"Pretty name, isn't it?" asked the infatuated Gerald. "Oh, dry up!" exclaimed Tommy. "We can't indulge you any more. Go home to bed. You can dream about her, you know." Gerald accepted this hint, and retired, still in that state of confident bliss that filled George's breast with trouble and dismay. "I might as well be the serpent in Eden," he said, as he lay in bed, smoking dolefully. CHAPTER III. "WHAT ARE QUARTER-SESSIONS?" The atmosphere was stormy at No. 3, Indenture Buildings, Temple. It was four o'clock, and Mr. Blodwell had come out of court in the worst of bad tempers. He was savage with George Neston, who, being in a case with him, had gone away and left him with nobody to tell him his facts. He was savage with Tommy Myles, who had refused to read some papers for him; savage with Mr. Justice Pounce, who had cut up his speech to the jury,--Pounce, who had been his junior a hundred times!--savage with Mr. Timms, his clerk, because he was always savage with Timms when he was savage with other people. Tommy had fled before the storm; and now, to Mr. Blodwell's unbounded indignation, George also was brushing his hat with the manifest intention of departure. "In my time, rising juniors," said Mr. Blodwell, with sarcasm, "didn't leave chambers at four." "Business," said George, putting on his gloves. "Women," answered his leader, briefly and scornfully. "It's the same thing, in this case. I am going to see Mrs. Witt." Mr. Blodwell's person expressed moral reprobation. George, however, remained unmoved, and the elder man stole a sharp glance at him. "I don't know what's up, George," he said, "but take care of yourself." "Nothing's up." "Then why did you jump?" "Timms, a hansom," cried George. "I'll be in court all day to-morrow, and keep you straight, sir." "In Heaven's name, do. That fellow Pounce is such a beggar for dates. Now get out." Mrs. Witt was living at Albert Mansions, the "swell villa" at Manchester having gone to join Mr. Witt in limbo. She was at home, and, as George entered, his only prayer was that he might not find Gerald in possession. He had no very clear idea how to proceed in his unpleasant task. "It must depend on how she takes it," he said. Gerald was not there, but Tommy Myles was, voluble, cheerful, and very much at home, telling Neaera stories of her lover's school-days. George chimed in as he best could, until Tommy rose to go, regretting the convention that drove one man to take his hat five minutes, at the latest, after another came in. Neaera pressed him to come again, but did not invite him to transgress the convention. George almost hoped she would, for he was, as he confessed to himself, "funking it." There were no signs of any such feeling in Neaera, and no repetition of the appealing attitude she had seemed to take up the night before. "She means to bluff me," thought George, as he watched her sit down in a low chair by the fire, and shade her face with a large fan.