"I suppose you didn't give Melstane any morphia pills?" said Fanks, as he arose to take his leave.
"No; I don't believe in morphia pills for sleepless people, except in extreme cases. I generally give chloral, as I did to Mr. Jackson Spolger to-day."
"Oh, the Ancient Mariner," said Octavius, carelessly. "Does he suffer from sleeplessness?"
"Yes; on account of his approaching marriage, I presume."
"With Miss Marson?"
"Exactly."
"By the way," observed Fanks, suddenly, "was she not engaged to Melstane?"
"No, not engaged exactly," replied Japix, thoughtfully; "but she was in love with him. Strange how women adore scamps. But it's a long story, my dear Rixton. To-morrow night, when we both dine, across the walnuts and the wine, I'll tell to thee the tale divine. Ha, ha! you see I'm a poet, eh?"
"Yes, and a plagiarist also. The second line is Tennyson."
"Really, Mr. Bucket—Dickens, you observe—you're as sharp after a rhyme, as after a thief. With your active brain, I wonder you don't suffer from insomnia."