I wrote to my brother the other day, and this morning I got an answer from him--a cursed, canting letter of good advice, remarking that he had already paid my debts seven times.

It does n't happen to be seven; it 's only six, or six and a half! Does he expect me to spend the rest of my life at the Hotel de Hollande?
Perhaps he would like me to engage as a waiter there and pay it off by serving at the table d'hote.

It would be convenient for him the next time he comes abroad with his seven daughters and two governesses.

I hate the smell of their beastly table d'hote! You 're sorry I 'm hard up?
I 'm sure I 'm much obliged to you.

Can you be of any service?
My dear fellow, if you are bent on throwing your money about the place I 'm not the man to stop you." Bernard's winnings of the previous night were burning a hole, as the phrase is, in his pocket.