And Stubbs went his way to a glass-case, in which, in the company of four other messengers and twenty bells, his official days were passed, and gave himself up to bemoaning his stupidity in having taken his fortnight's leave of absence in the past wet July instead of the present sultry season. Mr. Beresford looked at the address of the letter, and frowned slightly. It was a small note, pink paper, with a couchant dog and an utterly illegible monogram on the seal, and the superscription was written in a long scrawly hand. There was an odour of patchouli, too, about it which roused Beresford's ire, and he muttered as he opened it, "Confounded stuff! Who on earth is she copying now, with her scents and crests and humbug? I thought she'd more sense than that!" And he ran his eye over the note. It was very short. "Dear Charley,--What has become of you? Why do you never come near The Den? It is nearly three weeks since you were here. I'm off to Scarborough on Tuesday; a lot of my pupils are there and want me, so I can carry on my little game of money-making, get some fresh air, and perhaps pick up some fresh nags to sell before the hunting season, all 'under vun hat,' as Tom Orme fasechous--facesh (I don't know how to spell it)--says. Come up and dine to-night at seven. There are two or three good fellows coming, and I want to talk to you and to look at your old phiz again, and see how much older you've grown during your absence, and how much _balder_; for, you know, you're growing _bald_, Charley, and that will be awful hard lines to such a _swell_ as you. Seven sharp, mind. "Always yours, "K. M. "P.S. Charley, if you don't come, I shall think you've grown _proud_; and it'll be a great shame, and I shall never speak to you again. "K.M."