education by the name of the neighbouring market.

"Clive sent me the Gazette every month; and I read your romance of Walter
Lorraine in my boat as I was coming down the river to Calcutta."

"Have Pen's immortal productions made their appearance on board Bengalee
budgerows; and are their leaves floating on the yellow banks of Jumna?"
asks Warrington, that sceptic, who respects no work of modern genius.

"I gave your book to Mrs. Timmins, at Calcutta," says the Colonel simply.
"I daresay you have heard of her. She is one of the most dashing women in
all India. She was delighted with your work; and I can tell you it is not
with every man's writing that Mrs. Timmins is pleased," he added, with a
knowing air.

"It's capital," broke in Clive. "I say, that part, you know, where Walter
runs away with Neaera, and the General can't pursue them, though he has
got the postchaise at the door, because Tim O'Toole has hidden his wooden
leg! By Jove, it's capital!--All the funny part--I don't like the
sentimental stuff, and suicide, and that; and as for poetry, I hate
poetry."

"Pen's is not first chop," says Warrington. "I am obliged to take the
young man down from time to time, Colonel Newcome. Otherwise he would
grow so conceited there would be no bearing him."

"I say," says Clive.

"What were you about to remark?" asks Mr. Warrington, with an air of
great interest.