"That is exquisite irony, Colonel," said Lionel, piqued; but it does not deal with the difficulty, which is simply this: When a man whom you call friend--whom you walk with, ride with, dine with almost every day, says to you 'I am in immediate want of a few hundreds--I don't ask you to lend them to me, perhaps you can't--but assist me to borrow--trust to my honour that the debt shall not fall on you,--why, then, it seems as if to refuse the favour was to tell the man you call friend that you doubt his honour; and though I have been caught once in that way, I feel that I must be caught very often before I should have the moral courage to say 'No!' Don't ask me, then to promise--be satisfied with my assurance that, in future at least, I will be more cautious, and if the loss fall on me, why, the worst that can happen is to do again what I do now." "Nay, you would not perhaps have another horse and cab to sell. In that case, you would do the reverse of what you do now--you would renew the bill--the debt would run on like a snowball--in a year or two you would owe, not hundreds, but thousands. But come in--here we are at my door." The Colonel entered his drawing-room. A miracle of exquisite neatness the room was--rather effeminate, perhaps, in its attributes; but that was no sign of the Colonel's tastes, but of his popularity with the ladies. All those pretty things were their gifts. The tapestry on the chairs their work--the Sevres on the consoles--the clock on the mantel-shelf-- the inkstand, paper-cutter, taper-stand on the writing-table--their birthday presents. Even the white woolly Maltese dog that sprang from the rug to welcome him--even the flowers in the jardiniere--even the tasteful cottage-piano, and the very music-stand beside it--and the card- trays, piled high with invitations,--were contributions from the forgiving sex to the unrequiting bachelor. Surveying his apartment with a complacent air, the Colonel sank into his easy /fauteuil/, and drawing off his gloves leisurely said-- "No man has more friends than I have--never did I lose one--never did I sign a bill. Your father pursued a different policy--he signed many bills--and lost many friends." Lionel, much distressed, looked down, and evidently desired to have done with the subject. Not so the Colonel. That shrewd man, though he did not preach, had a way all his own, which was perhaps quite as effective as any sermon by a fashionable layman can be to an impatient youth.