“I beg your pardon,” said Jeremy, noticing it; “I don’t want to allude to painful subjects, but I must to make my meaning clear. I was very hard hit, you know, over that lady, but I stopped in time, and, not having any imagination to speak of, did not give it rein. What is the consequence? I have got over it; sleep well at night, have a capital appetite, and don’t think about her twice a week. But with you it is different. Hard hit, too, large amount of imagination galloping about loose, so to speak—rapturous joy, dreams of true love and perfect union of souls, which no doubt would be well enough if the woman could put in her whack of soul, which she can’t, not having it to spare, but in a general way is gammon. Results, when the burst-up comes: want of sleep, want of appetite, a desire to go buffalo-shooting in the fever-season, and to be potted by Basutus from behind rocks. In short, a general weariness and disgust of life—O yes, you needn’t deny it, I have watched you—most unwholesome state of mind. Further results: horse-racing, a disposition to stop away from church, and nip Cape sherry; and, worst sign of all, a leaning to ladies’ society. Being a reasoning creature I notice this, and draw my own deductions, which amount to the conclusion that you are in a fair way to go to the deuce, owing to trusting your life to a woman. And the moral of all this, which I lay to heart for my own guidance, is, never speak to a woman if you can avoid it, and when you can’t, let your speech be yea, yea, and nay, nay, more especially ‘nay.’ Then you stand a good chance of keeping your appetite and peace of mind, and of making your way in the world. Marriage, indeed!—never talk to me of marriage again;” and Jeremy shivered at the thought. Ernest laughed out loud at his lengthy disquisition. “And I’ll tell you what, old fellow,” he went on, drawing himself up to his full height, and standing right over Ernest, so that the latter’s six feet looked very insignificant beside him, “never you speak to me about leaving you again, unless you want to put me clean out of temper, because, look here, I don’t like it. We have lived together since we were twelve, or thereabouts, and, so far as I am concerned, I mean to go on living together to the end of the chapter, or till I see I am not wanted. You can go to Mexico, or the North Pole, or Acapulco, or wherever you like, but I shall go too, and so that is all about it.” “Thank you, old fellow,” said Ernest, simply; and at that moment their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a Kafir messenger with a telegram addressed to Ernest. He opened it and read it. “Hullo,” he said, “here is something better than Mexico; listen: