“There’s nothing better for me!” he groaned.  His great ambition must be covered by a house-top:  he and the cat must warm themselves on the domestic hearth!  The hero was not aware that his heart moved him to this.  His heart was not now in open communion with his mind.

Mrs. Mount heard that her friend was going—­would go.  She knew he was going to his wife.  Far from discouraging him, she said nobly:  “Go—­I believe I have kept you.  Let us have an evening together, and then go:  for good, if you like.  If not, then to meet again another time.  Forget me.  I shan’t forget you.  You’re the best fellow I ever knew, Richard.  You are, on my honour!  I swear I would not step in between you and your wife to cause either of you a moment’s unhappiness.  When I can be another woman I will, and I shall think of you then.”

Lady Blandish heard from Adrian that Richard was positively going to his wife.  The wise youth modestly veiled his own merit in bringing it about by saying:  “I couldn’t see that poor little woman left alone down there any longer.”

“Well!  Yes!” said Mrs. Doria, to whom the modest speech was repeated, “I suppose, poor boy, it’s the best he can do now.”

Richard bade them adieu, and went to spend his last evening with Mrs. Mount.

The enchantress received him in state.

“Do you know this dress?  No?  It’s the dress I wore when I first met you—­not when I first saw you.  I think I remarked you, sir, before you deigned to cast an eye upon humble me.  When we first met we drank champagne together, and I intend to celebrate our parting in the same liquor.  Will you liquor with me, old boy?”

She was gay.  She revived Sir Julius occasionally.  He, dispirited, left the talking all to her.

Mrs. Mount kept a footman.  At a late hour the man of calves dressed the table for supper.  It was a point of honour for Richard to sit down to it and try to eat.  Drinking, thanks to the kindly mother nature, who loves to see her children made fools of, is always an easier matter.  The footman was diligent; the champagne corks feebly recalled the file-firing at Richmond.

“We’ll drink to what we might have been, Dick,” said the enchantress.

Oh, the glorious wreck she looked.

His heart choked as he gulped the buzzing wine.

“What! down, my boy?” she cried.  “They shall never see me hoist signals of distress.  We must all die, and the secret of the thing is to die game, by Jove!  Did you ever hear of Laura Fern? a superb girl! handsomer than your humble servant—­if you’ll believe it—­a ‘Miss’ in the bargain, and as a consequence, I suppose, a much greater rake.  She was in the hunting-field.  Her horse threw her, and she fell plump on a stake.  It went into her left breast.  All the fellows crowded round her, and one young man, who was in love with her—­he sits in the House of Peers now—­we used to call him `Duck’ because