Mr. Raikes and his friend Frank Remand, surnamed Franko, to suit the requirements of metre, in which they habitually conversed, were walking arm-in-arm along the drive in Society’s Park on a fine frosty Sunday afternoon of midwinter. The quips and jokes of Franko were lively, and he looked into the carriages passing, as if he knew that a cheerful countenance is not without charms for their inmates. Raikes’ face, on the contrary, was barren and bleak. Being of that nature that when a pun was made he must perforce outstrip it, he fell into Franko’s humour from time to time, but albeit aware that what he uttered was good, and by comparison transcendent, he refused to enjoy it. Nor when Franko started from his arm to declaim a passage, did he do other than make limp efforts to unite himself to Franko again. A further sign of immense depression in him was that instead of the creative, it was the critical faculty he exercised, and rather than reply to Franko in his form of speech, he scanned occasional lines and objected to particular phrases. He had clearly exchanged the sanguine for the bilious temperament, and was fast stranding on the rocky shores of prose. Franko bore this very well, for he, like Raikes in happier days, claimed all the glances of lovely woman as his own, and on his right there flowed a stream of Beauties. At last he was compelled to observe: “This change is sudden: wherefore so downcast? With tigrine claw thou mangiest my speech, thy cheeks are like December’s pippin, and thy tongue most sour!” “Then of it make a farce!” said Raikes, for the making of farces was Franko’s profession. “Wherefore so downcast! What a line! There! let’s walk on. Let us the left foot forward stout advance. I care not for the herd.” “’Tis love!” cried Franko. “Ay, an’ it be!” Jack gloomily returned. “For ever cruel is the sweet Saldar?” Raikes winced at this name. “A truce to banter, Franko!” he said sternly: but the subject was opened, and the wound. “Love!” he pursued, mildly groaning. “Suppose you adored a fascinating woman, and she knew—positively knew—your manly weakness, and you saw her smiling upon everybody, and she told you to be happy, and egad, when you came to reflect, you found that after three months’ suit you were nothing better than her errand-boy? A thing to boast of, is it not, quotha?” “Love’s yellow-fever, jealousy, methinks,” Franko commenced in reply; but Raikes spat at the emphasized word. “Jealousy!—who’s jealous of clergymen and that crew? Not I, by Pluto! I carried five messages to one fellow with a coat-tail straight to his heels, last week. She thought I should drive my curricle—I couldn’t afford an omnibus! I had to run. When I returned to her I was dirty. She made remarks!” “Thy sufferings are severe—but such is woman!” said Franko. “’Gad, it’s a good idea, though.” He took out a note-book and pencilled down a point or two. Raikes watched the process sardonically.