He followed the servant into a large and lofty bedchamber, the like of which he had never seen before.  He could have spent an hour in examining all the rich and curious things it contained; but a voice hailed him from the bed, and there lay Lord Claud, in a nest of snowy pillows, his golden head and fair complexion giving him an almost girlish aspect, albeit the square set of the jaw and the peculiarly penetrating glance of the dark-blue eyes robbed the face of any charge of effeminacy.

He was clad in a sort of dressing jacket of silk and lace, fine enough for any lady; and the bed was draped in silk from the Indies, worked in a fashion that set Tom agape.  A few volumes of poetry, half a dozen letters, scented and delicately twisted, and a silver salver bearing an empty cup stood beside him.  His servant removed this latter, and at a sign from his master withdrew; and Tom was motioned to take the lounging chair which stood beside the bed, and from the recesses of which he could watch Lord Claud, as he did, with a sense of fascination.

“Early afoot, in sooth, my young spark from the country!  Ah, it is a fine habit, that of early rising.  I practised it once myself, so I speak with authority.  But what would you in this Babylon?  And, i’ faith, what is there to do before the afternoon to tempt a man from his couch?  I have scarce had four hours’ sleep as it is.  There was no getting away from my Lady Betty’s reception last night.  Egad, I believe that fair votary of the Graces ruins more young bloods than any sharper in the town!  Have a care of your guineas, my young friend, if ever you find yourself sitting down to the card table with her!”

“That is not likely,” answered Tom modestly.  “I am but the son of a country squire.  I have come to London to see somewhat of the life there; but I look not to consort with the fashionable ones of the earth.”

“We shall see, we shall see.  A golden key opens all doors—­at least, nearly all.  And you have not come empty-handed from home, I warrant.  And that reminds me of your words of yesterday.  You bring me a message from my quondam friend, Captain Jack.  I would hear news of him; so tell me all the tale.”

Tom told the tale simply enough, and Lord Claud listened with unaffected interest, nodding his head once or twice at hearing the terms of the message delivered for himself.

“Ah, good Captain Jack!  So he is still in the free forest!  Well, well, well, perhaps he has chosen the better part.  There be times when I look back at the old free life of peril and adventure, and my soul sickens at the weary round I see day by day.  Who knows but the time may come when I will break these gossamer bonds!  Ah, I might do worse—­I might do worse—­ere my youth and courage are fooled and squandered away.”

He seemed almost to have forgotten that he had a listener, and to be musing aloud; but, catching the wondering glance of Tom’s eyes, he recollected himself with a smile, and stretching out a white yet muscular hand, he said, with an air of winning grace: