“Elshaw,” returned Chris gravely, “the one thing which distinguishes you above all the self-made men and born geniuses I’ve ever heard about is that you’ve got too broad a mind to despise trifles. While Sir George Milbrook, who began as a factory hand, and Jeremiah Montcombe of Gray’s Hall, and a lot of other men who’ve got on like them, make a point of dropping their H’s and clipping their words just as they used to do forty years ago, you’ve thought it worth your while to drop your Ah’s and your tha’s, till there’s very little trace of them left already, and there’ll be none in another year. Well, now, there are some more trifles to be mastered, and dressing for dinner is one of them. So buck up, old man, and come along. And by-the-by, as you’ll always take a hint from me, couldn’t you let yourself drop into slang sometimes? Your language is so dreadfully precise, and you use so many words that I have to look out in the dictionary.” “Do I, Mr. Christian?” asked Bram, surprised. Then he laughed and shook his head. “No, I can’t trust myself as far as the slang yet. It wouldn’t come out right perhaps. I shouldn’t have discrimination enough to choose between the slang that was all right and the slang which would make the ladies look at each other.” “Well, I suppose I must let you have a few months’ grace. But it’s only on condition that you smoke an occasional cigarette, and that you don’t stick so persistently to soda water and lemonade, when you’re asked to have a drink.” “But, Mr. Christian, I’m not used to wine and spirits, not even to beer, and if I was to drink them they would get into my head. And as it takes me all my time to speak properly and behave so as to pass muster, as it is, you’d better leave pretty well alone, and let me keep to the soda water.” “Oh, well, as long as you’re not moved by conscientious scruples I don’t so much mind. But teetotalism savors rather too much of the Sunday-school and the Anti-Tobacco League. Mind, I don’t want to make you an habitual drunkard, but I should like to feel sure that you understand there is a happy medium.” “Oh, yes, I understand that,” said Bram with a comical look; “but I wish I hadn’t to go up to the Park Thursday week all the same.” Chris looked at him steadily, and played with his long, tawny moustache for a few moments in silence. “So do I. I wish you hadn’t got to go too,” said he at last. But he would not explain why; he turned the subject by remarking that they mustn’t forget the visit to the tailor’s. CHAPTER IX. A CALL AND A DINNER PARTY.