His lordship, who kept a small establishment of his own, now lies in a very elegantly furnished bedroom, with a table beside his bed, on which are dressings for his wound, phials of medicines, some loose comedies, and a volume still more objectionable in point both of taste and morals.  Beside him is a man, whether young or of the middle age it is difficult to say.  At the first glance, his general appearance, at least, seemed rather juvenile, but after a second—­and still more decidedly after a third—­it was evident to the spectator that he could not be under forty.  He was dressed in quite a youthful style, and in the very extreme of fashion.  This person’s features were good, regular, absolutely symmetrical; yet was there that in his countenance which you could not relish.  The face, on being examined, bespoke the life of a battered rake; for although the complexion was or had been naturally good, it was now set in too high a color for that of a young man, and was hardened into a certain appearance which is produced on some features by the struggle that takes place between dissipation and health.  The usual observation in such cases is—­“with what a constitution has that man been blessed on whose countenance the symptoms of a hard life are so slightly perceptible.”  The symptoms, however, are there in every case, as they were on his.  This man’s countenance, we say, at the first glance, was good, and his eye seemed indicative of great mildness and benignity of heart—­yet here, again, was a drawback, for, upon a stricter examination of that organ, there might be read in it the expression of a spirit that never permitted him to utter a single word that was not associated with some selfish calculation.  Add to this, that it was unusually small and feeble, intimating duplicity and a want of moral energy and candor.  In the mere face, therefore, there was something which you could not like, and which would have prejudiced you, as if by instinct, against the man, were it not that the pliant and agreeable tone of his conversation, in due time, made you forget everything except the fact that Tom Norton was a most delightful fellow, with not a bit of selfishness about him, but a warm and friendly wish to oblige and serve every one of his acquaintances, as far as he could, and with the greatest good-will in the world.  But Tom’s excellence did not rest here.  He was disinterested, and frequently went so far as almost actually to quarrel with some of his friends on their refusing to be guided by his advice and experience.  Then, again, Tom was generous and delicate, for on finding that his dissuasions against some particular course had been disregarded, and the consequences he had predicted had actually followed, he was too magnanimous ever to harass them by useless expostulations or vain reproofs; such as—­“I told you how it would happen”—­“I advised you in time”—­“you would not listen to reason”—­and other posthumous apothegms of the same character.  No, on the contrary,