Of time; while we, the schooled of centuries,
Nothing believe--"


We were scattered round the smoking-room, about midnight, in different
attitudes of repose. Bruce was of the party, decidedly out of his
element. He did not like tobacco much, and only took a cigar as a
sacrifice to the exigencies of the occasion, consuming the same with
great toil and exertion of the lungs, and when he removed it from his
lips, holding it at arm's length, like a viper or other venomous beast.

"Charley," asked Fallowfield, at length, from the depths of his divan,
"how is the regiment going on? Insolvent as ever?"

"More so," was the reply. "When I came away they were thinking of
framing a £5 note, and hanging it up in the ante-room, to show that we
had _some_ money--just like the man who pitched loaves over the
city-walls when they were dying of famine--but there was a difficulty
about procuring one. However, we have been promised the son of an
opulent brewer or distiller (I forget which, but I know he makes
something to drink), who is to join before Easter. Perhaps he may set us
afloat again."

"Yes," Guy remarked; "fortunately, a martial spirit is abroad in the
Third Estate. _Walbrook s'en va t'en guerre_. If there is one moneyed
man in the lot, it seems sufficient to keep the others going. I often
wonder how you manage; for, to do you justice, you don't plunder your
Croesus. You deserve statues--as Sydney Smith would have said--_æris
alieni_."