Phil was not really doing anything extraordinary—he was only trying to find an answer to the question ‘how best to pass two years?’—two years that seemed to him to expand into a lifetime as he looked ahead, for he was of an impatient temperament. Six months had passed before the happy expedient of seeing Carrie at church suggested itself to his mind; and by dint of this device six months more were got over. But with the spring’s return came a crowd of tender remembrances, and Phil grew very sulky and despondent again. His father had gone to Fairmeadowes, but Phil, grown now very emancipated, refused to leave London; ‘The country was dull,’ said he, who aforetime loved it so well. He had come to an end of his flirtation—and the lees of a flirtation are the sourest beverage; he could gain no distraction from it any longer: he was at his wit’s end. As he walked moodily down the Square one morning about this time, Phil heard his name spoken, and, turning round, found Mr. Simon Prior by his side. Now, if there was a man that Philip disliked more than another it was this Simon Prior. A tall man, with shoulders so high that he seemed to be always shrugging them, and with prominent eyes that had a look of bullying challenge in them, he certainly did not carry innocence upon his face. He always assumed great familiarity with Phil—another point against him with the young man. But he, this morning, was so at a loss for a new shiver as almost to welcome this man; could he possibly yield him any amusement? ‘Yes, my father is at Fairmeadowes, sir,’ he said in response to the elder man’s greeting, and they fell into step. ‘And you, Philip? Once upon a time you too loved Fairmeadowes—why are times so changed?’ ‘Age, sir, age,’ laughed Philip. ‘And indeed I am become very old, for I can hit on nothing will amuse me these days.’ ‘A sad case. What have you tried?’ Phil was prudent; he might almost have been a Scotsman from his reply— ‘What, sir, would you recommend?’ ‘Oh, there are many ways for passing the time, Philip.’ ‘That’s not all I wish. ’Tis—’tis—oh, there’s no new thing under the sun!’ ‘Women!—there’s considerable variety there,’ began Prior, and he treated Phil to one of his bullying stares. Phil shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. ‘Well, if you do not fancy that—let me see—gaming, if you can gain or lose sufficiently large sums, is not amiss, for a distraction.’ ‘Which means that you wish me to play with you?’ said Phil. ‘I shall do so gladly, sir, if so be you’ll play for large enough stakes.’ So Phil played his pockets empty that fine morning, and felt the amusing sensation of impecuniosity for a few weeks.