estate which was being cut up into building ground. No Mr. T.—the man I sought—was to be seen; but it was the land I sought. “Was there any more of it?” “No,” said a workman, “that was all.” I felt he was wrong, that there must be more; but I tramped over the ground and made my way back to the station, to wait another dreary half-hour. In time, passengers for London began to assemble on the platform. Two of them passed me. One of them, I suppose, remembered me, as he spoke to his companion, a much younger man, who came up to tell me he was the one I sought. “Had I seen the estate?” “Yes.” “What did I think of the view opposite the hall?” I explained I had never been there. The workman it appeared, had led me wrong, and as it was essential that I should see it, it was agreed that I must have a fly and view the ground. I did so; and got back to town about eight, feeling that unnecessarily I had lost the greater part of the day. ‘The next day I rose betimes to carry out my well-arranged plans. I slept in the City, that I might better carry them out. In the first place I made my way to see a gentleman in Fenchurch Street. He was out. Then I made my way to a great manager’s office in Bishopsgate Street; he had not arrived. Then I made my way to the great doctor in Manchester Square. I have a liver; it had gone wrong, and I knew, such is my experience of the doctor, that he would set it right in the twinkling of an eye. Alas! the doctor had gone out, and that meant running up there again the next day, and that meant my not being able to hear Henry Melvill’s Golden Lecture; a thing on which, in the country, I had set my heart. However, I had a little consolation in reserve. An editor in Paternoster Row owed me a small sum of money. All the years I had known him I had never found him absent from his post. I would call on him, and he would give me a cheque. I did call, and he had gone down to Bournemouth for a week. Close by was another friend, the chairman of a well-known literary club that dine together every Friday evening. I had never dined with them, though repeatedly invited. I would be in town on Friday, and I would spend the evening dining with the club. It is rather dull work sitting in the smoking-room of a hotel of a night. Accordingly, I called on my friend to inform him of my intention to accept his proffered hospitality, and you can imagine my disappointment when the doorkeeper at my friend’s place of business informed me that he was at Folkestone. In my disappointment, I wrote to an old friend living on the Brighton Parade, that I would run down the next day in time for dinner, and pass the night under his hospitable roof. There was much we had to say to each other, as he was a retired Colonial, with whom I wished to talk over Colonial affairs. As soon as the train had arrived at London-super-Mare, I made my way joyfully to his house, feeling sure of a hearty welcome.