When all this was concluded, and he had eaten in melancholy wise of the dinner which the people of the pseudo hotel at which he lodged, set before him, in that den of congregated discomforts, a public coffee-room--when he had done this, and taken an idle walk round the black thing that spits water by table-spoonfuls nearly opposite to Devonshire House, for the purpose of digesting his dinner and his vexation, he could not refrain; but returning home--or rather to the place of his dwelling for the time--he dressed and walked to Grosvenor Square. Lord Ashborough was in his library; Miss Beauchamp was alone--somewhat in low spirits, too, and looking none the worse for being so. She was in one of those moods in which a man may make a great deal of a woman in a short time--if he knows how--but, unhappily, Captain Delaware did not know how. He talked sentimentally, and she talked sentimentally; and they made tea between them, and poured it out and drank it--but it all came to nothing--otherwise Maria Beauchamp might, perhaps, have been William Delaware's wife before the end of the volume. Never did a man who was bred and born a sailor miss stays so completely as Captain Delaware did; and just when, towards the close of the evening, he was making up his mind to say something sensible and pertinent, in came Lord Ashborough, and the whole went to the--budget. Within half an hour after, William Delaware was on his way to his hotel, and in the yellow of the next morning, he was once more rolling away, to join the coach for Emberton. His journey was as dull as it well could be. Two quaker ladies occupied one seat, and a deaf man shared the other. Therefore--as it is a very laudable object to wind up all sorts of matters here, in such a manner as to enable the courteous reader to have done with the book at the end of this volume, and to imagine, if he like, that the story is finished, when in fact it is not begun--we shall give one paragraph to Mr. Tims, while Captain Delaware rolls on.