such wine can't be had now. As for the Madeira, you know there's an end of that. Do you drink Madeira, Mr. Gresham?'
'No,' said Frank, 'not very often.'
'I'm sorry for that, for it's a fine wine; but then there's none of it left, you know. I have a few dozen. I'm told they're growing pumpkins where the vineyards were. I wonder what they do with all the pumpkins they grow in Switzerland! You've been in Switzerland, Mr. Gresham?'
Frank said he had been in Switzerland.
'It's a beautiful country; my girls made me go there last year. They said it would do me good; but then, you know, they wanted to see it themselves; ha! ha! ha! However, I believe I shall go again this autumn. That is to Aix, or some of those places; just for three weeks. I can't spare any more time, Mr. Gresham. Do you like that dining at the table d'hôtes?'
'Pretty well, sometimes.'
'One would get tired of it—eh! But they gave us capital dinners at Zurich. I don't think much of their soup. But they had fish, and about seven kinds of meats and poultry, and three or four puddings, and things of that sort. Upon my word, I thought we did very well, and so did my girls, too. You see a great many ladies travelling now.'
'Yes,' said Frank; 'a great many.'
'Upon my word, I think they are right; that is, if they can afford time. I can't afford time. I'm here every day till five, Mr. Gresham; then I go out and dine in Fleet-street, and then back to work till nine.'
'Dear me! that's very hard.'
'Well, yes, it is hard work. My boys don't like it; but I manage it somehow. I get down to my little place in the country on Saturday. I shall be most happy to see you there next Saturday.'
Frank, thinking it would be outrageous on his part to take up much of the time of a gentleman who was constrained to work so unreasonably hard, began again to talk about his mortgages, and, in so doing, had to mention the name of Mr. Yates Umbleby.
'Ah, poor Unmbleby!' said Mr. Bideawhile; 'what is he doing now? I am quite sure your father was right, or he wouldn't have done it; but I used to think that Umbleby was a decent sort of man enough. Not so grand, you know, as your Gazebees and Gumptions—eh, Mr. Gresham? They do say young Gazebee is thinking of getting into parliament. Let me see: Umbleby married—who was it he married? That was the way your father got hold of him; not vour father, but your grand-
