Frank Maynard, on his return from the Continent, had taken rooms close to those occupied by Arthur Prescott, in the Temple. An arrangement, which although in itself very pleasant for both, by no means conduced to the promotion of the latter’s legal studies; for Arthur had been lately called to the bar, and was working really very hard at his profession. For the first week after his friend came back to town, he had put by his books, and given up his time to him entirely, but after that he had been obliged to enter into a compact with him. First, that Frank should on no pretence whatever come to his rooms before one o’clock; and second, that although he might pass the afternoon with him, he should be bound to occupy himself in reading, and was on no account to enter into long conversations. After four o’clock, Prescott put aside his law books, and was at his friend’s service for the rest of the day. The first part of the condition Frank found it easy enough to observe. He did not rise until late; and after he had finished breakfast, the “Times” occupied him pretty well till it was the hour for going into Prescott’s. After lunch he would take up a novel, light his pipe, make himself comfortable, and read for an hour or so. But presently he would put his book down, and begin to ask Prescott questions, and to entrap him into lengthy conversations, till Arthur became quite desperate; when Frank would leave him and sally out to make a round of calls, returning at six to go out to dinner with his friend. In the evening, Prescott was safe from interruption, as Frank was almost always out at dances and balls at the houses of the numerous friends he had met during his travels. It was a week after the party at the Holls’. The frost had broken up, but the weather was raw and cold. Arthur Prescott was studying, and occasionally looking over, with a rather amused glance, at his friend. Frank having in vain tried to interest himself in his novel, had thrown it down in disgust, and was gazing disconsolately out of the window, upon the green lawn below, and at the leaden-coloured river beyond, with its black drifting barges, and its busy little steamers hurrying past. “By Jove, Prescott,” he broke out at last, “this is a beastly climate of ours.” “As how, Frank?” Prescott asked quietly. “As how?” Frank repeated irritably. “Why in its wind, and its rain; and its damp, and its cold. It’s detestable. Last winter I was in Rome.” “Ah, and were you there in summer, Frank?” “Of course not, Prescott. One might as well live in an oven, with an air blowing in from a fever-den.” “Quite so, Frank. You see other places have their detestable points as well as ours.” Frank Maynard gave a grunt of discontent, and again looked out of the window. At last he turned round again. “What on earth am I to do with myself, Prescott?”