The Colonel and Ernest, with the young ladies, had by this time ridden close up, and were regarding the somewhat exceptional ‘grower,’ whose sunburnt hands exhibited much delicacy of shape and careful treatment, while his extremely handsome face and figure told unmistakably of long acquaintance with the _haute volée_ of the world’s best society. ‘Are you going to the bachelors’ ball to-morrow night?’ asked the Commissioner. ‘Great muster, and no end of young ladies.’ ‘Well, I may look in for an hour if I can get these cauliflowers properly earthed up in time,’ said this anomalous member at once of the gay and workaday world. ‘You know the season is so forward that I dare not give them another hour.’ ‘Great God!’ said the Colonel, ‘why, it’s De Bracy! Why, Brian, old boy, what, in the name of all that is impossible, brings you here?’ Ernest turned at the exclamation, and saw that the Colonel’s bold features had changed, and were working like those of a man who sees some visitant from the silent land―is confronted by an unreal presence that stirs his inmost soul and curdles the very life blood. The young ladies stand, pale with surprise. ‘Oh, it’s you, Billy Branks,’ said the provider of esculents. ‘Come down from India? Nearly as hot here, eh? Well, I lost all my money in mining enterprises; the finest substitute for unlimited loo I ever fell across. And having absolutely nothing, and being far from the land of friends, bill discounters, and outfitters, why, I took to gardening. _Il faut vivre_, you know; and I was always fond of dabbling in amateur handicrafts.’ ‘Splendid life, beautiful weather, not too cold; shouldn’t mind it a bit; make heaps of money, I’m sure!’ said the Colonel incoherently. ‘But oh! Brian, old fellow, I never thought I should see you _working_ for your living.’ ‘Why not, my dear boy?’ said the philosopher of the spade coolly. ‘What does the old Roman poet say―_furcae amor honestus est et liber_―stick to your knife and fork, and all that. Horace has no doubt on the subject. This is my Sabine farm, and there is the Fons Bandusiae, for a time―glad to say―at any rate, for a time―the pre-remittance stage. It’s safer than billiards, and more creditable than whist―as a livelihood.’ ‘True, by Jove!’ said the Colonel, ‘most honourable and all that. But the fellows at the Rag would never believe it, if I go back and tell them that I saw Brian de Bracy growing vegetables and living by it, by gad.’ ‘Tell ’em every word of it, Billy, old boy,’ said the wholly unabashed and true descendant of Adam, squaring his shoulders and displaying his symmetrical figure. ‘Tell some of them to come out and try their luck here. It will do them a lot of good, make men of them, and keep them away from the bones.’