"Oh! is that all?"
"No," said Newman. "There's a fly in it."
"There are a good many cobwebs here," observed Arthur Gride.
"So there are in our place," returned Newman; "and flies, too."
Newman appeared to derive great entertainment from this repartee, and to the great discomposure of Arthur Gride's nerves produced a series of sharp cracks from his finger-joints, resembling the noise of a distant discharge of small artillery. Arthur succeeded in finishing his reply to Ralph's note, nevertheless, and at length handed it over to the eccentric messenger for delivery.
"That's it, Mr. Noggs," said Gride.
Newman gave a nod, put it in his hat, and was shuffling away, when Gride, whose doting delight knew no bounds, beckoned him back again, and said in a shrill whisper, and with a grin which puckered up his whole face, and almost obscured his eyes—
"Will you—will you take a little drop of something—just a taste?"
In good fellowship (if Arthur Gride had been capable of it) Newman would not have drunk with him one bubble of the richest wine that was ever made; but to see what he would be at, and to punish him as much as he could, he accepted the offer immediately.
Arthur Gride, therefore, again applied himself to the press, and from a shelf laden with tall Flemish drinking-glasses and quaint bottles, some with necks like so many storks, and others with square Dutch-built bodies and short fat apoplectic throats, took down one dusty bottle of promising appearance and two glasses of curiously small size.
"You never tasted this," said Arthur. "Its eau-d’or—golden water. I like it on account of its name. It's a delicious name. Water of gold, golden water! Oh dear me, it seems quite a sin to drink it!"
As his courage appeared to be fast failing him, and he trifled with the stopper in a manner which threatened the dismissal of the bottle to its old place, Newman took up one of the little glasses and chinked it twice or thrice against the bottle, as a gentle reminder that he had not been helped yet. With a deep sigh Arthur Gride slowly filled it—though not to the brim—and then filled his own.
"Stop, stop ; don't drink it yet," he said, laying his hand on Newman's; "it was given to me twenty years ago, and when I take a little taste, which is ve—ry seldom, I like to think of it beforehand and teaze myself. We'll drink a toast. Shall we have a toast, Mr. Noggs?"
"Ah!" said Newman, eyeing his little glass impatiently. "Look sharp. Bearer waits."
"Why, then, I'll tell you what," tittered Arthur, "we'll drink—he, he, he!—we'll drink a lady."
"The ladies?" said Newman.
"No, no, Mr. Noggs," replied Gride, arresting his hand, "a lady. You wonder to hear me say a lady—I know you do, I know you do. Here's little Madeline—that's the toast, Mr. Noggs—little Madeline!"
"Madeline!" said Newman; inwardly adding, "and God help her!"
The rapidity and unconcern with which Newman dismissed his portion of the golden water had a great effect upon the old man, who
