I wander objectlessly, pleasurelessly about with Vick--apparently sharing my depression--trotting subduedly, with tail half-mast high, at my heels, and at length sit down on a bench under a mulberry-tree.

The scentless flame of the geraniums and calceolarias fills, without satisfying my eyes; the gnats' officious hum offends my ears; and thoughts in comparison of which the calceolarias are sweet and the gnats melodious, occupy my mind.
Sir Roger will most likely be drowned on his voyage out.

Bobby will almost certainly be sent to Hong-Kong, and, as a natural consequence, die of a putrid fever.

Algy has just entered the army; there can be no two opinions as to our going to war immediately with either Russia or America.

Algy will probably be among the first to fall, and will die, grasping his colors, and shouting "Victory!" or "Westminster Abbey!" or perhaps both.
I have not yet decided what he shall be shouting, when the current of my thoughts is turned by seeing some one--thank Heaven, not a footman, this time!--advancing across the sward toward me.