was of their regiment: he did well to exchange his company
in the Coldstreams for the lieutenant-colonelcy of the thirty-second.
He will be of the expedition. Why, everybody is going; and the young
gentlemen mention a score of names of men of the first birth and fashion
who have volunteered. "It ain't Hanoverians this time, commanded by the
big Prince," says one young gentleman (whose relatives may have been
Tories forty years ago)--"it's Englishmen, with the Guards at the head
of 'em, and a Marlborough for a leader! Will the Frenchmen ever stand
against them? No, by George, they are irresistible." And a fresh bowl is
called, and loud toasts are drunk to the success of the expedition.

Mr. Warrington, who is a cup too low, the young Guardsmen say, walks
away when they are not steady enough to be able to follow him, thinks
over the matter on his way to his lodgings, and lies thinking of it all
through the night.

"What is it, my boy?" asks George Warrington of his brother, when the
latter enters his chamber very early on a blushing May morning.

"I want a little money out of the drawer," says Harry, looking at his
brother. "I am sick and tired of London."

"Good heavens! Can anybody be tired of London?" George asks, who has
reasons for thinking it the most delightful place in the world.

"I am for one. I am sick and ill," says Harry.

"You and Hetty have been quarrelling?"

"She don't care a penny-piece about me, nor I for her neither," says
Harry, nodding his head. "But I am ill, and a little country air will
do me good," and he mentions how he thinks of going to visit Mr. Webb in
the Isle of Wight, and how a Portsmouth coach starts from Holborn.

"There's the till, Harry," says George, pointing from his bed. "Put your
hand in, and take what you will. What a lovely morning, and how fresh
the Bedford House garden looks!"

"God bless you, brother!" Harry says.

"Have a good time, Harry!" and down goes George's head on the pillow
again, and he takes his pencil and notebook from under his bolster,
and falls to polishing his verses, as Harry, with his cloak over his
shoulder and a little valise in his hand, walks to the inn in Holborn
whence the Portsmouth machine starts.

CHAPTER LXIII. Melpomene

George Warrington by no means allowed his legal studies to obstruct
his comfort and pleasures, or interfere with his precious health. Madam
Esmond had pointed out to him in her letters that though he wore
a s