"On the contrary, inordinate drinking afflicts me horribly, Nephew, stimulates me to thought, harrows me with memory, resurrects things best forgotten! Ah, there's the sun at last. I'll leave you, Peregrine--I'll out to greet the day." "I should like to walk with you if I may, sir." "By all means, Nephew, 't will ease your head, perhaps." And so, moving softly lest we disturb the three sonorous sleepers, a wholly unnecessary precaution, we took our hats and surtouts and stepped out into an empty street swept by a clean, soft wind that cooled my throbbing temples, and my sick heaviness was lifted somewhat in the sweet, pure breath of dawn. "You have been about town for nearly a year, haven't you, Peregrine?" "Yes, sir, long enough to teach me I love the country better than I thought." "You are sufficiently dissipated, I trust?" "I endeavour to be, sir. Her Grace of Camberhurst shakes her head over me, though I do my best--" "Does it require so great an effort?" "Somewhat, sir. You see, I find dissipation a particularly wearisome business." "Wearisome, Nephew? You surprise me!" "And depressingly dreary, Uncle." "You astonish me!" "Indeed, dissipation thoroughly distresses me." "You amaze me! But you gamble, I presume?" "When nothing better offers, sir." "Well upon me everlasting soul--!" "I hope I do not shock you, Uncle Jervas?" "Worry would be the more apt word, perhaps; you worry me, Nephew. Such impeccable virtue naturally suggests an early death--a harp--a halo! And yet you appear to enjoy robust health. Pray to what do you attribute your so great immunity from those pleasant weaknesses that are so frequently a concomitant of strength and youthful vigour--those charming follies, bewitching foibles that a somewhat rigorous convention stigmatises as vices--abhorrent word!" "You mean, sir, what excuse do I offer for not being politely vicious as seems so much the fashion?" "I confess you puzzle me, boy, for you are anything but an angel in pantaloons. I have occasionally thought to remark in you a hint of unplumbed deeps--of passions as hot and fierce as--" "Your own, Uncle Jervas?" At this he turned to glare at me rather haughtily, then his eyes softened, his lips twitched. "So women do not appeal to you, Peregrine. Pray why?" "Because woman appeals to me so much--one, sir!" "Ah, your roving gipsy?" "Precisely, sir." "Where is she, at present?" "I believe in Italy, sir." "Hum! Your friend Vere-Manville ran across her in Rome, I believe. When did you hear from her last?" "One year and ten months ago, sir." "Painfully exact! And how many letters has she written you, may I ask?" "One, sir." "Hum! You know that the Earl of Wyvelstoke has made her his ward and heiress, Peregrine?" "His lordship informed me of the fact, Uncle." "He corresponds with you, then?" "Every month without fail."