"Can't you be silent for an instant, Mr. Pringle? You are perpetually gabbling. Can't you let us have a moment's peace?" "I can generally," said Mr. Pringle, with an affectation of great frankness; "but, somehow, not this morning. I seem to be inspired by this delicious fluid. I think I shall write a book called Songs of Soda-water, or Lays of the Morning after. That wouldn't be a bad title, would it, Dibb?" Mr. Dibb took no notice of this beyond glaring at Mr. Boppy, who had laughed; and there was silence for a few minutes, broken by Mr. Prescott, who said, "When do you go on leave, George?" "In September, sir," replied Pringle. "That's the genial month when the leaves come off." "Where are you going?" "That depends upon how much tin I've got. It strikes me, from the present look-out, that the foreign watering-place of Holloway is about as far as I shall be able to get. There's a tightness in the money-market that's most infernal." "Why don't you apply to your godfather, old Townshend? He's always treated you with kindness." "Yes; with un-remitting kindness! wouldn't send me a fiver to save me from gaol. Oh, no! I'll manage somehow. When are you going?" "Well, I wanted a few days in September myself, if I could get away. I've some shooting offered me at Murray's." "Murray's? Oh, ah! the parent of that nice little girl! je twig. And the Paterfamilias is a jolly old bird, isn't he, and likes his drink, and has plenty of money? in which case pater-familiarity does not breed contempt." "They are old friends of my people, you know; and the old gentleman's been very civil to me." "Ah! and the young lady hasn't been rude, has she?--at least I judged not, from 'what I saw. She rides deuced well; but what a long time she takes to mount! and when you had swung her to the saddle, I noticed that her reins took an immense deal of arranging!" "Don't be an idiot, George! you're always fancying things." "And you're always fancying girls, and my life's passed in keeping you out of scrapes." "By the way, do you ever see any thing of--" "Of _the other?_ Ah, base deceiver! fickle as the wind, or the what's his name! Yes, I've met poor Kitty once or twice, and, without any nonsense, she looked thoroughly seedy and worn." "Poor dear Kitty, I'm so sorry! I--" "Oh, yes, we know all about it; 'he loves and he rides away,' and all the rest of it. But, joking apart, Master Jim, it's a very good thing that business is over. I was really 'afraid at one time you were going to grief. But--hollo! for me?" These last words thrown off at a tangent to a messenger who entered the room with a letter. "No, sir; for Mr. Prescott." "Ah! I don't like letters generally; but that's not a blue one, and looks tolerably healthy. What's it about, James?" "Read for yourself;" and Mr. Prescott tossed the letter over to him.