moment, a resolution,
already flickering in my mind, became fixed as
fate. I determined to quit for ever the haunts
of a social polity where such treachery as this
can be practised without penalty or reproach—
is tolerated, smiled at, forgiven. Harry, it is
my intention to become, in the completest
sense of the word, a hermit."

"Are you in earnest? A hermit? My dear
Bob, in these days——"

"Is an anachronism," interposed Mr. Lynn,
calmly. "I will meet that as I may. But,
Harry, an expression that has just escaped you
reminds me of a little point. You are among
the few who will be ever welcome to my cell.
I shall take it as a great favour if you will use
a somewhat less familiar mode of address—no
recluse (and I have given some attention to the
point) having, so far as my inquiries lead, been
usually accosted as 'Bob,' 'Bobby,' or any of
the diminutives of that name, which I shall, on
the contrary, extend to Roberto—Fra Roberto,
the Solitary."

"Rely upon it, old boy——"

"Old boy," interrupted the intended hermit,
"is open to the same objection."

"Excuse me. But really, Lynn, this is the
most singular resolution. And as sudden as it
is strange."

"Strange, if you like," said Bob, "but not
sudden. It was my boyhood's dream."

"Very likely. But manhood's reality——"

"I have made it the subject of much anxious
consideration," said Bob, "even to the minutest
details. My dress, my habitation, my diet, my
line of life, my course of meditation.
Henceforward—that is, from Tuesday fortnight, when
I dine with my Aunts Pentwhistle, at Twickenham
—I take cognisance of this world
exclusively through the loopholes of retreat—or one
of them," concluded Mr. Lynn.

"Snug lurking-places enough," said I,
"though not absolutely warranted against the
chance of a splinter in the eye."

"If there be anything ironical concealed in
that observation," said Bob, stiffly, "permit me
to remind you that there is no disgrace in
refraining from a conflict in which you are not
specially invited to participate."

"Granted. Should you, however, light upon
a friend, in that stage of garrotte which might
prohibit his conveying to you that special
invitation—how then?"

"That," said Bob, impatiently, "is a particular
case. I never heard of shame or discredit
attaching to those who have voluntarily quitted
the conflict of the world."

"Nor I either. It's a matter of taste and
personal comfort. Still——"

"Still, what?"

"Why, you see, a man may perch himself on
a windmill, beyond shell practice, and very
much enjoy a battle. But that gallant example
has been rarely found to exercise any beneficial
influence on his fellow-men; and, hence, the
public tributes (at least, of a gratifying nature)
paid to such warriors have been few."

"I don't want any public tributes," said Bob.
"The world doesn't want me, nor I the world.
Society is based on the falsest principles. It is
planted in a slough, from which all the moral
sewerage, perpetually in action, cannot
withdraw the noxious elements. The entire fabric
being in an advanced state of decomposition, I
hope I may be excused for making my bow
before I am stifled in its fragrant fall."

"Better stay, and help to reconstruct it
on sanitary principles of your own, Bobby,"
said I.

"We had better part—for the moment—I
think," said Bob, gravely. "This is not a
scene, (How do, Wopshott?) nor are you
(Good morning, Lady Dunsandle) in a mood,
to discuss such matters (Ha! Twisken) in a
fitting tone." We were now at Hyde Park
Corner. "Call in Half-Moon-street, if you
think proper, to-morrow," added Bob, "about
four, and you shall then see whether I am in
earnest, or not."

"Good. This time to-morrow."

"Four, in the morning," said Lynn,

"In the morning!"

"Certainly. I am in training for my recluse
habits," said Bob; "and what I may be
excused for terming the 'dress rehearsals,' take
place at that hour. However, twelve hours later
will suit me as well—and you, it may be, better.
I shall expect thee, son. Benedicite. Hansom!"

And, in one of those rapid conveyances, Bob
departed.

The apartments at this time occupied by the
misanthrope were singularly luxurious. Bathroom,
chamber, library, breakfast-room, divan—
all and each were the perfection of comfort,
elegance, and taste. Anything less suggestive of
the simple habits of the hermit's cell I had
never seen. Lynn was an inveterate smoker,
and when, punctual to my appointment, I
entered the familiar doors, the future anchorite
was reclining on his Persian couch, clad in a
rich brocade dressing-robe, smoking a narghilé,
and sipping a cool glass of Beaujolais.

My first idea was that the recluse fancy had
passed away. Far from it. Bob at once
plunged into the subject.

"I have sold all these gimcracks," he said,
glancing at his superb furniture with an eye of
scorn, "and let the shells" (rooms, I concluded).
"In that single packing-case is comprised all
that 'little' which man—in his recluse state—
is poetically supposed to 'want.' Cast your
eye over it."

Nailed upon the open lid was a list of the
contents, which appeared to be these: Iron
bed-frame, small oaken table, three-legged stool,
wooden spade, six wooden platters, a wooden
spoon, a salt-box, and a stewpan.

Simplicity itself. But why, I asked, this
predominance of timber?

Mr. Lynn replied that he preferred that
material, as combining the three characteristics of
cleanliness, portability, and innocence.
Nothing approaching to a weapon, even of defence,
should be found in the dwelling of one who,