What was I going to say the gems of truth
did, when the young clergyman and the
charming girl began their sentimental
interview on the terrace? Gone— utterly gone!
Strike out the gems of truth, and try another
way.

"The farther we enter into this interesting
subject, the more its vast capabilities "—-

A knock at the door.

"Yes."

"Her Ladyship wishes me to say, sir, that
luncheon is ready."

"Very well."

"The further we enter into this interesting
subject, the more clearly its vast capabilities
display themselves to our view. The mind,
indeed, can hardly be pronounced
competent "——

A knock at the door.

"Yes."

"Her Ladyship wishes me to remind you,
sir, that luncheon is ready."

"Pray beg Lady Jinkinson not to wait for
me."

"The mind, indeed, can hardly be pronounced
competent to survey the extended field
of observation "——

A knock at the door.

"Yes."

"I beg your pardon, sir, but her Ladyship
desires me to say that a friar's omelette has
just come up, which she very much wishes
you to taste. And she is afraid it will get
cold, unless you will be so good as to come
down-stairs at once."

"Say, I will come directly."

"The mind, indeed, can hardly be
pronounced competent to survey the extended
field of observation, which "—which?—
which?— Gone again! What else could I
expect ? A nice chance literature has in this
house against luncheon.

I descend to the dining-room, and am
politely told that I look as if I had just
achieved a wonderful morning's work. "I
dare say you have not written in such
perfect quiet as this for months past ? " says
Lady Jinkinson, helping me to the friar's
omelette. I begin with that dainty: where
I end is more than my recollection enables
me to say. Everybody feeds me, under the
impression that I am exhausted with writing.
All the splendid fellows will drink wine with
me, "to set me going again." Nobody
believes my rueful assertion that I have done
nothing, which they ascribe to excessive
modesty. When we rise from table (a
process which is performed with extreme
difficulty, speaking for myself), I am told that
the carriage will be ready in an hour. Lady
Jinkinson will not hear of any objections.
"No! no! " she says. " I have not asked
you here to overwork yourself. I really
can't allow that."

I get back to my room, with an extraordinary
tightness in my waistcoat, and with
slight symptoms of a determination of Sherry
to the head. Under these circumstances,
returning to work immediately is not to be
thought of. Returning to bed is by far the
wiser proceeding. I lie down to arrange my
ideas. Having none to arrange, I yield to
Nature, and go to sleep.

When I wake, my head is clear again. I
see my way now to the end of that bit about
"the extended field of observation; " and
make for my table in high spirits. Just
as I sit down, comes another knock at
the door. The carriage is ready. The
carriage! I had forgotten all about it. There
is no way of escape, however. Hours must
give way to me, when I am at home; I must
give way to hours, when I am at Lady
Jinkinson's. My papers are soon shuffled
together in my case; and I am once more
united with the hospitable party down-stairs.
"More bright ideas? " cry the ladies
interrogatively, as I take my place in the carriage.
"Not the dimmest vestige of one," I answer.
Lady Jinkinson shakes her parasol reproachfully
at me. "My dear friend, you were always
absurdly modest when speaking of yourself;
and, do you know, I think it grows
on you."

We get back in time to dress for dinner.
After dinner, there is the social evening, and
more Trovatore. After that, cigars with the
splendid fellows in the billiard-room. I look
over my day's work, with the calmness of
despair, when I get to bed at last. It
amounts to four sentences and a-half; every
line of which is perfectly worthless as a
literary composition.

The next morning, I rise before the rest of
the family are up, leave a note of apology on
my table, and take the early train for London.
This is very ungrateful behaviour to people
who have treated me with extreme kindness.
But here, again, I must confess the hard
truth. The demands of my business in life
are imperative; and, sad to say, they
absolutely oblige me to dispense with Lady
Jinkinson.

I have now been confessing my misanthropical
sentiments at some length; but I have
not by any means done yet with the number
of my dear friends whom I could dispense
with. To say nothing of my friend who
borrows money of me (an obvious nuisance),
there is my self-satisfied friend, who can talk
of nothing but himself, and his successes in
life; there is my inattentive friend, who is
perpetually asking me irrelevant questions,
and who has no power of listening to my
answers; there is my accidental friend, whom
I always meet when I go out; there is my
hospitable friend, who is continually telling
me that he wants so much to ask me to
dinner, and who never does really ask me by
any chance. All these intimate associates of
mine are persons of fundamentally