“MY DEAR DAMON:—­

“Do you know that it is nearly a month since I last saw you?  Do you know that I have called twice at your lodgings without finding you at home?  I hear of you as having been constantly seen, of late, in the society of a very pretty woman of our acquaintance; but I confess that I do not desire to see you go to the devil entirely without the friendly assistance of

“Yours faithfully,

“OSCAR DALRYMPLE.”

I read the note twice.  I could scarcely believe that I had so neglected my only friend.  Had I been mad?  Or a fool?—­or both?  Too anxious and unhappy to sleep, and too tired to sit up, I lit my lamp, threw myself upon the bed, and there lay repenting my wasted hours, my misplaced love and my egregious folly, till morning came with its sunshine and its traffic, and found me a “wiser,” if not a “better man.”

“Half-past seven!” exclaimed I to myself, as I jumped up and plunged my head into a basin of cold water.  “Dr. Cheron shall see me before nine this morning.  I’ll call on Dalrymple at luncheon time; at three, I must get back for the afternoon lecture; and in the evening—­in the evening, by Jove!  Madame de Marignan must be content with her adorable Delaroche, for the deuce a bit of her humble servant will she ever see again!”

And away I went presently along the sunny streets, humming to myself those saucy and wholesome lines of good Sir Walter Raleigh’s:—­

     “Shall I like a hermit dwell
     On a rock, or in a cell,
     Calling home the smallest part
     That is missing of my heart,
     To bestow it where I may
     Meet a rival every day? 
     If she undervalues me,
     What care I how fair she be?”

CHAPTER XVII.

THE WIDOW OF A MINISTER OF FINANCE.

“You are just in time, Arbuthnot, to do me a service,” said Dalrymple, looking up from his desk as I went in, and reaching out his hand to me over a barricade of books and papers.

“Then I am very glad I have come,” I replied.  “But what confusion is this?  Are you going anywhere?”

“Yes—­to perdition.  There, kick that rubbish out of your way and sit down.”

Never very orderly, Dalrymple’s rooms were this time in as terrible a litter as can well be conceived.  The table was piled high with bills, old letters, books, cigars, gloves, card-cases, and pamphlets.  The carpet was strewn with portmanteaus, hat-cases, travelling-straps, old luggage labels, railway wrappers, and the like.  The chairs and sofas were laden with wearing apparel.  As for Dalrymple himself, he looked haggard and weary, as though the last four weeks had laid four years upon his shoulders.

“You look ill,” I said clearing a corner of the sofa for my own accommodation; “or ennuye, which is much the same thing.  What is the matter?  And what can I do for you?”