sherry, "I know nothing about rate of interest,
exchange, and that class of thing—I say it above-
board—and as to banks, I know the brass shovels
by sight, perhaps, and the 'How will you have
it?'—eh? It's a happy moment, always, getting
a spadeful of guineas. Money is one of God
Almighty's blessings, let them preach against it
who like. I have heard Ridley, the dean, preach
against it like a fury, and it's notorious, sir, the
man's as great a miser as there's in the chapter.
I don't call that religion. But ask me about
men and women—ask me about the mere rude
details—human nature—life from the palace to
the cottage—I'm at home there. And let me
add, Mr. Tillotson, that a man, a gentleman—
who says his prayers every morning, and who
has walked over the kingdom with his eyes open,
or without doing any—well—any confounded
sneaking dirty action, is a scholar in his way, and
as learned as any of their D.D.s up at the Close
there. Hiscoke is note-orious for his brown
particular."

Mr. Tillotson felt all through that there was a
sound truth in this philosophy, and picked up
short sketches, points, and features about the
more prominent persons of the place, which were
useful for his purpose.

It was now about nine o'clock. Mr. Tilney
was growing very communicative, and seemed to
punctuate his sentences with sips of brown
sherry. He always spoke of this drink so
unctuously and with such flavour as combining
strength and cordial and restoring power, that a
rich mahogany seemed to glow before his hearers'
eyes, and they moved their tongues uneasily.
People were known to go and order brown sherry
after an interview with him.

"I am very glad you are come," continued he,
his armpits still on the round knobs—"very
glad. I hope you will stay. We should all like
to know you. Between ourselves, this is a
stifling place for a man who has clattered through
life as I have, and sat and drank with the best.
It is a great change, you know, after all. This
place is like the backwoods, and it comes hard,
devilish hard, upon a man, sir, who is accustomed
to his bow-window and his newspaper,
and his cut of club mutton, and his two fingers
from a royal dook, with a 'How d'ye do, Tilney?'
as regular as a mutton-chop at breakfast.
One of these days I'll show you a letter from
that quarter; a letter, by Jupiter, that I might
have written to you, or you to me. But what I
say is this: If a man has been used in a gentlemanly
way through life, and has been met in a
gentlemanly way by a merciful Creator, it don't
become us, sir, to cut up and grumble, and be
ungrateful at the end. I tell you what," said
Mr. Tilney, prying curiously into the now empty
decanter, and feeling that he must forego more
of that cordial"—I tell you what: will you come
up to my shop and take your tea with my girls,
up at the Close? If you will do me that honour,
I shall be exceedingly happy. We are in a sort
of modest happy-go-lucky way. We don't aim
at style or expense, because, as I can tell you,
from the very bottom of my heart, not one of us
cares for that sort of thing. Not one. We do
our little all to fit ourselves to the lot Providence
has cast us for. I have only the girls in the
world, and their mother. Do come, Tillotson.
Don't stand on ceremony; and I tell you, you will
make them happy—all happy. You will, indeed."

Mr. Tilney urged this point with much
persistence. Indeed, Mr. Tilney had an absorbing
overpowering manner, a genteel heartiness that
would take no denial, and a social paternity that
he put on with men. He had even an agricultural
impetuosity; but it was an agricultural affection
tempered by the polite affection of drawing-
rooms. After a friendship of two or three hours'
duration, Mr. Tilney always found his way to a
new friend's arm; and as he was elderly, and
previously had mainly been talking of life and
mortality, this action fell in quite easily and
almost gracefully. But he could not prevail
with his friend, who shrank away from company.

"Well, then, a stroll. Come now. A little
walk to show you the place."

What with the strong fiery wines of the
White Hart, which age had not tempered, and
which had maintained the old strength that
stimulated the fox-hunting gentry of the real
old times, and the low rooms, which were
slightly " stuffy," and his journey, Mr. Tillotson
felt a headache, and weary. When, there-
fore, a gentleman in velveteen, with a whip-
handle in one pocket, and heavy buff club-
shaped legs, dropped in, and shouted with delight
at seeing Mr. Tilney, saying, "I have heard all
about the 'orse," Mr. Tillotson got up, and said
he would walk a little outside.

"Do, do," said the other, with fervour. "I'll
not be long—not longer than this," he said,
tapping the decanter. "The night air is beautiful.
Go on quietly towards the cathedral—any
one will tell you the way—and I'll be after
you."

     CHAPTER III. THE BROWN ROOM.

MR. TILLOTSON went out slowly. The night air
was pleasant enough, and in the direction which
he took all was very quiet. He went on slowly
through some narrow streets, and he did not
care to ask the way as he had been directed, for
every now and again he had a glimpse of a
gigantic signal before him, which solemnly
showed him the road—the huge cathedral; and
behind the base of one of the great long windows
was a faint light, where workmen were busy,
just as though it was a lantern held out to him
from a distance. Through some narrow old
streets he went slowly towards it, until he
suddenly heard voices, and noise, and confusion,
and round a corner came upon a scuffle, hats
tumbling along the road, a scramble,and scraping
of shoes, and three young men struggling with
another, who was in the midst of them, with his
coat torn from his back.

"Give it to him!" "Serve him right!" "Low
beggar!" "Good lesson!" "Hit him hard,
Filby!" "Screw his eyes out!"