“He’s not tired,” said Stephen to the soldier; “he wants his girl.” And they winked at each other, and cracked jokes over the eternal comedy of love. They asked each other if they’d let a girl spoil a morning’s ride. They both exhibited a profound cynicism. Stephen, who was quite without ballast, described the household at Cadover: he should say that Rickie would find Miss Pembroke kissing the footman. “I say the footman’s kissing old Em’ly.” “Jolly day,” said Stephen. His voice was suddenly constrained. He was not sure whether he liked the soldier after all, nor whether he had been wise in showing him his compositions. “‘Old Em’ly she limps, And as I——’” “All right, Thomas. That’ll do.” “‘Old Em’ly——’” “I wish you’d dry up, like a good fellow. This is the lady’s horse, you know, hang it, after all.” “In-deed!” “Don’t you see—when a fellow’s on a horse, he can’t let another fellow—kind of—don’t you know?” The man did know. “There’s sense in that.” he said approvingly. Peace was restored, and they would have reached Salisbury if they had not had some more beer. It unloosed the soldier’s fancies, and again he spoke of old Em’ly, and recited the poem, with Aristophanic variations. “Jolly day,” repeated Stephen, with a straightening of the eyebrows and a quick glance at the other’s body. He then warned him against the variations. In consequence he was accused of being a member of the Y.M.C.A. His blood boiled at this. He refuted the charge, and became great friends with the soldier, for the third time. “Any objection to ‘Sorcy Mr. and Mrs. Tackleton’?” “Rather not.” The soldier sang “Saucy Mr. and Mrs. Tackleton.” It is really a work for two voices, most of the sauciness disappearing when taken as a solo. Nor is Mrs. Tackleton’s name Em’ly. “I call it a jolly rotten song,” said Stephen crossly. “I won’t stand being got at.” “P’r’aps y’like therold song. Lishen. “‘Of all the gulls that arsshmart, There’s none line pretty—Em’ly; For she’s the darling of merart——’” “Now, that’s wrong.” He rode up close to the singer. “Shright.” “’Tisn’t.” “It’s as my mother taught me.” “I don’t care.” “I’ll not alter from mother’s way.” Stephen was baffled. Then he said, “How does your mother make it rhyme?” “Wot?” “Squat. You’re an ass, and I’m not. Poems want rhymes. ‘Alley’ comes next line.” He said “alley” was—welcome to come if it liked. “It can’t. You want Sally. Sally—alley. Em’ly—alley doesn’t do.” “Emily—femily!” cried the soldier, with an inspiration that was not his when sober. “My mother taught me femily. “‘For she’s the darling of merart, And she lives in my femily.’” “Well, you’d best be careful, Thomas, and your mother too.” “_Your_ mother’s no better than she should be,” said Thomas vaguely.