"I am, as I hope you are, very well," answered Clarence.

"The human mind," said Trollolop, taking off his greatcoat,--

"Sir Christopher Findlater and Mr. Callythorpe, sir," said the valet.

"Pshaw! What has Sir Christopher Findlater to do with the human mind?"
muttered Mr. Trollolop.

Sir Christopher entered with a swagger and a laugh. "Well, old
fellow, how do you do? Deuced cold this evening."

"Though it is an evening in May," observed Clarence; "but then, this
cursed climate."

"Climate!" interrupted Mr. Callythorpe, "it is the best climate in the
world: I am an Englishman, and I never abuse my country."

"'England, with all thy faults, I love thee still!'"

"As to climate," said Trollolop, "there is no climate, neither here
nor elsewhere: the climate is in your mind, the chair is in your mind,
and the table too, though I dare say you are stupid enough to think
the two latter are in the room; the human mind, my dear Findlater--"

"Don't mind me, Trollolop," cried the baronet, "I can't bear your
clever heads: give me a good heart; that's worth all the heads in the
world; d--n me if it is not! Eh, Linden?"

"Your good heart," cried Trollolop, in a passion (for all your self-