I could not imagine why BILL had intentionally lost that set, for I knew that he hated losing. When TOMMY had gone home again to the Rectory, BILL came up to me to ask how old I thought a man ought to be before he began smoking. I said that I thought thirty-six was about the right age, and asked BILL why he had let TOMMY win. "Oh, nothing particular," said BILL, in his matter-of-fact way; "only I'd never seen him wear that kind of tie before, and I asked him what he was doing it for, and he said it was for his aunt; she died a few weeks back; so I thought I might as well give him the set to make up for it." I was rather amused. "TOMMY looked very pleased with himself," I said. "Yes, he'll brag about that game all over the place," replied BILL, rather despondently. For a moment or two he was silent, imagining the triumph and pride of TOMMY. "I'd punch his head as soon as look at him," he added. "What on earth for? He thought he'd won by play." "He can't play any more than a cow, but that's not it. I hate to see anyone get so glorious about anything. Well, I don't know--it's kind of natural. He'd have had a right to brag, if he had really won, and he thought he did." "Anyhow," I said, severely, "it's a mean trick to want to damage anyone, just because he's pleased with himself when he's got a right to be." "Well, yes--I'll give you thirty." "Can't play. I'm going to finish this novel, BILL." "Is that one of the books you write about in the papers?" "Yes." "Are you going to praise it, or cut it up?" "I'm going to give it such a--well, no, on second thoughts, I believe I'm going to praise it." And I did. * * * * * LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS. NO. III.--TO POMPOSITY. MY DEAR POMPOSITY, It was only yesterday that I dined with BULMER, the wealthy brewer, in his magnificent mansion in the neighbourhood (I dare not be more precise) of Belgrave Square. You know as well as I do that BULMER's origin, though it may not have been humble, was certainly obscure. Nobody quite knows how he first managed to become a partner in the great concern which he now entirely controls. Fifteen years ago few people ever heard of or drank the "Pellucid Ale" without which no tap-room and few middle-class luncheon tables can now be considered complete. Suddenly, however, column upon column of the daily press overflowed, as it were, with those two magic words; analytical chemists investigated the properties of the beverage, and one and all pronounced it in highly technical language to contain more bone-forming and sinew-developing elements than any other known beer. The poetry-and-beer-loving public was fascinated by a series of memorable stanzas:-- [Illustration] "The hardy Briton loves good cheer, His mighty sinews never fail: 'Pour me,' he cries 'a draught of Beer, And let it be Pellucid Ale.'"