Rushton and myself understand each other.
If I wish to go, I go--or stay away, I stay away.

But I like the old trap, sir, from habit, and rather like the bear himself, upon the whole." With this Mr.Roundjacket attempted to flourish his ruler, from habit, and groaned.
"What's the matter, sir ?" said Verty.
"I felt badly at the moment," said Roundjacket; "the fact is, I always do feel badly when I'm confined thus.

I have been trying to wile away the time with the manuscript of my poem, sir--but it won't do.

An author, sir--mark me--never takes any pleasure in reading his own writings." "Ah ?" said Verty.
"No, sir; the only proper course for authors is to marry." "Indeed, sir ?" "Yes: and why, sir ?" asked Mr.Roundjacket, evidently with the intention of answering his own question.
"I don't know," replied Verty.
"Because, then, sir, the author may read his work to his wife, which is a circumstance productive of great pleasure on both sides, you perceive." "It might be, but I think it might'nt, sir ?" Verty said.
"How, might'nt be ?" "It might be very bad writing--not interesting--such as ought to be burned, you know," said Verty.
"Hum!" replied Roundjacket, "there's something in that." "If I was to write--but I could'nt--I don't think I would read it to my wife--if I had a wife," added Verty.
And he sighed.
"A wife! you!" cried Mr.Roundjacket.
"Is there anything wrong in my wishing to marry ?" "Hum!--yes, sir; there is a certain amount of irrationality in _any_ body desiring such a thing--not in you especially." "Oh, Mr.Roundjacket, you advised me only a few weeks ago to be always _courting_ somebody--courting was the word; I recollect it." "Hum!" repeated Roundjacket; "did I ?" "Yes, sir." "Well, sir, I suppose a man has a right to amend." "Anan, sir ?" "I say that a man has a right to file an amended and supplemental bill, stating new facts; but you don't understand.

Perhaps, sir, I was right, and perhaps I was wrong in that advice." "But, Mr.Roundjacket," said Verty, sighing, "do you think I ought not to marry because I am an Indian ?" This question of ethics evidently puzzled the poet.
"An Indian--hum--an Indian ?" he said; "but are you an Indian, my young friend ?" "You know _ma mere_ is, and I am her son." Roundjacket shook his head.
"You are a Saxon, not an Aboriginal," he said; "and to tell you the truth, your origin has been the great puzzle of my life, sir." "Has it ?" "It has, indeed." Verty looked thoughtful, and his dreamy gaze was fixed upon vacancy.
"It has troubled me a good deal lately," he said, "and I have been thinking about it very often--since I came to live in Winchester, you know.