As the carriage drove up to the grand entrance of the Abbey, the stranger looked out through the mud-spattered window. "A fine place!" he exclaimed; "a splendid place!" "What am I to call you here?" muttered Mr. Dunbar, as he got out of the carriage. "You may call me anything; as long as you do not call me when the soup is cold. I've a two-pair back in the neighbourhood of St. Martin's Lane, and I'm known _there_ as Mr. Vavasor. But I'm not particular to a shade. Call me anything that begins with a V. It's as well to stick to one initial, on account of one's linen." From the very small amount of linen exhibited in the Major's toilette, a malicious person might have imagined that such a thing as a shirt was a luxury not included in that gentleman's wardrobe. "Call me Vernon," he said: "Vernon is a good name. You may as well call me Major Vernon. My friends at the Corner—not the Piccadilly corner, but the corner of the waste ground at the back of Field Lane—have done me the honour to give me the rank of Major, and I don't see why I shouldn't retain the distinction. My proclivities are entirely aristocratic: I have no power of assimilation with the _canaille_. This is the sort of thing that suits me. Here I am in my element." Mr. Dunbar had led his shabby acquaintance into the low, tapestried room in which he usually sat. The Major rubbed his hands with a gesture of enjoyment as he looked at the evidences of wealth that were heedlessly scattered about the apartment. He gave a long sigh of satisfaction as he dropped with a sudden plump upon the spring cushion of an easy-chair on one side of the fireplace. "Now, listen to me," said Mr. Dunbar. "I can't afford to talk to you this morning; I have other duties to perform: When they're over, I'll come and talk to you. In the meantime, you may sit here as long as you like, and have what you please to eat or drink." "Well, I don't mind the wing of a fowl, and a bottle of Burgundy. It's a long time since I've tasted Burgundy. Chambertin, or Clos de Vougeot, at twelve bob a bottle—that's the sort of tipple, I rather flatter myself—eh?" Henry Dunbar drew himself up with a slight shudder, as if repelled and disgusted by the man's vulgarity. "What do you want of me?" he asked. "Remember that I am waited for. I am quite ready to serve you—for the sake of 'auld lang syne!'" "Yes," answered the Major, with a sneer; "it's so pleasant to remember 'auld lang syne!'" "Well," asked Mr. Dunbar, impatiently, "what is it you want of me?" "A bottle of Burgundy—the best you have in your cellar—something to eat, and—that which a poor man generally asks of his rich friends—his fortunate friends—MONEY!" "You shall not find me illiberal towards you. I'll come back by-and-by, and write you a cheque." "You'll make it a thumping one?" "I'll make it as much as you want." "That's the sort of thing. There always was something princely and magnificent about you, Mr. Dunbar."