and then, sir,--count, you divide your wings with a needle.'

'A pin's point will do,' said Williamson.

The count, to reconcile matters, produced from an Indian cabinet, which
he had opened for the lady's inspection, a little basket containing a
variety of artificial flies of curious construction, which, as he spread
them on the table, made Williamson and Benson's eyes almost sparkle
with delight. There was the DUN-FLY, for the month of March; and the
STONE-FLY, much in vogue for April; and the RUDDY-FLY, of red wool,
black silk, and red capon's feathers.

Lord Colambre, whose head was in the burial-place of the Nugents, wished
them all at the bottom of the sea.

'And the GREEN-FLY, and the MOORISH-FLY!' cried Benson, snatching them
up with transport; 'and, chief, the SAD-YELLOW-FLY, in which the fish
delight in June; the SAD-YELLOW-FLY, made with the buzzard's wings,
bound with black braked hemp, and the SHELL-FLY for the middle of July,
made of greenish wool, wrapped about with the herle of a peacock's tail,
famous for creating excellent sport.' All these and more were spread
upon the table before the sportsmen's wondering eyes.

'Capital flies! capital, faith!' cried Williamson.

'Treasures, faith, real treasures, by G--!' cried Benson.

'Eh! 'pon honour! re'lly now,' were the first words which Heathcock had
uttered since his battle with the goat.

'My dear Heathcock, are you alive still?' said Lady Dashfort; 'I had
really forgotten your existence.'

So had Count O'Halloran, but he did not say so.

'Your ladyship has the advantage of me there,' said Heathcock,
stretching himself; 'I wish I could forget my existence, for, in my
mind, existence is a horrible BORE.'

'I thought you WAS a sportsman,' said Williamson.

'Well, sir?'

'And a fisherman?'

'Well, sir?'

'Why, look you there, sir,' pointing to the flies, 'and tell a body
life's a bore.'

'One can't ALWAYS fish, or shoot, I apprehend, sir,' said Heathcock.

'Not always--but sometimes,' said Williamson, laughing; 'for I suspect
shrewdly you've forgot some of your sporting in Bond Street.'

'Eh! 'pon honour! re'lly now!' said the colonel, retreating again to
his safe entrenchment of affectation, from which he never could venture
without imminent danger.

''Pon honour,' cried Lady Dashfort, 'I can swear for Heathcock, that
I have eaten excellent hares and ducks of his shooting, which, to my
knowledge,' added she, in a loud whisper, 'he bo