"Disappear," says Larry, wavin' his cigarette jaunty, "and then-- "The haunts that knew him once No more shall know. The halls where once he trod With stately tread--er-- Tum-ti-iddity-- As the dead-- or words, my dear Pinckney, much to that effect. My next remittance should be here by the third." "When you'll reappear and do it all over again," says Pinckney. "In which you're quite wrong," says Larry. "Not that I am bitten by remorse; but I weary of your game. It's a bit stupid, you know,--your mad rushing about here and there, plays, dinners, dances, week-ends. You're mostly a good sort; but you've no poise, no repose. Kittens chasing your tails! It leaves no chance to dream dreams." "Listen," says Pinckney, "to that superior being, the lordly Briton, utter his usual piffle! I suppose you'd like to marry, settle down on a hundred-acre estate nine miles from nowhere, and do the country gentleman?" "It would be the making of me," says Larry, "and I could be reasonably happy at it." "Then why not do it?" demands Pinckney. "On a thousand pounds a year?" says Larry. "Go to!" "The fact remains," says Pinckney, "that you have for an uncle the Earl of Kerrymull." "And that I'm his best hated nephew, paid to keep out of his sight," comes back Larry. "But you are where an Earl-uncle counts for most," suggests Pinckney. "By judicious choice of a father-in-law----" "Rot!" breaks in Larry. "Am I a cheap adventurer in a third-rate melodrama? Waster I may be; but no dowry hunter." "As though you could not like, for herself alone, any one of the half-dozen pretty girls who are foolish enough to be crazy over you," says Pinckney. "As though I'd be blighter enough to let myself fall in love with any of the sweet dears!" says Larry. "I'm in my thirties, Man." "There's widows aplenty," hints Pinckney. "Bless 'em all!" says Larry. "I'd not load one of them with a wild, impecunious Irishman like myself." "Then what?" says Pinckney. "Also where, and whither?" "Bulgaroo," says Larry, wavin' vague into space. "Is that a form of self-destruction?" asks Pinckney. "Almost," says Larry. "It's the nearest town to Sir Horace Vaughn's No. 6 sheep ranch. Quaint little spot, Bulgaroo; chiefly corrugated iron villas and kangaroo scrub, two hundred-odd miles back from Sidney. I'm due there at the end of next month." "My regards to the Bulgaroovians," says I. "Is this just a whim of yours, or a crazy plan?" says Pinckney.