great importance to his success, because, if he is a person of this calibre, he must remember how small it is, when all is said and done; that even in his day there are those who can beat him on his own ground; and also that all worldly success, like the most perfect flower, yet bears in it the elements of decay.  But he will have reflected with humble satisfaction on those long years of patient striving which have at length lifted him to an eminence whence he can climb on and on, scarcely encumbered by the jostling crowd; till at length, worn out, the time comes for him to fall.

So Geoffrey thought and felt.  The thing was to be done, and he had done it.  Honoria should have money now; she should no longer be able to twit him with their poverty.  Yes, and a better thought still, Beatrice would be glad to hear of his little triumph.

He reached home rather late.  Honoria was going out to dinner with a distinguished cousin, and was already dressing.  Geoffrey had declined the invitation, which was a short one, because he had not expected to be back from chambers.  In this enthusiasm, however, he went to his wife’s room to tell her of the event.

“Well,” she said, “what have you been doing?  I think that you might have arranged to come out with me.  My going out so much by myself does not look well.  Oh, I forgot; of course you are in that case.”

“Yes—­that is, I was.  I have won the case.  Here is a very fair report of it in the St. James’s Gazette if you care to read it.”

“Good heavens, Geoffrey!  How can you expect me to read all that stuff when I am dressing?”

“I don’t expect you to, Honoria; only, as I say, I have won the case, and I shall get plenty of work now.”

“Will you?  I am glad to hear it; perhaps we shall be able to escape from this horrid flat if you do.  There, Anne!  Je vous l’ai toujours dit, cette robe ne me va pas bien.”

“Mais, milady, la robe va parfaitement——­”

“That is your opinion,” grumbled Lady Honoria.  “Well, it isn’t mine.  But it will have to do.  Good-night, Geoffrey; I daresay that you will have gone to bed when I get back,” and she was gone.

Geoffrey picked up his St. James’s Gazette with a sigh.  He felt hurt, and knew that he was a fool for his pains.  Lady Honoria was not a sympathetic person; it was not fair to expect it from her.  Still he felt hurt.  He went upstairs and heard Effie her prayers.

“Where has you beed, daddy?—­to the Smoky Town?” The Temple was euphemistically known to Effie as the Smoky Town.

“Yes, dear.”

“You go to the Smoky Town to make bread and butter, don’t you, daddy?”

“Yes, dear, to make bread and butter.”

“And did you make any, daddy?”

“Yes, Effie, a good deal to-day.”

“Then where is it?  In your pocket?”

“No, love, not exactly.  I won a big lawsuit to-day, and I shall get a great many pennies for it.”