"If the having and enjoying were always centred in the same individual,"

said Classon, slowly, "what you say would be unanswerable; but it's not so, Kit. No, no; the fellows who really enjoy life never have anything.

They are, so to say, guests on a visit to this earth, come to pass a few months pleasantly, to put up anywhere, and be content with everything."

Grog shook his head dissentingly, and the other went on, "Who knows the truth of what I am saying better than either of us? How many broad acres did your father or mine bequeath us? What debentures, railroad shares, mining scrip, or mortgages? And yet, Kit, if we come to make up the score of pleasant days and glorious nights, do you fancy that any noble lord of them all would dispute the palm with us? Oh," said he, rapturously, "give _me_ the unearned enjoyments of life,--pleasures that have never cost me a thought to provide, nor a sixpence to pay for! Pass the wine, Kit,--that bottle is better than the other;" and be smacked his lips, while his eyes closed in a sort of dreamy rapture.

"I 'd like to hear something of your life, Paul," said Davis. "I often saw your name in the 'Times' and the 'Post,' but I 'd like to have your own account of it."

"My dear Kit, I 've had fifty lives. It's the man you should understand,--the fellow that is here;" and he slapped his broad chest as he spoke. "As for mere adventures, what are they? Squalls that never interfere with the voyage,--not even worth entering in the ship's log."

"Where's your wife, Paul?" asked Davis, abruptly, for he was half impatient under the aphorizing tone of his companion.

"When last I heard of her," said Classon, slowly, as he eyed his glass to the light, "she was at Chicago,--if that be the right prosody of it,--lecturing on 'Woman's Rights.' Nobody knew the subject better than Fanny."

"I heard she was a very clever woman," said Davis.

"Very clever," said Classon; "discursive; not always what the French call 'consequent,' but, certainly, clever, and a sweet poetess." There was a racy twinkle in that reverend eye as he said the last words, so full of malicious drollery that Davis could not help remarking it; but all Classon gave for explanation was, "This to her health and happiness!" and he drained off a bumper. "And yours, Kit,--what of her?"

asked he.

"Dead these many years. Do you remember her?"

"Of course I do. I wrote the article on her first appearance at the Surrey. What a handsome creature she was then! It was I predicted her great success; it was I that saved her from light comedy parts, and told her to play Lady Teazle!"

"I 'll show you her born image to-morrow,--her daughter," said Davis, with a strange choking sensation that made him cough; "she's taller than her mother,--more style also."

"Very difficult, that,--very difficult, indeed," said Classon, gravely.

"There was a native elegance about her I never saw equalled; and then her walk, the carriage of the head, the least gesture, had all a certain grace that was fascination."

"Wait till you see Lizzy," said Davis, proudly; "you 'll see these all revived."

"Do you destine her for the boards, Kit?" asked Classon, carelessly.

"For the stage? No, of course not," replied Davis, rudely.

"And yet these are exactly the requirements would fetch a high price just now. Beauty is not a rare gift in England; nor are form and symmetry; but, except in the highly born, there is a lamentable deficiency in that easy gracefulness of manner, that blended dignity and softness, that form the chief charm of woman. If she be what you say, Kit,--if she be, in short, her mother's daughter,--it is a downright insanity not to bring her out."

"I 'll not hear of it! That girl has cost me very little short of ten thousand pounds,--ay, ten thousand pounds,--schooling, masters, and the rest of it. She 's no fool, so I take it; it ain't thrown away! As regards beauty, I'll stake fifteen to ten, in hundreds, that, taking your stand at the foot of St. James's Street on a drawing-room day, you don't see her equal. I'm ready to put down the money to-morrow, and that's giving three to two against the field! And is that the girl I 'm to throw away on the Haymarket? She's a Derby filly, I tell you, Paul, and will be first favorite one of these days."

"Faustum sit augurium!" said Classon, as he raised his glass in a theatrical manner, and then drained it off. "Still, if I be rightly informed, the stage is often the antechamber to the peerage. The attractions that dazzle thousands form the centre of fascination for some one."

"She may find her way to a coronet without that," said Davis, rudely.

"Ah, indeed!" said Paul, with a slight elevation of the eyebrow; but though his tone invited a confidence, the other made no further advance's.

"And now for yourself, Classon, what have you been at lately?" said Davis, wishing to change the subject.

