"Is this a prologue—or the poesy of a ring?
'Tis brief, my lord—as woman's love."
Hamlet.
It will not surprise any one to hear, that there was rather a stormy meeting between Mr. Lisle and his fellow inmate. Mr. Quentin did not return home till nearly four o'clock, and when he did, he found his friend sitting up for him, and this of itself constitutes an injury, especially when the last-comer has had rather too much champagne! Apollo arrived tired and sleepy, with tumbled locks and tie, and in a quarrelsome, captious mood, swearing roundly as he came up the steps, at his unhappy servants—who had spent the night in packing.
"Hullo!" he cried, seeing the other writing at the table, "not gone to roost yet, my early bird?"
"No," looking at him gravely, "I wanted to speak to you first," rising as he spoke and shutting the door.
"I say!" with a forced laugh, "you are not going to shoot me, eh?"
"No, I merely want to ask you why you told me that you were engaged to Miss Denis?"
"Who says I'm not?" throwing himself into a chair, and extending his long legs.
"She does," replied his companion laconically.