"And suppose I were to ask you the same question?" inquired Wilkinson, as he took the hand of the other, who was an old acquaintance.
"It would be easily answered," was the unhesitating reply of Ellis, who had been drinking rather freely.
"Well, suppose I have the benefit of your answer."
"You're quite welcome. I keep no secrets from an old friend, you see. Can't you guess?"
"I'm not good at guessing."
"Had a little tiff with Cara," said Ellis in a half whisper, as he bent to the ear of his companion.
"Oh, no!" returned Wilkinson.
"Fact. Cara's a dear, good soul, as you know; but she's a self-willed little jade, and if I don't do just as she wants me to—if I don't walk her chalk line—presto! she goes off like a rocket. To-night, d'ye see, I came home with the first volume of Prescott's new work on Mexico—a perfect romance of a book, and wanted to read it aloud to Cara. But no, she had something else in her head, and told me, up and down, that she didn't want to hear any of my dull old histories. I got mad, of course; I always get mad when she comes athwart my hawes in this way.
"'Dull old histories!' said I, indignantly. 'There's more true life and real interest in this book than in all the Wandering Jews or Laura Matilda novels that ever were written; and I wish you'd throw such miserable trash into the fire, and read books from which to get some intelligence and strength of mind.' Whew! The way she combed my hair for me at this was curious. I am a philosopher, and on these occasions generally repeat to myself the wise saw—
'He that fights and runs away,
May live to fight another day.'