In far London, Bartholomew Doome, scenting aroma of naughtiness in the air, hastened down to Horace and Oxford for the day, fearing to be out of the scandal, and added his Byronic gloom and atmosphere of tragic wickedness to the smoke-filled rooms. He made a profound impression and many friends; indeed, it may be admitted without exaggerating his success that he was betrayed into no slightest hint of a decent emotion. The tea being drunk, and the kindly farewells taken, the roomful of youths solemnly stood up, and Noll and Horace as solemnly broke their cups that none should again drink from them or sully the memory of the glorious days they had all spent together. The pieces were flung into the street. The others, each taking a cup and saucer with them, in memory of their friendship, shook hands and filed slowly out. As youth broke sentimental tea-cups, the Oxford tradesman who owned the debt for them, sitting in his little counting-house, was reading a letter from a Hebrew friend in the offices of The Tradesmen’s Defence League in London. This letter, after various facetious references to the tradesman’s family, proceeds to display the very shrewdest knowledge of the details that made up Noll’s family history--his connections, his prospects--not wholly unmixed with some sly wit and comical allusions. The writer thinks that Noll may be a coming man, he has done so badly at Oxford; considers that he is not devoid of generous and honourable instincts; is of opinion that any debt he may contract will eventually be paid; and ends with the personal note as thus: “I like a man as can slop the gilders about a bit, myself. And as for academic honours, why, you and me was neither of us strong in book-learning, but we’ve kept our noses above the water, and the seats of our trousers off the hospitable benches, and our integrity outside the doors of, the bankruptcy receiving-houses; and we could teach the Government a thing or two in raising the wind and the mysteries of profitable taxation, Samuel.... Let the young ass eat his thistles--only see to it that you have a mortgage on the crop. I hold out my homely fist. REUBEN MCCUBBIE. P.S.--This here Oliver Baddlesmere ain’t so far off the peerage as some. I have heard it whispered that he is nearer to it than what even you or me is. They do say, too, that the cub has found a girl. Early marriage, Samuel, gives hostages against the most gentlemanly blackguardism. But I garrule. Again I hold out the aforesaid fist. Be good. This letter seems to be all about money. I sometimes think I’m a damned Jew. Nevertheless, be good. Bless my soul, how these boys do get through the unearned increment!” CHAPTER XXXV _Wherein we are bewildered by the Cooings of Chivalry_