"Literature and the arts. I have been contributing to a London weekly, as Crimean correspondent, with occasional letters from the gold diggings. I have been painting portraits for a florin the head, till I have exhausted all the celebrities of the three villages near us. My editor has, I believe, run away, however, and supplies have ceased for some time back."

"And what are your plans now?"

"I have some thoughts of going back to divinity. These newly invented water-cure establishments are daily developing grander proportions; some have got German bands, some donkeys, some pleasure-boats, others rely upon lending libraries and laboratories; but the latest dodge is a chaplain."

"But won't they know you, Paul? Have not the newspapers 'blown you'?"

"Ah, Davis, my dear friend," said he, with a benevolent smile, "it's far easier to live down a bad reputation than to live up to a good one. I 'd only ask a week--one week's domestication with the company of these places--to show I was a martyred saint. I have, so to say, a perennial fount of goodness in my nature that has never failed me."

"I remember it at school," said Davis, dryly.

"_You_ took the clever line, Kit, 'suum cuique;' it would never have suited _me_. _You_ were born to thrive upon men's weaknesses, mine the part to have a vested interest in their virtues."

"If you depend upon their virtues for a subsistence, I 'm not surprised to see you out at elbows," said Davis, roughly.

"Not so, Kit,--not so," said the other, blandly, in rebuke. "There 's a great deal of weak good-nature always floating about life. The world is full of fellows with 'Pray take me in' written upon them."

"I can only vouch for it very few have come in my way," said Davis, with a harsh laugh.

"So much the better for _them_," said Paul, gravely.

A pause of considerable duration now ensued between them, broken, at last, by Davis abruptly saying, "Is it not a strange thing, it was only last night I was saying to myself, 'What the deuce has become of Holy Paul?--the newspapers have seemingly forgotten him. It can't be that he is dead.'"

"Lazarus only sleepeth," said Classon; "and, indeed, my last eleven weeks here seem little other than a disturbed sleep."

Continuing his own train of thought, Davis went on, "If I could chance upon him now, he's just the fellow I want, or, rather, that I may want."

"If it is a lampoon or a satire you 're thinking of, Kit, I 've given them up; I make no more blistering ointments, but turn all my skill to balsams. They give no trouble in compounding, and pay even better. Ah, Davis, my worthy friend, what a mistake it is to suppose that a man must live by his talents, while his real resource is his temperament. For a life of easy enjoyment, that blessed indolence that never knew a care, it is heart, not head, is needed."

"All I can say is, that with the fellows I 've been most with, heart had very little to do with them, and the best head was the one that least trusted his neighbors."

"A narrow view, my dear friend,--a narrow view, take my word for it; as one goes on in life he thinks better of it."

A malicious grin was all the answer Davis made to this remark. At last he turned his eyes full upon the other, and in a low but distinct voice said: "Let us have no more of this, Paul. If we are to play, let us play, as the Yankees say, without the 'items,'--no cheating on either side. Don't try the Grand Benevolence dodge with me,--don't. When I said awhile ago, I might want you, it was no more than I meant. You _may_ be able to render me a service,--a great service."

"Say how," said Classon, drawing his chair nearer to him,--"say how, Kit, and you'll not find the terms exorbitant."

"It's time enough to talk about the stakes when we are sure the match will come off," said Davis, cautiously. "All I 'll say for the present is, I may want you."

Classon took out a small and very greasy-looking notebook from his waistcoat-pocket, and with his pencil in hand, said, "About what time are you likely to need me? Don't be particular as to a day or a week, but just in a rough-guessing sort of way say when."

"I should say in less than a month from this time,--perhaps within a fortnight."

"All right," said Classon, closing his book, after making a brief note.

"You smile," said he, blandly, "at my methodical habits, but I have been a red-tapist all my life, Kit I don't suppose you 'll find any man's papers, letters, documents, and so forth, in such trim order as mine,--all labelled, dated, and indexed. Ah! there is a great philosophy in this practical equanimity; take my word for it, there is."

"How far are we from Neuwied here?" asked Davis, half pettishly; for every pretension of his reverend friend seemed to jar upon his nerves.

"About sixteen or eighteen miles, I should say?"

"I must go or send over there to-morrow," continued Davis. "The postmaster sends me word that several letters have arrived,--some to my address, some to my care. Could you manage to drive across?"

"Willingly; only remember that once I leave this blessed sanctuary I may find the door closed against my return. They 've a strange legislation here--"