After waiting a moment for a reply, during which time Rasper stood gnawing the finger of his white glove in irresolution, Frere resumed—“If you’re sorry for your share in the matter, I’m perfectly willing to own that I am for mine; and now, once more, here’s my hand—what do you say?”
“Say, that you’re a regular out-and-out good fellow, and that I’m a———d ass, and beg your pardon heartily,” was the energetic rejoinder; and bringing his hand down upon Frere’s with a smack that re-echoed through the room, Rasper and his late antagonist shook hands with the strength and energy of a brace of giants; and then, both talking at once with the greatest volubility, they ascended the stairs arm in arm, Bracy following them, with his left eye fixed in a species of chronic wink, expressive of any amount of the most intense satisfaction and sagacity. As they re-entered the drawing-room, Rose, whose powers of hearing, always acute, were in the present instance rendered still more so by anxiety, caught the following words; “Then you promise you will dine with me at Lovegrove’s on Thursday, and I’ll pick up half-a-dozen fellows that I know you’ll like to meet, regular top-sawyers, that you’re safe to find in the first flight, be it where it may.”
“Only on condition that you come to my rooms on Friday and bring your brother, and we’ll show you sporting men how we bookworms live—Bracy, we shall see you?”
“You’ll dine with us, too, at Blackwall, Mr. Bracy,” rejoined the first speaker, who was none other than the redoubtable Rasper. And numerous other genial sentences of like import reached the ear and comforted the heart of that little philanthropist, Rose Arundel, who could no more bear to see her fellow-creatures disagree than could Dr. Watts, when in his benevolence he indicted that pretty hymn which begins—
“Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
For ’tis their nature to!”
then proceeds to state the interesting ornithological fact that
“Birds in their little nests agree,”
and touchingly appeals to the nobler instincts of childhood in the pathetic metrical remonstrance—
“Those little hands were never made