It became a question with him now, whether Wit and Ambition may dwell together harmoniously in a young man:  whether they will not give such manifestation of their social habits as two robins shut in a cage will do:  of which pretty birds one will presently be discovered with a slightly ruffled bosom amid the feathers of his defunct associate.

Thus painfully revolving matters of fact and feeling, Sir William cantered, and, like a cropped billow blown against by the wind, drew up in front of Mrs. Lovell, and entered into conversation with that lady, for the fine needles of whose brain he had the perfect deference of an experienced senior.  She, however, did not give him comfort.  She informed him that something was wrong with Edward; she could not tell what.  She spoke of him languidly, as if his letters contained wearisome trifling.

“He strains to be Frenchy,” she said.  “It may be a good compliment for them to receive:  it’s a bad one for him to pay.”

“Alcibiades is not the best of models,” murmured Sir William.  “He doesn’t mention Miss Gosling.”

“Oh dear, yes.  I have a French acrostic on her name.”

“An acrostic!”

A more contemptible form of mental exercise was not to be found, according to Sir William’s judgement.

“An acrostic!” he made it guttural.  “Well!”

“He writes word that he hears Moliere every other night.  That can’t harm him.  His reading is principally Memoirs, which I think I have heard you call ‘The backstairs of history.’  We are dull here, and I should not imagine it to be a healthy place to dwell in, if the absence of friends and the presence of sunshine conspire to dullness.  Algy, of course, is deep in accounts to-day?”

Sir William remarked that he had not seen the young man at the office, and had not looked for him; but the mention of Algernon brought something to his mind, and he said,—­

“I hear he is continually sending messengers from the office to you during the day.  You rule him with a rod of iron.  Make him discontinue that practice.  I hear that he despatched our old porter to you yesterday with a letter marked ‘urgent.’”

Mrs. Lovell laughed pleadingly for Algernon.

“No; he shall not do it again.  It occurred yesterday, and on no other occasion that I am aware of.  He presumes that I am as excited as he is himself about the race—­”

The lady bowed to a passing cavalier; a smarting blush dyed her face.

“He bets, does he!” said Sir William.  “A young man, whose income, at the extreme limit, is two hundred pounds a year.”

“May not the smallness of the amount in some degree account for the betting?” she asked whimsically.  “You know, I bet a little—­just a little.  If I have but a small sum, I already regard it as a stake; I am tempted to bid it fly.”

“In his case, such conduct puts him on the high road to rascality,” said Sir William severely.  “He is doing no good.”