CHAPTER VIII.
A STAG HUNT AU CLAIR DE LA LUNE.
"Seraph--I've been thinking," said Cecil musingly, as they paced homeward together from the Scrubs, with the long line of the First Life stretching before and behind their chargers, and the hands of the Household Cavalry plying mellowly in their rear.
"You don't mean it.

Never let it ooze out, Beauty; you'll ruin your reputation!" Cecil laughed a little, very languidly; to have been in the sun for four hours, in full harness, had almost taken out of him any power to be amused at anything.
"I've been thinking," he went on undisturbed, pulling down his chin-scale.

"What's a fellow to do when he's smashed ?" "Eh ?" The Seraph couldn't offer a suggestion; he had a vague idea that men who were smashed never did do anything except accept the smashing; unless, indeed, they turned up afterward as touts, of which he had an equally vague suspicion.
"What do they do ?" pursued Bertie.
"Go to the bad," finally suggested the Seraph, lighting a great cigar, without heeding the presence of the Duke, a Field-Marshal, and a Serene Highness far on in front.
Cecil shook his head.
"Can't go where they are already.

I've been thinking what a fellow might do that was up a tree; and on my honor there are lots of things one might turn to----" "Well, I suppose there are," assented the Seraph, with a shake of his superb limbs in his saddle till his cuirass and chains and scabbard rang again.

"I should try the P.R., only they will have you train." "One might do better than the P.R.Getting yourself into prime condition, only to be pounded out of condition and into a jelly, seems hardly logical or satisfactory--specially to your looking-glass, though, of course, it's a matter of taste.