rmined to throw up reading
altogether. "What good would it do him to grind? His father was
rolling in money, and of course he should cut a very good figure in
London when he had left Camford, which was a mere place for crammers and
crammed, etcetera."

So Bruce became more and more confirmed as a trifler and an idler, and
he suffered that terrible ennui, which dogs the shadow of wasted time.
Associating habitually with men who were his inferiors in ability, and
whose tastes were lower than his own, the vacuity of mind and lassitude
of body, which at times crept over him, were the natural assistants of
every temptation to extravagance, frivolity, and sin.

An accidental conversation gave a mischievous turn to his idle
propensities. Coming into hall one evening, he found himself seated
next to Suton, and observing from the goose on the table, and the audit
ale which was circling in the loving cup that it was a feast, he turned
to his neighbour, and asked:--

"Is it a saint's-day to-day?"

"Yes," said Suton, "and the most memorable of them all--All Saints'
Day."

"Oh, really," said Bruce with an expression of half contemptuous
interest, "then I suppose chapel's at a quarter past six, and we shall
have one of those long winded choral services."

"Don't you like them?"

"Like them? I should think not! Since one's forced to do a certain
amount of chapels, the shorter they are the better."

"Of course, if you regard it in the light of `doing' so many chapels,
you won't find it pleasant."

"Do you mean to tell me now," said Bruce, turning round and looking full
at Suton, "that you regard chapels as anything but an unmitigated
nuisance?"

"Most certainly I do mean to tell you so, if you ask me."

"Ah! I see--a Sim!" said Bruce, with the slightest possible shrug of
the shoulders.

"I don't know what you mean by a `Sim,' Mr Bruce," said Suton, slightly
colouring; "but whether a Sim or not, I at least expect to be treated as
a gentleman."

"Oh, I beg pardon," said Bruce; "but I couldn't help recognising the
usual style of--"

"Of cant, I suppose you would say. Thank you. You must find it a cold
faith to disbelieve in all sincerity."

"Well, I don't know. At any rate, I don't believe that all your saints
put together were really a bit better than their neighbours; so I can't
get up an annual enthusiasm in their honour. All men are really alike
at the bottom."

"Nero's belief," said Owen, who had over