“Yes,” added I, “and did she not prophecy that you were to die a monk and a miser? I have been told so.”
“I don’t think these two last very likely; but it was part of her prediction. But there are lucky and unlucky days, as well as years and numbers too. Lord was dining at a party, where observed that they were thirteen. ‘Why don’t you make us twelve?’ was the reply; and an impudent one it was—but he could say those things. You would not visit on a Friday, would you? You know you are to introduce me to Mrs. . It must not be to-morrow, for it is a Friday.”
“A fine day,” said I, as I entered; “a day worth living for.”
“An old wag[errata 1] of a world!” replied he, shaking me by the hand. “You should have been here earlier. T has been here with a most portentous and obstetrical countenance, and it seems he has been bringing forth an ode—a birthday ode—not on Ada, but on a lady. An
