opportunities! The heart of any other young man would burn within him

at the chance. The amount of information that I have it in my power

to convey, if he would only listen, is a thing that beggars language,

Julia.'

'Whatever you do, my dear, you mustn't excite yourself,' said Julia;

'for you know, if you look at all ill, the doctor will be sent for.'

'That is very true,' returned the old man humbly, 'I will compose myself

with a little study.' He thumbed his gallery of notebooks. 'I wonder,'

he said, 'I wonder (since I see your hands are occupied) whether it

might not interest you--'

'Why, of course it would,' cried Julia. 'Read me one of your nice

stories, there's a dear.'

He had the volume down and his spectacles upon his nose instanter, as

though to forestall some possible retractation. 'What I propose to read

to you,' said he, skimming through the pages, 'is the notes of a highly

important conversation with a Dutch courier of the name of David Abbas,

which is the Latin for abbot. Its results are well worth the money

it cost me, for, as Abbas at first appeared somewhat impatient, I was

induced to (what is, I believe, singularly called) stand him drink. It

runs only to about five-and-twenty pages. Yes, here it is.' He cleared

his throat, and began to read.

Mr Finsbury (according to his own report) contributed about four hundred

and ninety-nine five-hundredths of the interview, and elicited from

Abbas literally nothing. It was dull for Julia, who did not require to

listen; for the Dutch courier, who had to answer, it must have been

a perfect nightmare. It would seem as if he had consoled himself by

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