nswered. 'Well, I haven't got to go to bed so early.'

'What an old rogue you are, Tom!' Andrew pushed his elbows forward
on the table amiably. 'Gad, we haven't drunk wine together since--by
George! we'll have another pint.'

'Many as you like,' said Tom.

Over the succeeding pint, Andrew, in whose veins the Port was merry,
favoured his brother with an imitation of Major Strike, and indicated
his dislike to that officer. Tom informed him that Major Strike was
speculating.

'The ass eats at my table, and treats me with contempt.'

'Just tell him that you're putting by the bones for him. He 'll want
'em.'

Then Andrew with another glance at the clouds, now violet on a grey sky,
said he must really be off. Upon which Tom observed: 'Don't come here
again.'

'You old rascal, Tom!' cried Andrew, swinging over the table: 'it's
quite jolly for us to be hob-a-nobbing together once more. 'Gad!--no, we
won't though! I promised--Harriet. Eh? What say, Tom?'

'Nother pint, Nan?'

Tom shook his head in a roguishly-cosy, irresistible way. Andrew, from
a shake of denial and resolve, fell into the same; and there sat the two
brothers--a jolly picture.

The hour was ten, when Andrew Cogglesby, comforted by Tom's remark, that
he, Tom, had a wig, and that he, Andrew, would have a wigging, left the
Aurora; and he left it singing a song. Tom Cogglesby still sat at his
table, holding before him Evan's letter, of which he had got possession;
and knocking it round and round with a stroke of the forefinger, to
the tune of, 'Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, 'pothecary, ploughboy,
thief'; each profession being sounded as a corner presented itself to
the point of his nail. After indulging in this species of incantation
for some length of time, Tom Cogglesby read the letter from beginning to
end, and called peremptorily for pen, ink, and paper.

CHAPTER IX. THE COUNTESS IN LOW SOCIETY

By dint of stratagems worthy of a Court intrigue, the Countess de Saldar
contrived to traverse the streets of Lymport, and enter the house where
she was born, unsuspected and unseen, under cover of a profusion of
lace and veil and mantilla, which only her heroic resolve to keep
her beauties hidden from the profane townspeople could have rendered
endurable beneath the fervid summer sun. Dress in a foreign style she
must, as without it she lost that sense of superiority, which was the
only comfort to her in her tribulations. The period of her arriva