‘Very true, Mr Walcheren. I suppose that time comes to every man after a certain period of carelessness. You remember the old song, sir, “Each dog must have his day.” And when the best part of the day is over, we all feel, if we have any sense, that it is time to give up play. But you can work whilst you remain in the world, Mr Walcheren, and set a good example to your neighbours, into the bargain.’ The same axiom that Rhoda had hurled at his head, though clothed in other words. Frederick recognised it at once, and the recognition made him assume a colder air towards the solicitor. ‘No doubt, Mr Sinclair,’ he responded, ‘no doubt, but we all have different tastes, and the Church is mine. I am afraid I shall have to dismiss you now, as the time is getting on for refectory, and I have some preparations to make before the bell sounds. You will bear all my instructions in mind, I am sure. Good morning!’ ‘Good morning! Mr Walcheren. I cannot thank you enough for your kind intentions respecting myself, for which you know that I should receive your instructions in writing. And if I have, in my sincere regard and friendship for you, said more than I should, I hope you will forgive me. I had not the least intention to offend.’ ‘I am sure of that, Sinclair, but there are things that will not bear talking of. I am fairly sick of life, my dear old friend--terribly sick and tired of it, and one lot is quite as good as another in my eyes. My greatest wish is that it may all be over as quickly as possible, and I may join my darling girl again.’ He held out his hand to his companion as he spoke, and as Mr Sinclair’s eyes met the careworn, haggard face of the young man, whom he remembered as one of the handsomest, most _débonnair_ fellows about town, they became so moist that he could hardly see, and, grasping the hand offered him firmly, he quickly left the room. CHAPTER IX.