“'DEAR SIR--The case you have sent me, of a gentleman confined on certificates by order of an interested relative--as you presume, for you have not seen the order--and on grounds you think insufficient, is interesting, and some of it looks true; but there are gaps in the statement, and I dare not advise in so nice a matter till these are filled; but that, I suspect, can only be done by the lady herself. She had better call on me in person; it may be worth her while. At home every day, 10--3, this week. As for yourself, you need not address me through Greatrex. I have seen you pull No. 6, and afterward stroke in the University boat, and you dived in Portsmouth Harbor, and saved a sailor. See “Ryde Journal,” Aug. 10, p. 4, col. 3; cited in my Day-book Aug. 10, and also in my Index hominum, in voce “Angelo”--_ha! ha! here's a fellow for detail!_ “Yours very truly, “'ROLFE.'” “And did you?” “Did I what?” “Dive and save a sailor.” “No; I nailed him just as he was sinking.” “How good and brave you are!” Angelo blushed like a girl. “It makes me too happy to hear such words from you. But I vote we don't talk about me. Will you call on Mr. Rolfe?” “Is he married?” Angelo opened his eyes at the question. “I think not,” said he. “Indeed, I know he is not.” “Could you get him down here?” Angelo shook his head. “If he knew you, perhaps; but can you expect him to come here upon your business? These popular writers are spoiled by the ladies. I doubt if he would walk across the street to advise a stranger. Candidly, why should he?” “No; and it was ridiculous vanity to suppose he would. But I never called on a gentleman in my life.” “Take me with you. You can go up at nine, and be back to a late dinner.” “I shall never have the courage to go. Let me have his letter.” He gave her the letter, and she took it away. At six o'clock she sent Mary Wells to Mr. Angelo, with a note to say she had studied Mr. Rolfe's letter, and there was more in it than she had thought; but his going off from her husband to boat-racing seemed trivial, and she could not make up her mind to go to London to consult a novelist on such a serious matter. At nine she sent to say she should go, but could not think of dragging him there: she should take her maid. Before eleven, she half repented this resolution, but her maid kept her to it; and at half past twelve next day they reached Mr. Rolfe's door; an old-fashioned, mean-looking house, in one of the briskest thoroughfares of the metropolis; a cabstand opposite to the door, and a tide of omnibuses passing it. Lady Bassett viewed the place discontentedly, and said to herself, “What a poky little place for a writer to live in; how noisy, how unpoetical!” They knocked at the door. It was opened by a maid-servant. “Is Mr. Rolfe at home?” “Yes, ma'am. Please give me your card, and write the business.”