“Don’t mind if I do,” said he, casting his lighted cigarette on the carpet in a way that promised to ignite it. Pouring himself out a cup of coffee, without waiting to be invited, he said: “Look pretty chippy this morning, my son. Still fretting about that l.b.w.?” “Drink your coffee and cut,” said I, as impolitely as I could. “Want to be alone, eh?” said he. “Why that’s a symptom. Let’s see your tongue. And I’d better feel your pulse.” “You’ll probably feel my boot,” said I. “Very prettily expressed,” said the General Nuisance. Thereon he seated himself on a corner of the breakfast-table, and seemed certain to capsize the bacon-dish every time he swung his legs. “Most incisive and direct.” “Will be,” said I, not so irrelevantly as it may appear. “I’ll prescribe for your disease,” said he. “You can go to hell,” said I. “Well,” said he suavely, “my prescription is in that direction too. I want you to go and drown yourself. You’re in love.” “Who told you?” I shouted. How singular it was that I had not had the faintest suspicion till that moment that love was the name of my disease! But when the General Nuisance clapped a name upon my malady, not for an instant did I doubt him. “Hard that a man of your fine presence should suffer from hallucinations,” said that glibly hateful person. “Must feel pretty squiffy. You go and drown yourself, my pilgrim. Quite the nicest death in summer. Water beautifully warm. Besides, you’ve got a pretext in your l.b.w. Jury’ll bring in a ‘temporarily insane’ without any coarse remarks. Now then, go away and die. And what an awfully swagger corpse you’d make. They’re not always so well nourished and full of blood, you ostentatious idiot.” “Who told you I was in love?” said I. “Your looks,” said he. “Are they very descriptive?” said I apprehensively. “Narrative powers of Dickens and Thackeray,” said he, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Decent girl though.” “Decent!” said I, clenching my fist in my enthusiasm; “she’s the magnificentest girl you ever saw!” “Strange,” said he, “how all the objects of our affection suffer from superlatives.” “She’s not an object,” said I fiercely, “she’s a perfect angel. If you knew her, you’d say she was too good to live. And such eyes too!” “Oh, Granny, what big ears you’ve got!” said he; then dropping his tone, “you excite my fears, old chap. ’Devilish cut up to find your nervous system in such a disorganized condition.” “Don’t spill your phrases all over the place,” said I. “You’re not in Parliament yet.” “_You’re_ putting up for Elysium, I see,” he said. “Don’t think you’ll get in though. Rival candidates too strong.” “Who?” I said faintly. “Right Honourable Earl Boughey for one,” he said. “He can’t bat though,” I said. “His acres compensate.” “She’s not that kind of girl,” I said quickly. “They never are--until you get left! Then there’s the cherished, respectable Optimist.” “Poor old soul, he’s got no earthly!”