hazard and rouge-et-noir,—­had now removed her card-table from Grosvenor-square to a splendid hotel in the Rue Rivoli; where she had the honour of assembling, twice a week, a larger proportion of the idle and licentious of the exclusive caste, than could be found in any other suite of drawing-rooms in civilized Europe.  Her salon was in fact crowded with busy ranks of those swindlers of distinction who, in opposition to their brethren of lower pretensions, (the chevaliers d’industrie), ought surely to be termed the chevaliers de la paresse.  Among these, the brilliant air and lively effrontery of Captain Kendal secured him a warm acceptance; and by frequenting the circle of Lady Emlyn, he had not only the gratification of escaping from the insipid mediocrity of the home his vices had created, but acquired the power of indulging in others which were now still dearer to his heart.

“Vavasor Kendal was an expert player.  Like other frigid egotists, his head and heart were always at leisure; and his successes had been the means, on more than one occasion, of extending his means of disgraceful enjoyment.  At least, however, his career lay on the verge of a precipice; for playing at a stake beyond the limit of his fortune, a single faltering step might at any hour precipitate him into an abyss of shame and ruin.  Amelia was often tempted to doubt whether she had more cause to dread that intoxication of triumph, which induced him to still further excesses, or the reverses tending to aggravate the violence of temper to which she was an habitual victim.  The fluctuating fortunes of the gamester,—­his losses or gains,—­were equally a source of suffering to herself.  But the Carnival was drawing to a close; she soon began ardently to wish that his sister might grow weary of the increasing dulness of the French capital, and migrate among other swallows of the season, in search of new pleasures.

“Long had she been in expectation of an announcement to this effect, when one night,—­a cold cheerless night in March,—­Vavasor exceeded even his ordinary period of absence.  The habitually dissolute of Paris rarely keep late hours.  Vice does not form with them, as with the English roue, an occasional excess, but is consistent and regular in its habits.  Captain Kendal usually returned home between two and three; and Amelia was accustomed to sit up, and by her own services lighten the labours of their scanty establishment.  It was she, the invalid, who was careful to keep up light and fire for the tyrant of the domestic hearth.

“But on this occasion two o’clock came,—­three, four, five o’clock,—­and no Vavasor.  Hour after hour she listened to the chime of the gaudy timepiece decorating their shabby apartment; and while the night advanced, in all its chilly, lonely, comfortless protraction, shivered as she added new logs to the dying embers, and as she hoped or despaired of his return, alternately replaced the veilleuse by candles,