“Thirty-five is a ripe age, Brimberly!” said he at last; “a man should have made something of his life—­at thirty-five!”

“Certingly, sir!”

“And I’m getting quite into the sere and yellow leaf, am I not, Brimberly?”

Mr. Brimberly raised a plump, protesting hand.

“’Ardly that, sir, ’ardly that!” said he, “we are hall of us getting on, of course—­”

“Where to, Brimberly?  On where, Brimberly—­on what?”

“Why, sir, since you ask me, I should answer—­begging your parding—­’eavens knows, sir!”

“Precisely!  Anyway, I’m going there fast.”

“Where, sir?”

“Heaven knows, Brimberly.”

“Ah—­er—­certingly, sir!”

“Now, Brimberly, as a hard-headed, matter-of-fact, common-sense being, what would you suggest for a poor devil who is sick and tired of everything and most of all—­of himself?”

“Why, sir, I should prescribe for that man change of hair, sir—­travel, sir.  I should suggest to that man Hafghanistan or Hasia Minor, or both, sir.  There’s your noo yacht a-laying in the river, sir—­”

His master leant his square chin upon his square fist and still frowning at the fire, gently shook his head.

“My good Brimberly,” he sighed, “haven’t I travelled in most parts of the world?”

“Why, yes, sir, you’ve travelled, sir, very much so indeed, sir—­you’ve shot lions and tigers and a helephant or so, and exchanged sentiments with raging ‘eathen—­as rage in nothing but a string o’ beads—­but what about your noomerous possessions in Europe, sir?”

“Ah, yes,” nodded Young R., “I do possess some shanties and things over there, don’t I, Brimberly?”

“Shanties, sir!” Mr. Brimberly blinked, and his whiskers bristled in horrified reproof.  “Shanties!—­Oh, dear me, sir!” he murmured.  “Shanties—­your magnificent town mansion situate in Saint James’s Square, London, as your respected father hacquired from a royal dook, sir!  Shanties!—­your costly and helegant res-eye-dence in Park Lane, sir!”

“Hum!” said Young R. moodily.

“Then, in Scotland, sir, we ’ave your castle of Drumlochie, sir—­rocks, turrets, battlements, ’ighly grim and romantic, sir!”

“Ha!” sighed his young master, frowning at his cigar.

“Next, sir,—­in Italy we find your ancient Roman villa, sir—­halabaster pillows and columns, sir—­very historical though a trifle wore with wars and centuries of centoorians, sir, wherefore I would humbly suggest a coat or two of paint, sir, applied beneath your very own eye, sir—­”

“No, Brimberly,” murmured Young R., “paint might have attractions—­Italy, none!”

“Certingly not, sir, cer-tingly not!  Which brings us to your schloss in Germany, sir—­”

“Nor Germany!  Lord, Brimberly, are there many more?”

“Ho, yes, sir, plenty!” nodded Mr, Brimberly, “your late honoured and respected father, sir, were a rare ’and at buying palaces, sir; ’e collected ’em, as you might say, like some folks collects postage starmps, sir!”