It must be owned that Mr. Warrington continued to be witty the next
morning. He sent a note to Mr. Will begging to know whether he was for
a ride to town or anywheres else. If he was for London, that he would
friten the highwaymen on Hounslow Heath, and look a very genteel figar
at the Chocolate House. Which letter, I fear, Mr. Will received with his
usual violence, requesting the writer to go to some place--not Hounslow.

And, besides the parley between Will and Harry, there comes a maiden
simpering to Mr. Warrington's door, and Gumbo advances, holding
something white and triangular in his ebon fingers.

Harry knew what it was well enough. "Of course it's a letter," groans
he. Molinda greets her Enrico, etc. etc. etc. No sleep has she known
that night, and so forth, and so forth, and so forth. Has Enrico slept
well in the halls of his fathers? und so weiter, und so weiter. He must
never never quaril and be so cruel again. Kai ta loipa. And I protest I
shan't quote any more of this letter. Ah, tablets, golden once,--are ye
now faded leaves? Where is the juggler who transmuted you, and why is
the glamour over?

After the little scandal with cousin Will, Harry's dignity would not
allow him to stay longer at Castlewood: he wrote a majestic letter
to the lord of the mansion, explaining the circumstances which had
occurred, and, as he called in Parson Sampson to supervise the document,
no doubt it contained none of those eccentricities in spelling which
figured in his ordinary correspondence at this period. He represented to
poor Maria, that after blackening the eye and damaging the nose of a son
of the house, he should remain in it with a very bad grace; and she was
forced to acquiesce in the opinion that, for the present, his absence
would best become him. Of course, she wept plentiful tears at parting
with him. He would go to London, and see younger beauties: he would find
none, none who would love him like his fond Maria. I fear Mr. Warrington
did not exhibit any profound emotion on leaving her: nay, he cheered
up immediately after he crossed Castlewood Bridge, and made his horses
whisk over the road at ten miles an hour: he sang to them to go along:
he nodded to the pretty girls by the roadside: he chucked my landlady
under the chin: he certainly was not inconsolable. Truth is, he
longed to be back in London again, to make a figure at St. James's,
at Newmarket, wherever the men of fashion congregated. All that petty