I am half expecting a summons to town,
and could not exactly be sure of an opportunity to talk over this matter
on which Lord Culduff is very urgent to have my opinion."

"It is not easy, I confess, to tear oneself away from such society. Your
daughters are charming musicians, Colonel. Miss Bramleigh's style is as
brilliant as Meyer's; and Miss Eleanor has a delicacy of touch I have
never heard surpassed."

"This is very flattering, coming from so consummate a judge as
yourself."

"All the teaching in the world will not impart that sensitive
organization which sends some tones into the heart like the drip,
drip of water on a heated brow. Oh, dear! music is too much for me; it
totally subverts all my sentiments. I 'm not fit for business after it,
Colonel Bramleigh, that's the fact."

"Take a glass of that 'Bra Mouton.' You will find it good. It has been
eight-and-thirty years in my cellar, and I never think of bringing it
out except for a connoisseur in wine."

"Nectar,--positively nectar," said he, smacking his lips. "You are quite
right not to give this to the public. They would drink it like a mere
full-bodied Bordeaux. That velvety softness--that subdued strength,
faintly recalling Burgundy, and that delicious bouquet, would all be
clean thrown away on most people. I declare, I believe a refined palate
is just as rare as a correct ear; don't you think so?"

"I'm glad you like the wine. Don't spare it. The cellar is not far off.
Now then, let us see. These papers contain Mr. Stebbing's report. I have
only glanced my eye over it, but it seems like every other report. They
have, I think, a stereotyped formula for these things. They all set out
with their bit of geological learning; but you know, Mr. Cutbill, far
better than I can tell you, you know sandstone doesn't always mean
coal?"

"If it does n't, it ought to," said Cutbill, with a laugh, for the wine
had made him jolly, and familiar besides.

"There are many things in this world which ought to be, but which,
unhappily, are not," said Bramleigh, in a tone evidently meant to
be half-reproachful. "And as I have already observed to you, mere
geological formation is not sufficient. We want the mineral, sir; we
want the fact."

"There you have it; there it is for you," said Cutbill, pointing to a
somewhat bulky parcel in brown paper in the centre of the table.

"This is not real coal, Mr. Cutbill," said Bramleigh, as he tore open
the covering, and exposed