The necessary fluid was soon procured; and Hobson was liberally helped. And when at length he began to expatiate on the character and the wonderful attainments and abilities of Maisrie’s grandfather, there may have been a little exaggeration (for gin tends towards exaggeration) in his speech; but his aim and admiration were genuine enough at the core. He grovelled in the dust before that impressive old man. He spoke in almost a breathless way of his haffability. Why, that a great personage in literature should condescend to read his, Hobson’s, poor little verses was extraordinary; but that he should give advice, too, and encouragement, that was overwhelming. And as for the young lady—but here Hobson’s language failed him. With tears in his eyes he declared that she was a hangel of sweetness—which did not convey much to Vincent’s eager-listening ears. But when he went on to tell about all sorts of little acts of kindness and consideration—when he spoke of her patience with the old gentleman’s temper, of her cheerfulness over small disappointments happening to herself, of her gentleness, and sunniness, and invariable good humour—here he was on more intelligible ground; and his delighted and grateful audience was not slow to press on him another cigar, which was not refused. Indeed, what with so much courtesy shown him, and what with the stimulating influence of the gin and water, Hobson grew valiant; and began to broach wild and iconoclastic theories about filthy lucre, and to describe in dark colours the character of any one—presumably his own wife—who could be so base as to take every farthing of her rent, fortnight after fortnight, from a grand and noble old gentleman and a beautiful young lady both of whom seemed to have known better days. "Do you know how long they are to be away?" Vincent asked. "Well, sir, the old gentleman, sir, he says perhaps two weeks and perhaps three." "I see you’ve put up a notice that the rooms are to be let." "Yes, sir; but that ain’t much use, not for so short a time, sir." And here another sudden fancy struck the young man. "But I know how you can get them let," said he. "How, sir?" "You can let them to me." "Law, sir!" There was a doubtful look about Hobson’s big, vacuous eyes: being of a poetic and sensitive nature he did not like jokes, and was suspicious. However, the young gentleman, to judge by his manner, seemed fair and honest and above-board. "I will take them," said Vincent, "until Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter come back. Not to occupy them myself, you understand; but I don’t want any stranger to be going into these rooms, you see—that is all." "How kind, sir—how thoughtful!" Hobson said, in a pathetic way. "That it is to have good, kind friends!" "And as the rooms are now mine, I suppose I might go over and look at them—if you will finish up your tumbler?"