“I shall certainly have great pleasure in carrying your message, Mr Newland—­good morning.”

“That fool,” observed Atkinson, “will now run all over town, and you will see the consequence.”

We met one or two others, and to them Atkinson put the same question, “I thought you knew my friend Mr Newland?” At last, just as we arrived at my own house in St James’s Street, who should we meet but Harcourt.  Harcourt immediately perceived me, and bowed low as he passed on, so that his bow would have served for both; but Atkinson stopped.  “I must beg your pardon, Harcourt, for detaining you a moment, but what are the odds upon the Vestris colt for the Derby?”

“Upon my word, Captain Atkinson, I was told, but I have forgotten.”

“Your memory appears bad, for you have also forgotten your old friend, Mr Newland.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr Newland.”

“There is no occasion to beg my pardon, Mr Harcourt,” interrupted I; “for I tell you plainly, that I despise you too much to ever wish to be acquainted with you.  You will oblige me, sir, by never presuming to touch your hat, or otherwise notice me.”

Harcourt coloured, and started back.  “Such language, Mr Newland—­”

“Is what you deserve; ask your own conscience.  Leave us, sir;” and I walked on with Captain Atkinson.

“You have done well, Newland,” observed Atkinson; “he cannot submit to that language, for he knows that I have heard it.  A meeting you will of course have no objection to.  It will be of immense advantage to you.”

“None whatever,” replied I; “for if there is any one man who deserves to be punished for his conduct towards me, it is Harcourt.  Will you come up, Captain Atkinson; and, if not better engaged, take a quiet dinner and a bottle of wine with me?”

Our conversation during dinner was desultory, but after the first bottle, Atkinson became communicative, and his history not only made me feel better inclined towards him, but afforded me another instance, as well as Carbonnell’s, how often it is that those who would have done well, are first plundered, and then driven to desperation by the heartlessness of the world.  The cases, however, had this difference, that Carbonnell had always contrived to keep his reputation above water, while that of Atkinson was gone, and never to be re-established.  We had just finished our wine when a note was brought from Harcourt, informing me that he should send a friend the next morning for an explanation of my conduct.  I handed it over to Atkinson.  “My dear sir, I am at your service,” replied he, “without you have anybody among your acquaintances whom you may prefer.”

“Thank you,” replied I, “Captain Atkinson; it cannot be in better hands.”

“That is settled, then; and now where shall we go?”

“Wherever you please.”

“Then I shall try if I can win a little money to-night; if you come you need not play—­you can look on.  It will serve to divert your thoughts, at all events.”