By this time good Mark had talked himself out of breath; and Elsley flushing up, as of old, at a little praise, began to stammer an excuse.  “His nerves were so weak, and his spirits so broken with late troubles.”

“My dear sir, that’s the very reason I want you to come.  A bottle of port will cure the nerves, and a pleasant chat the spirits.  Nothing like forgetting all for a little time; and then to it again with a fresh lease of strength, and beat it at last like a man.”

“Too late, my dear sir; I must pay the penalty of my own folly,” said Elsley, really won by the man’s cordiality.

“Never too late, sir, while there’s life left in us.  And,” he went on in a gentler tone, “if we all were to pay for our own follies, or lie down and die when we saw them coming full cry at our heels, where would any one of us be by now?  I have been a fool in my time, young gentleman, more than once or twice; and that too when I was old enough to be your father:  and down I went, and deserved what I got:  but my rule always was—­Fight fair; fall soft; know when you’ve got enough; and don’t cry out when you’ve got it:  but just go home; train again; and say—­better luck next fight.”  And so old Mark’s sermon ended (as most of them did) in somewhat Socratic allegory, savouring rather of the market than of the study; but Elsley understood him, and looked up with a smile.

“You too are somewhat of a poet in your way, I see, sir!”

“I never thought to live to hear that, sir.  I can’t doubt now that you are cleverer than your neighbours, for you have found out something which they never did.  But you will come?—­for that’s my business.”

Elsley looked inquiringly at Tom; he had learnt now to consult his eye, and lean on him like a child.  Tom looked a stout yes, and Elsley said languidly,—­

“You have given me so much new and good advice in a few minutes, sir, that I must really do myself the pleasure of coming and hearing more.”

“Well done, our side!” cried old Mark.  “Dinner at half-past five.  No London late hours here, sir.  Miss Armsworth will be out of her mind when she hears you’re coming.”

And off he went.

“Do you think he’ll come up to the scratch, Tom?”

“I am very much afraid his courage will fail him.  I will see him again, and bring him up with me:  but now, my dear Mr. Armsworth, do remember one thing; that if you go on with him at your usual rate of hospitality, the man will as surely be drunk, as his nerves and brain are all but ruined; and if he is so, he will most probably destroy himself to-morrow morning.”

“Destroy himself?”

“He will.  The shame of making a fool of himself just now before you will be more than he could bear.  So be stingy for once.  He will not wish for it unless you press him; but if he talks (and he will talk after the first half-hour), he will forget himself, and half a bottle will make him mad; and then I won’t answer for the consequences.”