Poor Costigan’s outrageous behaviour had caused my meeting with my schoolfellow of early days to terminate so abruptly and unpleasantly, that I scarce expected to see Clive again, or at any rate to renew my acquaintance with the indignant East Indian warrior who had quitted our company in such a huff. Breakfast, however, was scarcely over in my chambers the next morning, when there came a knock at the outer door, and my clerk introduced “Colonel Newcome and Mr. Newcome.” Perhaps the (joint) occupant of the chambers in Lamb Court, Temple, felt a little pang of shame at hearing the name of the visitors; for, if the truth must be told, I was engaged pretty much as I had been occupied on the night previous, and was smoking a cigar over the _Times_ newspaper. How many young men in the Temple smoke a cigar after breakfast as they read the _Times?_ My friend and companion of those days, and all days, Mr. George Warrington, was employed with his short pipe, and was not in the least disconcerted at the appearance of the visitors, as he would not have been had the Archbishop of Canterbury stepped in. Little Clive looked curiously about our queer premises, while the Colonel shook me cordially by the hand. No traces of yesterday’s wrath were visible on his face, but a friendly smile lighted his bronzed countenance, as he too looked round the old room with its dingy curtains and prints and bookcases, its litter of proof-sheets, blotted manuscripts, and books for review, empty soda-water bottles, cigar-boxes, and what not. “I went off in a flame of fire last night,” says the Colonel, “and being cooled this morning, thought it but my duty to call on Mr. Pendennis and apologise for my abrupt behaviour. The conduct of that tipsy old Captain—what is his name?—was so abominable, that I could not bear that Clive should be any longer in the same room with him, and I went off without saying a word of thanks or good-night to my son’s old friend. I owe you a shake of the hand for last night, Mr. Pendennis.” And, so saying, he was kind enough to give me his hand a second time. “And this is the abode of the Muses, is it, sir?” our guest went on. “I know your writings very well. Clive here used to send me the _Pall Mall Gazette_ every month.” “We took it at Smiffle, regular,” says Clive. “Always patronise Grey Friars men.” “Smiffle,” it must be explained, is a fond abbreviation for Smithfield, near to which great mart of mutton and oxen our school is situated, and old Cistercians often playfully designate their place of education by the name of the neighbouring market. “Clive sent me the _Gazette_ every month; and I read your romance of ‘Walter Lorraine’ in my boat as I was coming down the river to Calcutta.” “Have Pen’s immortal productions made their appearance on board Bengalee budgerows; and are their leaves floating on the yellow banks of Jumna?” asks Warrington, that sceptic, who respects no work of modern genius.