"When the weather makes one want to hang oneself, then's the moment for immortal works." "For goodness' sake, don't prate, Julian!" said French, yawning, and flinging a rose-bud at Horne, which he had just gathered from a garden-bed at his elbow.

"You've had so much more sleep than the rest of us, it isn't fair." "I saw him sup," said Buntingford.

"Who saw him afterwards ?" "No one but his Maker," said Lodge, who had drawn his hat over his eyes, and was lying on the grass beside French:--"and _le bon Dieu_ alone knows what he was doing; for he wasn't asleep.

I heard him tubbing at some unearthly hour in the room next to mine." "I finished my article about seven a.m.," said Horne tranquilly--"while you fellows were sleeping off the effects of debauch." "Brute!" said Geoffrey languidly.

Then suddenly, as though he had remembered something, he sat up.
"By the way, Buntingford, I had an adventure yesterday evening--Ah, here comes Helena! Half the story's mine--and half is hers.