The three for a few moments remained silent.

"I think, Tommy," said Peter, "I think a bottle of the old Madeira-
-"

"Not to-night," said Clodd; "next time."

"To drink success," urged Peter.

"One man's success generally means some other poor devil's
misfortune," answered Clodd.

"Can't be helped, of course, but don't want to think about it to-
night. Must be getting back to my dormouse. Good night."

Clodd shook hands and bustled out.

"I thought as much," mused Peter aloud.

"What an odd mixture the man is! Kind--no one could have been
kinder to the poor old fellow. Yet all the while-- We are an odd
mixture, Tommy," said Peter Hope, "an odd mixture, we men and
women." Peter was a philosopher.

The white-whiskered old dormouse soon coughed himself to sleep for
ever.

"I shall want you and the missis to come to the funeral, Gladman,"
said Mr. Clodd, as he swung into the stationer's shop; "and bring
Pincer with you. I'm writing to him."