"_The farther we enter into this interesting subject, the more prodigally do we find scattered before us the gems of truth, which_"---- What was I going to say the gems of truth did, when the young clergyman and the charming girl began their sentimental interview on the terrace? Gone--utterly gone. Strike out the gems of truth, and try another way. "_The farther we enter into this interesting subject, the more its vast capabilities_"---- A knock at the door. "Yes." "Her Ladyship wishes me to say, sir, that luncheon is ready." "Very well." * * * * * "_The farther we enter into this interesting subject, the more clearly its vast capabilities display themselves to our view. The mind, indeed, can hardly be pronounced competent_"---- A knock at the door. "Yes." "Her Ladyship wishes me to remind you, sir, that luncheon is ready." "Pray beg Lady Jinkinson not to wait for me." * * * * * "_The mind, indeed, can hardly be pronounced competent to survey the extended field of observation_"---- A knock at the door. "Yes." "I beg your pardon, sir, but her Ladyship desires me to say that a friar's omelette has just come up, which she very much wishes you to taste. And she is afraid it will get cold, unless you will be so good as to come down-stairs at once." "Say, I will come directly." * * * * * "_The mind, indeed, can hardly be pronounced competent to survey the extended field of observation, which_"--which?--which?--Gone again! What else could I expect? A nice chance literature has in this house against luncheon. I descend to the dining-room, and am politely told that I look as if I had just achieved a wonderful morning's work. "I dare say you have not written in such perfect quiet as this for months past?" says Lady Jinkinson, helping me to the friar's omelette. I begin with that dainty: where I end is more than my recollection enables me to say. Everybody feeds me, under the impression that I am exhausted with writing. All the splendid fellows will drink wine with me, "to set me going again." Nobody believes my rueful assertion that I have done nothing, which they ascribe to excessive modesty. When we rise from table (a process which is performed with extreme difficulty, speaking for myself), I am told that the carriage will be ready in an hour. Lady Jinkinson will not hear of any objections. "No! no!" she says. "I have not asked you here to overwork yourself. I really can't allow that." I get back to my room, with an extraordinary tightness in my waistcoat, and with slight symptoms of a determination of Sherry to the head. Under these circumstances, returning to work immediately is not to be thought of. Returning to bed is by far the wiser proceeding. I lie down to arrange my ideas. Having none to arrange, I yield to Nature, and go to sleep.