“Certainly not. I propose to meditate.” On these words I did turn round, and waved her farewell. I think she was indulging in a most proper forgetfulness of her brothers and sisters--and, incidentally, of myself. So I proceeded to the post office, although of course I had no letter at all to send. I found Mr Davenport in flannels, sitting with his feet on the mantelpiece, smoking a pipe and reading. He was an engaging six-feet of vigour, and I delivered my message with as little rancour as could be expected under the circumstances. “I think I’ll go,” he said, briskly knocking out his pipe. It was some satisfaction to me to remind him that it was only half-past three, and that tennis didn’t begin till after tea. He put his pipe back between his teeth with a disappointed jerk. “What are you reading?” I inquired affably. I must be pictured as standing outside the post office parlour window while conducting this colloquy. He looked a trifle ashamed. “The fact is, I sometimes try to keep up my Latin a bit,” he explained, conscious of the eccentricity of this proceeding. “It’s Juvenal.” “Not so very clerical,” I ventured to observe. “A great moralist,” he maintained--yet with an eye distantly twinkling with the light of unregenerate days. “I suppose so. That bit about prudence now----?” “About who?” cried he, springing to his feet and dropping his poet on the floor. “Evidently you recollect! _Nullum numen abest si sit Prudentia_----” “Curiously enough, I’ve just been having a shot at a rendering of that couplet,” said Mr Davenport. As he spoke he approached the window: I sat down on the sill outside and lit a cigar. “Curiously enough indeed!” said I. “May I be privileged to hear it?” He threw out one arm and recited-- “‘All Heaven’s with us, so we Prudence win: If Fortune’s hailed a goddess, ours the sin!’” “Pretty well for the spirit, but none too faithful to the letter,” I remarked critically. “However, Dr Johnson is open to the same objection. You remember-- “‘Celestial Wisdom calms the mind, And makes the happiness she does not find.’” “I call that pretty bad.” “Not much to the present point, anyhow,” I agreed. “I had another rhyme--and after all the rhyme’s the difficulty. How about this?-- “‘All Heaven’s ours if Prudence we can gain, Our silly hands build Fortune’s empty fane!’” “Really you fire me to emulation,” I said. “I think I’ll try my own hand at it-- “‘If Prudence loves, what other boon need I?’” “Splendid!” he cried, puffing at his empty pipe. “‘Unless a bishop’s palace by-and-by?’” This audacious departure from the original affected him powerfully. He laid a hand like a pair of tweezers on my wrist and cried excitedly-- “You’ve been talking to her!” “So have you,” said I, “and to better purpose.” By a subtle and rapid movement he was, in a moment, outside the door and stood facing me in the little front garden of the post office.