"No," I answered, "I'll remain in London, at least for the present. I don't know exactly when I shall return." "Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't talk so despondently. Remember it's only a petty quarrel, after all," he declared, endeavouring to cheer me up. I tried again to laugh, saying, "Yes, that's true, but absence makes the heart grow fonder--we're told." "Very well, old fellow, if you won't take my advice I can't help it," he observed disappointedly. By this time we were at the corner of Adam Street, and I exclaimed, "By the way, what are you doing with yourself this evening?" "Nothing." "Come and have a bit of dinner with Bob Nugent and myself at the Junior Garrick; I'm on my way there." "Thanks, you're very kind. By Jove, I've had nothing to eat since I left the Dene, and I'm getting a trifle peckish!" "Then come along," I commanded. We turned into the Adelphi, and entered the club. In the pleasant oak-panelled dining-room, the windows of which commanded a view of the Embankment Gardens and the river, half-a-dozen men had assembled. At one of the tables Nugent and Rivers were awaiting me. They both rose and gave me a hearty greeting on entering, and, in turn, I introduced Demetrius, who, by his ready wit and entertaining manner, soon ingratiated himself with my two old friends. Rivers was, like most members of that Bohemian institution, a devil-may-care, erratic fellow, whom the outside world regarded as rather a shady character. Nobody knew exactly what was his profession. Since I first became acquainted with him, in the days when I was a working journalist, he had been, first, an actor, then manager of a touring dramatic company, a playwright, and afterwards traveller for a firm of wine merchants, besides executing commissions on the turf. Cards and billiards he played with skill acquired by long practice, and was usually victor whenever he took a hand at nap or baccarat. I had not seen him since my Italian tour, as he had suddenly embarked for Australia, presumably upon business connected with a theatrical speculation, although compulsory exile had more than once been hinted at by those who were not his friends. Be that how it may, he was back again. His age was about thirty, tall, dark, and not bad looking. The beard he had grown had considerably altered his appearance, and had I met him in the street I confess I should scarcely have recognised him. Many were the whispers I had heard that Ted Rivers was not a model of uprightness; nevertheless, I had always found him a good-hearted, genial Philistine in my bachelor days, and now, over our meal, he cracked his jokes and beamed with that _bonhomie_ as was his wont in times gone by.