I appeal to any impartial man, whether such a communication as the above was not adding fuel to fire. I read and re-read it with an interest that increased on each fresh perusal. I resolved that, come what might, it should not be my fault if another sun went down without my obtaining at least _a sight_ of the fair subject of Quizby’s memoir. I called up, in my mind’s eye, my correspondent himself. His jolly fat face, with the little eye, that twinkled pleasantly over a ready joke as over a slice from the haunch or a bubbling bumper of Bordeaux. I reflected on his imperturbable character, his consistent philosophy, cynical, perhaps, in language, but jovial, and thoroughly epicurean in practice; and the more I thought, the more I wondered, the more I longed to witness with my own eyes the peerless attractions that could have knocked my steady friend, so to speak, off his equilibrium. To-morrow morning then, I resolved, I would see Miss Merlin, or die in the attempt. Eagerly I scanned the hunting-card for the week. To-morrow the hounds were to meet at the kennels. Castle Cropper was but ten miles from Soakington. She could not possibly start before nine. I desired my servant to call me at eight, and retired to rest, in that frame of mind which prompts a man to shave over-night, that he may be in time, and makes him wake every half-hour lest he should over-sleep himself after all at the last. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VIII YOUNG PLUMTREE