called “tiffin,” of cold meats, bread and butter, potatoes, and tea; at five o’clock a regular dinner of soups, meats with relishes, farinaceous dishes, dessert, fruits, and coffee, and lastly, at 8 P. M., the evening meal of tea, bread and butter, and other light dishes.  Five meals a day, and there are some English people who fill up the gaps between them by constantly munching nuts and sweets!  Verily, if specialisation of function means anything, some of these people will soon become huge gastric balloons with a little wart on top representing the atrophied brain structure.  They run their engines of digestion wholly on the high-pressure system.

After eight days’ voyage on the Indian Ocean we shall be in Bombay.  I must close now, for there is really nothing to say, and, besides, I am wanted on deck.  My engagement is with a Rev. Mr. Barrows, who is bound as missionary to Hong Kong.  This worthy Methodist gentleman is very much exercised because I insist that potentiality is necessity and rebut his arguments on free-will.  He got quite excited yesterday, and said to me severely:  “Do you mean to say, young man, that I can’t do as I please?” I must say I don’t think his warmth was much allayed by my replying:  “I certainly mean to say you can’t please as you please.  You may eat sugar because you prefer it to vinegar, but you can’t prefer it just because you will to do so.”  He has probably got some new arguments now and is anxious to try their effect, so, with kind regards to Miss Darrow —­I trust she is well—­I remain,
                             Cordially your friend,
                                            George Maitland.

P. S. (Like a woman I always write a postscript.) You shall hear again from me as soon as I reach Bombay.

This last promise was religiously kept, though his letter was short and merely announced his safe arrival early that morning.  He closed by saying:  “I have not yet breakfasted, preferring to do so on land, and I feel that I can do justice to whatever is set before me.  I intend, as soon as I have taken the edge off my appetite, to set out immediately for Malabar Hill, as I believe that to be our proper starting-point.  I inclose a little sketch I made of Bombay as we came up its harbour, thinking it may interest Miss Darrow.  Kindly give it to her with my regards.  You will note that there are two tongues of land in the picture.  On the eastern side is the suburb of Calaba, and on the western our Malabar Hill.  Good-bye until I have something of interest to report.”

I gave the sketch to Gwen, and she seemed greatly pleased with it.

“Are you aware,” she said to me, “that Mr. Maitland draws with rare precision?”

“I am fully persuaded,” I rejoined, “that he does not do anything which he cannot do well.”

“I believe there is nothing,” she continued, “which so conduces to the habit of thoroughness as the experiments of chemistry.  When one learns that even a grain of dust will, in some cases, vitiate everything, he acquires a new conception of the term ‘clean’ and is likely to be thorough in washing his apparatus.  From this the habit grows upon him and widens its application until it embraces all his actions.”