nose. "Tea," said he; "it is going to rain."

He addressed the pretty waitress: "I have no wish to seem inquisitive,
but which table do you attend?"

The girl jerked her chin: "What's that to you?"

"So much," Mr. Franklyn earnestly told her, "that, until I know, here,
beautiful but inconvenient, in the doorway I stand."

"Well, all of 'em." She whisked away.

"You're badly snubbed, Franklyn," George said. "This rain is nothing."

A summer shower crashed down as he spoke; a mob of shoppers,
breathless for shelter, drove them inwards.

"George," said Mr. Franklyn, seating himself, "your base mind thinks I
have designs on this girl. I grieve at so distorted a fancy. The child
says prettily that she attends 'all of 'em.' It is a gross case of
overwork into which I feel it my duty more closely to inquire."

George laughed. "Do you always spend your afternoons like this?"

"As a rule, yes. I have been fifteen years at St. Peter's awaiting
that day when through pure ennui the examiners will pass me. It will
be a sad wrench to leave the dear old home." He continued, a tinge of
melancholy in his voice: "You know, I am the last of the old brigade.
The medical student no longer riots. His name is no longer a byword;
he is a rabbit. Alone, undismayed, I uphold the old traditions. I am,