It was long since any passage in writing had so irresistibly tickled his sense of humour.

Well, he must let Abbott know of this.

It might be as well, perhaps, if he called on Mrs.Abbott tomorrow, to remove any doubt that might remain in her mind.

The fellow Wager being an old acquaintance of his, he could not get rid of a sense of far-off responsibility in this matter; though, happily, Wager's meeting with Mrs.Abbott's cousin, which led to marriage and misery, came about quite independently of him.
The last letter he opened without curiosity, but with quiet interest and pleasure.

It was dated from Greystone; the writer, Basil Morton, had a place in his earliest memories, for, as neighbours' children, they had played together long before the grammar-school days which allied him with Hugh Carnaby.
'For aught I know,' began Morton, 'you may at this moment be drifting on the Euphrates, or pondering on the site of Alexandreia Eschate.