In Carinthia’s case, her revived enthusiasm for her brother drove to the penetration of the husband pleading to thwart its course.  His offer was wealth:  that is, luxury, amusement, ease.  The sub-audible ‘himself’ into the bargain was disregarded, not counting with one who was an upward rush of fire at the thought that she was called to share her brother’s dangers.

Chillon cordially believed the earl to be the pestilent half madman, junction with whom is a constant trepidation for the wife, when it is not a screaming plight.  He said so, and Carinthia let him retain his opinion.  She would have said it herself to support her scheme, though ‘mad’ applied to a man moving in the world with other men was not understood by her.

With Henrietta for the earl’s advocate, she was patient as the deaf rock-wall enthusiam can be against entreaties to change its direction or bid it disperse:  The ‘private band of picked musicians’ at the disposal of the Countess of Fleetwood, and Opera singers (Henrietta mentioned resonant names) hired for wonderful nights at Esslemont and Calesford or on board the earl’s beautiful schooner yacht, were no temptation.  Nor did Henrietta’s allusions to his broken appearance move his wife, except in her saying regretfully:  ‘He changes.’

On the hall table at Esslemont, a letter from his bankers informed the earl of a considerable sum of money paid in to his account in the name of Lord Brailstone.  Chumley Potts, hanging at him like a dog without a master since the death of his friend Ambrose, had journeyed down:  ‘Anxious about you,’ he said.  Anxious about or attracted by the possessor of Ambrose Mallard’s ‘clean sweeper,’ the silver-mounted small pistol; sight of which he begged to have; and to lengthened his jaw on hearing it was loaded.  A loaded pistol, this dark little one to the right of the earl’s blotting-pad and pens, had the look of a fearful link with his fallen chaps and fishy hue.  Potts maundered moralities upon ‘life,’ holding the thing in his hand, weighing it, eyeing the muzzle.  He ‘couldn’t help thinking of what is going to happen to us after it all’:  and ‘Brosey knows now!’ was followed by a twitch of one cheek and the ejaculation ‘Forever!’ Fleetwood alive and Ambrose dead were plucking the startled worldling to a peep over the verge into our abyss; and the young lord’s evident doing of the same commanded Chumley Potts’ imitation of him under the cloud Ambrose had become for both of them.

He was recommended to see Lord Feltre, if he had a desire to be instructed on the subject of the mitigation of our pains in the regions below.  Potts affirmed that he meant to die a Protestant Christian.  Thereupon, carrying a leaden burden of unlaughed laughable stuff in his breast, and Chummy’s concluding remark to speed him:  ’Damn it, no, we’ll stick to our religion!’ Fleetwood strode off to his library, and with the names of the Ixionides of his acquaintance ringing round his head, proceeded