with less art," and perhaps have even fled for relief to some shorter
treatise--Bacon's "Essays," Browne's "Religio Medici," or Buckle's
"Civilization." But lounging in a balcony, and lazily breathing a cloud,
he could have listened all day to his desultory, delightful friend,
overflowing with little questions, little answers, little queries, little
epigrams, little maxims _'a la Rochefoucauld,_ little histories, little
anecdotes, little gossip, and little snapshots at every feather flying.

"Quicquid agunt homines, votum, timor, ira, voluptas, Gaudia, discursus,
nostri farrago Severni."

But, alas! after an hour of touch-and-go, of superficiality and soft
delight, the desultory charmer fell on a subject he had studied. So then
he bored his companion for the first time in all the tour.

But, to tell the honest truth, Mr. Severne had hitherto been pleasing his
friend with a cold-blooded purpose. His preliminary gossip, that made the
time fly so agreeably, was intended to oil the way to lubricate the
passage of a premeditated pill. As soon as he had got Vizard into perfect
good humor, he said, apropos of nothing that had passed, "By-the-by, old
fellow, that five hundred pounds you promised to lend me!"

Vizard was startled by this sudden turn of a conversation, hitherto
agreeable.

"Why, you have had three hundred and lost it," said he. "Now, take my
advice, and don't lose any more."

"I don't mean to. But I am determined to win back the three hundred, and
a great deal more, before I leave this. I have discovered a system, an