But he was too clever not to know that they might be fattening him for some very special feast, and his thanks took the form of a vow to need their help no more.  To-morrow he would begin to climb the mountains around St. Gian; if he danced attendance on her dangerous Ladyship again, Mrs. Jerry should be there also, and he would walk circumspectly between them, like a man with gyves upon his wrists.  He was in the midst of all the details of these reforms, when suddenly he looked at himself thus occupied, and laughed bitterly; he had so often come upon Tommy making grand resolves!

He stopped operations and sat down beside them.  No one could have wished more heartily to be anybody else, or have had less hope.  He had not even the excuse of being passionately drawn to this woman; he remembered that she had never interested him until he heard of her effect upon other men.  Her reputation as a duellist, whose defence none of his sex could pass, had led to his wondering what they saw in her, and he had dressed himself in their sentiments and so approached her.  There were times in her company when he forgot that he was wearing borrowed garments, when he went on flame, but he always knew, as now, upon reflection.  Nothing seemed easier at this moment than to fling them aside; with one jerk they were on the floor.  Obviously it was only vanity that had inspired him, and vanity was satisfied:  the easier, therefore, to stop.  Would you like to make the woman unhappy, Tommy?  You know you would not; you have somewhere about you one of the softest hearts in the world.  Then desist; be satisfied that you did thaw her once, and grateful that she so quickly froze again.  “I am; indeed I am,” he responds.  “No one could have himself better in hand for the time being than I, and if a competition in morals were now going on, I should certainly take the medal.  But I cannot speak for myself an hour in advance.  I make a vow, as I have done so often before, but it does not help me to know what I may be at before the night is out.”

When his disgust with himself was at its height he suddenly felt like a little god.  His new book had come into view.  He flicked a finger at his reflection in a mirror.  “That for you!” he said defiantly; “at least I can write; I can write at last!”

The manuscript lay almost finished at the bottom of his trunk.  It could not easily have been stolen for one hour without his knowing.  Just when he was about to start on a walk with one of the ladies, he would run upstairs to make sure that it was still there; he made sure by feeling, and would turn again at the door to make sure by looking.  Miser never listened to the crispness of bank-notes with more avidity; woman never spent more time in shutting and opening her jewel-box.

“I can write at last!” He knew that, comparatively speaking, he had never been able to write before.  He remembered the fuss that had been made about his former books.  “Pooh!” he said, addressing them contemptuously.