Thither, much marvelling over all he had heard and been witness of, Ned consequently bent his steps. He had not expected much of the “Landlust,” but this exceeded his devoutest hopes. It had the effect also of arousing in him something of a wicked mood of indocility. Entering the long room, the first object to meet his eyes was the sizar of Liége University. The little round man sat at the table, a glass of _eau sucrée_ by his elbow, a pipe held languidly between his teeth. An expression of profound melancholy was settled on his features. He looked as forlorn as a tropic monkey cuddling itself in an east wind. At the sight of Mr Murk he started, and half rose to his feet. “The devil!” he muttered; and added--not so inconsequently as it appeared--“You are welcome to Méricourt, monsieur.” Ned laughed. “Is it so bad as that?” said he, “and has he become such a stranger here in these months?” The other beckoned his old enemy quite eagerly to a seat. “You have not heard, monsieur? It is improbable, without doubt; yet Méricourt is at the present moment the centre of much reverent attraction.” “Is it? You shall tell me about it, Little Boppard. Yet you yourself are reprobate, I hear; and you will have your debauch of sugar and water.” In reply, the poor body whispered, in quite a chap-fallen and deprecating manner-- “I am of nature a thirsty soul, monsieur. I must take my smoke, like the Turk, through bubbles of liquid. What then! this is not my choice; but it is expected of us in these days of spiritual elevation to drink at the Fountain of Life or not at all.” “There are different interpretations as to the character of the Fountain. Each is a schism to all others, no doubt. Mine, I confess, is not of sweet water.” Ned spoke, and rapped peremptorily on the table. M. Boppard’s little eyes, glinting with prospicience, took an expression of nervous admiration of this daring alien. “Ah, monsieur!” he cried in fearful enthusiasm, “do not go too far. This is not the joyous ‘Landlust’ of your former knowledge; the type of extravagant hospitality; the club of excellent fellowship. Things have happened since you were here. Now we drink _eau sucrée_, or, worse still, the clear water of regeneration itself. Cordials and cordiality are dreams of the past.” His voice broke on a falling key. A scared look came over his face. The cow-like girl had opened the door and stood on the threshold mutely waiting. “A bottle of _maçon_,” said Ned, and, giving his order, saw with the tail of his eye the student’s countenance change. “A half bottle,” he corrected himself, “and also a double dose of cognac.” The girl stood as stolid on end as a pocket of hops. “Do you hear?” said Ned. She blinked and lifted her eyelids. A sort of drowsy exaltation appeared in these days the very accent to her large inertia--its self-justification, in fact, before some visionary consistory of saints. “Do you hear?” said Ned again, with particular emphasis.