, and all days, Mr.
George Warrington, was employed with his short pipe, and was not in the
least disconcerted at the appearance of the visitors, as he would not
have been had the Archbishop of Canterbury stepped in.

Little Clive looked curiously about our queer premises, while the
Colonel shook me cordially by the hand. No traces of yesterday's wrath
were visible on his face, but a friendly smile lighted his bronzed
countenance, as he too looked round the old room with its dingy
curtains and prints and bookcases, its litter of proof-sheets,
blotted manuscripts, and books for review, empty soda-water bottles,
cigar-boxes, and what not.

"I went off in a flame of fire last night," says the Colonel, "and being
cooled this morning, thought it but my duty to call on Mr. Pendennis
and apologise for my abrupt behaviour. The conduct of that tipsy old
Captain--what is his name?--was so abominable, that I could not bear
that Clive should be any longer in the same room with him, and I went
off without saying a word of thanks or good-night to my son's old
friend. I owe you a shake of the hand for last night, Mr. Pendennis."
And, so saying, he was kind enough to give me his hand a second time.

"And this is the abode of the Muses, is it, sir?" our guest went on. "I
know your writings very well. Clive here used to send me the Pall Mall
Gazette every month."

"We took it at Smiffle, regular," says Clive. "Always patronise Grey
Friars men." "Smiffle," it must be explained, is a fond abbreviation for
Smithfield, near to which great mart of mutton and oxen our school is
situated, and old Cistercians often playfully designate their place of
education by the name of the neighbouring market.

"Clive sent me the Gazette every month; and I read your romance of
Walter Lorraine in my boat as I was coming down the river to Calcutta."

"Have Pen's immortal productions made their appearance on board Bengalee
budgerows; and are their leaves floating on the yellow banks of Jumna?"
asks Warrington, that sceptic, who respects no work of modern genius.

"I gave your book to Mrs. Timmins, at Calcutta," says the Colonel
simply. "I daresay you have heard of her. She is one of the most dashing
women in all India. She was delighted with your work; and I can tell
you it is not with every man's writing that Mrs. Timmins is pleased," he
added, with a knowing air.

"It's capital," broke in Clive. "I say, that part, you know, where
Walter runs away wi