‘Perhaps you are right, dearest,’ said Harold, in a new tone.

‘No, dearest,’ said Maud, also in a new tone.  ’I expect you are right.  I must have misunderstood.’

’No, no, Maud.  Give him the brandy by all means.  I’ve no doubt you’re right.’

‘But if you think I’d better not give it him—­’

’But I would prefer you to give it him, dearest.  It isn’t likely you would be mistaken in a thing like that.’

‘I would prefer to be guided by you, dearest,’ said Maud.

So they went on for several minutes, each giving way to the other in the most angelic manner.

‘And meantime I’m supposed to be dying, am I?’ roared Uncle Dan, suddenly sitting up.  ‘You’d let th’ old uncle peg out while you practise his precepts!  A nice pair you make!  I thought for see which on ye’ ud’ give way to th’ other, but I didna’ anticipate as both on ye ‘ud be ready to sacrifice my life for th’ sake o’ domestic peace.’

‘But, uncle,’ they both said later, amid the universal and yet rather shamefaced peace rejoicings, ’you said nothing was worth a quarrel.’

‘And I was right,’ answered Dan; ‘I was right.  Th’ Divorce Court is full o’ fools as have begun married life by trying to convince the other fool, instead o’ humouring him—­or her.  Kiss us, Maud.’

THE DEATH OF SIMON FUGE

It was in the train that I learnt of his death.  Although a very greedy eater of literature, I can only enjoy reading when I have little time for reading.  Give me three hours of absolute leisure, with nothing to do but read, and I instantly become almost incapable of the act.  So it is always on railway journeys, and so it was that evening.  I was in the middle of Wordsworth’s Excursion; I positively gloated over it, wondering why I should have allowed a mere rumour that it was dull to prevent me from consuming it earlier in my life.  But do you suppose I could continue with Wordsworth in the train?  I could not.  I stared out of the windows; I calculated the speed of the train by my watch; I thought of my future and my past; I drew forth my hopes, examined them, polished them, and put them back again; I forgave myself for my sins; and I dreamed of the exciting conquest of a beautiful and brilliant woman that I should one day achieve.  In short, I did everything that men habitually do under such circumstances.  The Gazette was lying folded on the seat beside me:  one of the two London evening papers that a man of taste may peruse without humiliating himself.  How appetizing a morsel, this sheet new and smooth from the press, this sheet written by an ironic, understanding, small band of men for just a few thousand persons like me, ruthlessly scornful of the big circulations and the idols of the people!  If the Gazette and its sole rival ceased to appear, I do believe that my existence and many similar existences would wear