“It is one of my earliest memories, and not a purely happy one. But that is ‘patria,’ not ‘rus.’ ‘Patria’ is the fatherland; ‘rus’ is a fellow’s mother. None can understand this parable till they have lived in London.” “Lorraine,” said Gregory, coming up shyly, yet with his brown eyes sparkling, and a steadfast mouth to declare himself, “you are very much above me, of course, I know.” “I am uncommonly proud to hear it,” Hilary answered, with his most sweet smile, “because I must be a much finer fellow than I ever could have dreamed of being.” “Now, you know well enough what I mean. I mean, in position of life, and all that, and birth, and society--and so on.” “To be sure,” said Hilary gravely, making a trumpet of blotting paper; “any other advantage, Gregory?” “Fifty, if I could stop to tell them. But I see that you mean to argue it. Now, argument is a thing that always----” “Now, Gregory, just acknowledge me your superior in argument, and I will confess myself your superior in every one of those other things.” “Well, you know, Lorraine, I could scarcely do that. Because it was only the very last time----” “Exactly,” said Hilary; “so it was--the very last time, you left me no more than a shadow caught in a cleft stick. Therefore, friend Gregory, say your say, without any traps for the sole of my foot.” “Well, what I was thinking was no more than this--if you would take it into consideration now--considering what the weather is, and all the great people gone out of London, and the streets like fire almost, and the lawyers frightened by the comet, quite as if, as if, almost----” “As if it were the devil come for them.” “Exactly so. Bellows’ clerk told me, after he saw the comet, that he could prove he had never been articled. And when you come to consider also that there will be a row to-morrow morning--not much, of course, but still a thing to be avoided till the weather cools--I thought; at least, I began to think----” “My dear fellow, what? Anxiety in this dreadful weather is fever.” “Nothing, nothing at all, Lorraine. But you are the sweetest-tempered fellow I ever came across; and so I thought that you would not mind--at least, not so very much, perhaps----” “My sweet temper is worn out. I have no mind to mind anything, Gregory; come and dine with me.” “That is how you stop me always, Lorraine; I cannot be for ever coming, and come, to dine with you. I always like it; but you know----” “To be sure, I know that I like it too. It is high time to see about it. Who could dine in Hall to-day, and drink his bottle of red-hot port?” “I could, and so could a hundred others. And I mean to do it, unless----” “Unless what? Mysterious Gregory, by your face I know that you have some very fine thing to propose. Have you the heart to keep me suspended, as well as uncommonly hungry?”