Mr Summerkin, and his aunt was not in one of her best humours.  He took his uncle’s part as well as he could, and then left Mrs Toogood.  The little allusion to Lord De Guest’s generosity had not been pleasant to him.  It seemed to rob him of all his own merit.  He had been rather proud of his journey to Italy, having contrived to spend nearly forty pounds in ten days.  He had done everything in the most expensive way, feeling that every napoleon wasted had been laid out on behalf Mr Crawley.  But, as Mrs Toogood had just told him, all this was nothing to what Toogood was doing.  Toogood with twelve children was living at his own charges at Barchester and was neglecting his business besides.  ‘There’s Mr Crump,’ said Mrs Toogood.  ’Of course he doesn’t like it, and what can I say when he comes to me?’ This was not quite fair on the part of Mrs Toogood, as Mr Crump had not troubled her even once as yet since her husband’s departure.

What was Johnny to do, when he left Tavistock Square?  His club was open to him.  Should he go to his club, play a game of billiards, and have some supper?  When he asked himself the question he knew that he would not go to his club, and yet he pretended to doubt about it, as he made his way to a cabstand in Tottenham Court Road.  It would be slow, he told himself, to go to his club.  He would have gone to Lily Dale, only that his intimacy with Mrs Thorne was not sufficient to justify his calling at her house between nine and ten o’clock at night.  But, as he must go somewhere—­and as his intimacy with Lady Demolines was, he thought, sufficient to justify almost anything—­he would go to Bayswater.  I regret to say that he had written a mysterious not from Paris to Madalina Demolines, saying that he should be in London on this very night, and that it was just on the cards that he might make his way up to Porchester Terrace before he went to bed.  The note was mysterious, because it had neither beginning nor ending.  It did not contain even initials.  It was written like a telegraph message, and was about as long.  It was the kind of thing Miss Demolines liked, Johnny thought; and there could be no reason why he should not gratify her.  It was her favourite game.  Some people like whist, some like croquet, and some like intrigue.  Madalina probably would have called it romance—­because she was by nature romantic.  John, who was made of sterner stuff, laughed at this.  He knew that there was no romance in it.  He knew that he was only amusing himself, and gratifying her at the same time, by a little innocent pretence.  He told himself that it was his nature to prefer the society of women to that of men.  He would have liked the society of Lily Dale, no doubt, much better than that of Miss Demolines; but as the society of Lily Dale was not to be had at that moment, the society of Miss Demolines was the best substitute within his reach.  So he got into a cab and had himself driven to Porchester Terrace.  ’Is Lady Demolines