not without surprise that Harcourt saw Glencore enter the
drawing-room a few minutes before dinner. Very pale and very feeble,
he slowly traversed the room, giving a hand to each of his guests, and
answering the inquiries for his health by a sickly smile, while he said,
"As you see me."

"I am going to dine with you to-day, Harcourt," said he, with an attempt
at gayety of manner. "Upton tells me that a little exertion of this kind
will do me good."

"Upton's right," cried the Colonel, "especially if he added that you
should take a glass or two of that admirable Burgundy. My life on 't but
that is the liquor to set a man on his legs again."

"I did n't remark that this was exactly the effect it produced upon you
t' other night," said Upton, with one of his own sly laughs.

"That comes of drinking it in bad company," retorted Harcourt; "a man is
driven to take two glasses for one."

As the dinner proceeded, Glencore rallied considerably, taking his part
in the conversation, and evidently enjoying the curiously contrasted
temperaments at either side of him. The one, all subtlety, refinement,
and finesse; the other, out-spoken, rude, and true-hearted; rarely
correct in a question of taste, but invariably right in every matter of
honorable dealing. Though it was clear enough that Upton relished the
eccentricities whose sallies he provoked, it was no less easy to see how
thoroughly he appreciated the frank and manly nature of the old soldier;
nor could all the crafty habits of his acute mind overcome the hearty
admiration with which he regarded him.

It is in the unrestricted ease of these "little dinners," where two
or three old friends are met, that social intercourse assumes its most
charming form. The usages of the great world, which exact a species of
uniformity of breeding and manners, are here laid aside, and men talk
with all the bias and prejudices of their true nature, dashing the
topics discussed with traits of personality, and even whims, that are
most amusing. How little do we carry away of tact or wisdom from the
grand banquets of life; and what pleasant stores of thought, what
charming memories remain to us, after those small gatherings!

How, as I write this, one little room rises to my recollection, with its
quaint old sideboard of carved oak; its dark-brown cabinets, curiously
sculptured; its heavy old brocade curtains, and all its queer devices of
knick-knackery, where such meetings once were held, a