asleep in attitudes far from suggesting comfort, the sentries on guard
at ---- Palace look almost suffocated in their bearskins, and a
comparative quiet is reigning over the great metropolis.

'Do you know, Helmdon,' says Jimmy Dalrymple. 'I'm nearly done;' these
two are seated in the bow window of a well-known club.

'You don't mean it, what!' replies Helmdon, better known as Chubby.

'I do, all the same,' says Jimmy, testily, 'heat, money, everything, in
fact!'

'That comes of racing, my good boy,' this from Chubby, in a sort of
I-told-you-so tone.

'For Heaven's sake don't begin lecturing,' says Dalrymple, 'it doesn't
suit you, and how in the name of fortune could the heat come from my
racing. Chubby, you're an ass!' and really, J. Dalrymple of the Guards
is not far wrong, for the said Chubby, otherwise Lord Helmdon does look
rather foolish half leaning half sitting on the back of a chair, his
hat well at the back of his head (why it remains there is a mystery),
his reddish hair very dishevelled, his face on a broad grin while he
watches with deep interest two dogs fighting in the street below.

Dalrymple receiving no answer to his complimentary speech, gives vent to
a yawn, and sends for a brandy and soda.

'Eh what!' says Chubby, suddenly, and _à propos_ of nothing; by this
time the dogs have been separated. 'Didn't you speak just now?'