'Do you call THAT neat, Wiggle?' says I. 'I declare it almost makes me cry myself.' 'Now suppose,' says Wiggle, 'we say that all the world is at my feet--make her jealous, you know, and that sort of thing--and that--that I'm going to TRAVEL, you know? That perhaps may work upon her feelings.' So WE (as this wretched prig said) began again:-- 'Around me they flatter and fawn--The young and the old, The fairest are ready to pawn Their hearts for my gold. They sue me--I laugh as I spurn The slaves at my knee, But in faith and in fondness I turn Unto thee, unto thee!' 'Now for the travelling, Wiggle my boy!' And I began, in a voice choked with emotion-- 'Away! for my heart knows no rest Since you taught it to feel; The secret must die in my breast I burn to reveal; The passion I may not. . . .' 'I say, Snob!' Wiggle here interrupted the excited bard (just as I was about to break out into four lines so pathetic that they would drive you into hysterics). 'I say--ahem--couldn't you say that I was--a--military man, and that there was some danger of my life?' 'You a military man?--danger of your life? What the deuce do you mean?' 'Why,' said Wiggle, blushing a great deal, 'I told her I was going out--on--the--Ecuador--expedition.' 'You abominable young impostor,' I exclaimed. 'Finish the poem for yourself!' And so he did, and entirely out of all metre, and bragged about the work at the Club as his own performance. Poor Waggle fully believed in his friend's genius, until one day last week he came with a grin on his countenance to the Club, and said, 'Oh, Snob, I've made SUCH a discovery! Going down to the skating to-day, whom should I see but Wiggle walking with that splendid woman--that lady of illustrious family and immense fortune, Mary, you know, whom he wrote the beautiful verses about. She's five-and-forty. She's red hair. She's a nose like a pump-handle. Her father made his fortune by keeping a ham-and-beef shop, and Wiggle's going to marry her next week.' 'So much the better, Waggle, my young friend,' I exclaimed. 'Better for the sake of womankind that this dangerous dog should leave off lady-killing--this Blue-Beard give up practice. Or, better rather for his own sake. For as there is not a word of truth in any of those prodigious love-stories which you used to swallow, nobody has been hurt except Wiggle himself, whose affections will now centre in the ham-and-beef shop. There ARE people, Mr. Waggle, who do these things in earnest, and hold a good rank in the world too. But these are not subjects for ridicule, and though certainly Snobs, are scoundrels likewise. Their cases go up to a higher Court.' CHAPTER XLI--CLUB SNOBS