I was observing, we are in the very tide of success.  Curious!  I have a slight inclination to melancholy.  Success, quotha?  Why, hundreds before us have paced the identical way homeward at night under these lamps between the mansions and the park.  The bare thought makes them resemble a double line of undertakers.  The tomb is down there at the end of them—­costly or not.  At the age of four, on my birthday, I was informed that my mother lay dead in her bed.  I remember to this day my astonishment at her not moving.  “Her heart is broken,” my old nurse said.  To me she appeared intact.  Her sister took possession of me, and of her papers, and the wedding-ring—­now in the custody of Dettermain and Newson—­together with the portraits of both my parents; and she, poor soul, to sustain me, as I verily believe—­she had a great idea of my never asking unprofitably for anything in life—­bartered the most corroborative of the testificatory documents, which would now make the establishment of my case a comparatively light task.  Have I never spoken to you of my boyhood?  My maternal uncle was a singing-master and master of elocution.  I am indebted to him for the cultivation of my voice.  He taught me an effective delivery of my sentences.  The English of a book of his called The Speaker is still to my mind a model of elegance.  Remittances of money came to him from an unknown quarter; and, with a break or two, have come ever since up to this period.  My old nurse-heaven bless her—­resumed the occupation of washing.  I have stood by her tub, Richie, blowing bubbles and listening to her prophecies of my exalted fortune for hours.  On my honour, I doubt, I seriously doubt, if I have ever been happier.  I depend just now—­I have to avow it to you—­slightly upon stimulants . . . of a perfectly innocuous character.  Mrs. Waddy will allow me a pint of champagne.  The truth is, Richie—­you see these two or three poor pensioners of mine, honi soit qui mal y pense—­my mother has had hard names thrown at her.  The stones of these streets cry out to me to have her vindicated.  I am not tired; but I want my wine.’

He repeated several times before he reached his housedoor, that he wanted his wine, in a manner to be almost alarming.  His unwonted effort of memory, the singular pictures of him which it had flashed before me, and a sort of impatient compassion, made me forget my wrath.  I saw him take his restorative at one draught.  He lay down on a sofa, and his valet drew his boots off and threw a cloak over him.  Lying there, he wished me gaily good-night.  Mrs. Waddy told me that he had adopted this system of sleeping for the last month.  ’Bless you, as many people call on him at night now as in the day,’ she said; and I was induced to suppose he had some connection with the Press.  She had implicit faith in his powers of constitution, and would affirm, that he had been the death of dozens whom the attraction had duped to imitate his habits.  ’He is now a Field-Marshal on his campaign.’  She betrayed a twinkle of humour.  He must himself have favoured her with that remark.  The report of the house-door frequently shutting in the night suggested the passage of his aides-de-camp.