‘Oh, come! That’s too bad. Langstroth is a gentleman.’ ‘I never said he wasn’t, that I know of. Gentlemen have got to live, like other people, though these radicals’ (with a growl) ‘seem to grudge us our very existence.’ ‘Oh, hang all radicals! You say Langstroth is a gentleman—Gilbert, I mean. His brother is, at any rate. I don’t know a better fellow anywhere.’ ‘No, nor I.’ The assent was general. Then some one else said— ‘He doesn’t seem to get married.’ ‘No; that engagement has been hanging on far too long.’ A slight pause, and then, leaning confidentially forward, the first speaker said— ‘Somebody else doesn’t seem to get married, either.’ A sort of smile went round. Then Lord Charles, with the rash candour of youth, made the remark aloud which every one else had been making in his own mind. ‘I wonder if Michael Langstroth knows that every one says Otho Askam is sweet upon his intended?’ One man shrugged his shoulders. ‘If he did know, what could he do, or say?’ ‘I don’t know what he could say, I’m sure; but what he could do would be to get married to her at once.’ Here a rather timid-looking young man, who had hitherto taken no part in the conversation, joined in, with a slight stammer— ‘If he had to marry her like that, it would be all spoiled for him. He t-trusts her.’ ‘Ah, yes; very beautiful of him,’ said a sceptical spirit; and then a feeling seemed to prevail that the talk had gone far enough in that direction. Indeed, the conversation at the other end of the table had become somewhat loud, and the speakers with whom we have been concerned began to look and listen what it was all about. What had taken place was this. Sir Thomas Winthrop, good gentleman, feeling his heart warmed within him, took advantage of much loud talk around him to address a few words to Otho Askam. ‘I’m glad to see you with us to-day, Mr. Askam.’ ‘Thank you,’ said Otho, with his wooden bow. ‘I hope you found the sport to your liking,’ added the baronet. ‘We consider it has been rather a good season, on the whole.’ ‘It has been nothing to complain of,’ was the gracious reply. Encouraged by this admission, Sir Thomas filled his glass, and said— ‘I hope this will not be the last time, by many, that we shall meet on an occasion like this.’ Again Otho bowed stiffly, drank his glass of wine, and gave ear to Sir Thomas, as he proceeded— ‘I’m glad to see you and Gilbert Langstroth so thick. He’s a very intelligent young man.’ ‘Rather!’ observed Otho emphatically, with a nod, and what would have been a wink, only he remembered in time that such a testimony to Gilbert’s intelligence might be thought rather compromising than otherwise by his interlocutor. In his own mind, and speaking to Gilbert in his own language, Otho called Sir Thomas ‘a rum old party, and green as grass, you know,’ and this private opinion, which he held very strongly, rendered it a little difficult to him to meet the other now on equal terms. Sir Thomas went on—