a bit of dinner, and talk over those good old times when they were
together at Eton. But George told his friend that before he went
anywhere, before he shaved or broke his fast, or in any way refreshed
himself after a night journey from Liverpool by express train, he must
call at a certain coffee-house in Bridge street, Westminster, where he
expected to find a letter from his wife.

As they dashed through Ludgate Hill, Fleet street, and the Strand, in a
fast hansom, George Talboys poured into his friend's ear all those wild
hopes and dreams which had usurped such a dominion over his sanguine
nature.

"I shall take a villa on the banks of the Thames, Bob," he said, "for
the little wife and myself; and we'll have a yacht, Bob, old boy, and
you shall lie on the deck and smoke, while my pretty one plays her
guitar and sings songs to us. She's for all the world like one of those
what's-its-names, who got poor old Ulysses into trouble," added the
young man, whose classic lore was not very great.

The waiters at the Westminster coffee-house stared at the hollow-eyed,
unshaven stranger, with his clothes of colonial cut, and his boisterous,
excited manner; but he had been an old frequenter of the place in his
military days, and when they heard who he was they flew to do his
bidding.

He did not want much--only a bottle of soda-water, and to know if there
was a letter at the bar directed to George Talboys.

The waiter brought the soda-water before the young men had seated
themselves in a shady box near the disused fire-place. No; there was no