Mr. Prescott could not help laughing at the absurdities perpetrated by his friend, and gradually his spirits revived. After dinner they went to Mr. Pringle's chambers, and smoked and had some hot whisky-and-water, which, coming after the port-wine, had a very hilarious effect upon Mr. Pringle, who then wanted to "go out some where," and not to go to the Schröders at all; but Mr. Prescott overruling this, they dressed and went. Mr. Pringle--and especially Mr. Pringle after half a bottle of port-wine and a couple of tumblers of whisky-punch--was a trying person to go about with, and Prescott had to call him to order several times. When they arrived at the house, and were asked their names, he gave them as the Duke of Wellington and Mr. Babbage; and on the servant's being about gravely to repeat them, he stopped him, saying they did not wish their names announced, as they were detectives come on very private business. On the staircase he feigned a wild terror at the powdered heads of the footmen; asked "how they came so white;" by nature or not? and altogether so behaved himself, that Mr. Prescott declared he would not enter the room with him. Once in the room, Mr. Pringle toned down visibly, and conducted himself like an ordinary mortal. He was very friendly with Alice Schröder, and expressed poignant regret at Mr. Townshend's sudden indisposition (for that worthy gentleman declined to come upstairs after dinner; Beresford's mention of Pigott and Wells had been too much for him), though secretly Mr. Pringle was pleased at missing his godfather, whom he was accustomed to regard as the essence of sternness; and he was introduced to Churchill, of whom he spoke the next day at the office as a "deuced clever fellow, a literary bird;" and he listened for a few minutes to Klavierspieler's pianoforte-fireworks; and, then went down and got some refreshment. He endeavoured to induce Mr. Prescott to accompany him; but that gentleman not merely absolutely declined, but addressed his friend in strong words of warning, and declared that as for himself he was thoroughly happy where he was. Indeed, once more in society, surrounded by well-looking, well-dressed people, listening to music and conversation in a splendidly-appointed home, Mr. Prescott began to think to himself that the solitary pipe-smokings in dreary chambers, the shutting himself away from the world, and giving himself up to melancholy, was rather a mistake. Of course the grand cause of it all remained unaltered,--he never could get over his passion, he never would give up thinking of Kate,--and just then he started as he heard a light, musical, girlish voice behind him say, "it is James Prescott!" He turned rapidly round, and saw two or three people standing by him; one of whom, a very pretty, fresh-coloured buxom girl, stepped forward, laughed as he made a rather distant bow, and said, "You don't recollect me! Oh, what a horridly bad compliment!"