"I want you to give me your advice," say I, as we toddle amicably along, side by side. "What would be a nice present for a gentleman--an elderly gentleman--at least _rather_ elderly, who _has_ a spectacle-case, a pocket-book, an inkstand, six Church services, and who does not smoke." "But he _does_ smoke," says Mr. Musgrave, correcting me. "I _saw_ him the other day." "Saw _whom_? What--do you mean?" "Are not you talking of Sir Roger?" he asks, with an accent of surprise. "_Sir Roger!_" (indignantly). "No, indeed! do you think _he_ wants spectacles? No! I was talking of my father." "_Your father?_ You are not, like me, a poor misguided orphan, then; you have a father." "I should think I _had_," reply I, expressively. "Any brothers? Oh, yes, by-the-by, I know you have! you held them up for my imitation the other day--half a dozen fellows who never take offense at any thing." "No more they do!" cry I, firing up. "If I tell them when I go home, as I certainly shall, if I remember, that you were out of humor and bore malice for _three_ whole days, because I happened to say that we were generally out-of-doors most of the day--they will not believe it--simply they will not." "And have you also six sisters?" asks the young man, dexterously shifting the conversation a little. "No, two." "And are they _all_ to have presents?--six and two is eight, and your father nine, and--I suppose you have a mother, too?" "Yes." "Nine and one is ten--ten brown-paper parcels, each as large as the one you now have under your arm--by-the-by, would you like me to carry it? _What_ a lot you will have to pay for extra luggage!" His offer to carry my parcel is so slightly and incidentally made, and is so unaccompanied by any gesture suited to the words, that I decline the attention. The people pass to and fro in the sun as we pace leisurely along. "Have you nearly done your shopping?" asks my companion, presently. "Very nearly." "What do you say to taking a tour through the gallery?" he says, "or are you sick of the pictures?" "Far from it," say I, briskly, "but, all the same, I cannot do it; I am going back at once to Sir Roger; we are to drive to Loschwitz: I only came out for a little prowl by myself, to think about father's present! Sir Roger cannot help me at all," I continue, marching off again into the theme which is uppermost in my thoughts. "_He_ suggested a traveling-bag, but I know that father would _hate_ that." "To _drive_! this time of day!" cried Mr. Musgrave, in a tone of extreme disapprobation; "will not you get well baked?" "I dare say," I answer, absently; then, in a low tone to myself, "_why_ does not he smoke? it would be so easy then--a smoking-cap, a tobacco-pouch, a cigar-holder, a hundred things!" "Is it _quite_ settled about Loschwitz?" asks the young man, with an air of indifference. "Quite," say I, still not thinking of what I am saying. "That is, no--not quite--nearly--a bag _is_ useful, you know."