Artingale talked hard and talked his best. He introduced every subject he could, but in vain, and at last, when the time had come for the claret, he altered his mind. "No, Mag," he exclaimed, "no claret to-night. We want nothing calm and cool, old fellow. I feel as if I had not tasted a single glass of wine, but as if you, you miserable old wet blanket, had been squeezing out your drops into a tumbler and I had been drinking them. What do you say to a foaming beaker of the best black draught?" "My dear Harry, I'm very sorry," said Magnus, laughing. "There, I'll try and be a little more lively." "We will," exclaimed Artingale, "and another bottle of champagne will do it." Magnus smiled. "Ah, smile away, my boy, but I'm going to give you a new sensation. I've made a discovery of a new wine. No well-known, highly-praised brand made famous by advertisements, but a rich, pungent, powerful, sparkling champagne, from a vineyard hardly known. Here, waiter, bring me a bottle of number fifty-three." The wine was brought, and whether its virtues were exaggerated or no, its effects were that for the next two hours life seemed far more bearable to James Magnus, who afterwards enjoyed his coffee and cigar. Then another cigar was partaken of, and another, after which it was found to be too late for the projected visit to one of the theatres, and Magnus proposed an adjournment to his own room. To this, however, Artingale would not consent, and in consequence they sat till long after ten, and then parted, each to his own chambers. Artingale's way of going to his own chambers was to take a hansom, and tell the man to drive him to the Marble Arch, and then along the Bayswater-road until told to stop. This last order came before Kensington Gardens were reached, when the man was dismissed, and the fare wandered down the nearest turning, and along slowly by the backs of the Parkleigh Gardens houses--or their fronts, whichever the part was termed that faced north. Up and down here he paraded several times--not a very wise proceeding, seeing that he might have come sooner in the evening, and the doors would have flown open at his summons. But it has always been so from the beginning. A gentleman gets into a certain state, and then thinks that he derives a great deal of satisfaction in gazing at the casket which holds the jewel of his love. When the custom first came in it is of course impossible to say, but it is extremely probable that Jacob used to parade about in the sand on moonlight nights, and watch the tent that contained his Rachel, and no doubt the custom has followed right away down the corridors of time.