“Indeed I do.  I like all the cheap things, and dislike all the dear things.”

“Then you certainly shall not go with us to Madame Millefranc’s,” said Alexandrina.

“It would not matter to him there, you know, my dear,” said the countess, thinking perhaps of the suggestion she had lately made to Mr Gazebee.

On this occasion Crosbie managed to escape, simply promising to return to Portman Square in the evening after dinner.  “By-the-by, Adolphus,” said the countess, as he handed her into the hired carriage which stood at the door, “I wish you would go to Lambert’s, on Ludgate Hill, for me.  He has had a bracelet of mine for nearly three months.  Do, there’s a good creature.  Get it if you can, and bring it up this evening.”

Crosbie, as he made his way back to his office, swore that he would not do the bidding of the countess.  He would not trudge off into the city after her trinkets.  But at five o’clock, when he left his office, he did go there.  He apologised to himself by saying that he had nothing else to do, and bethought himself that at the present moment his lady mother-in-law’s smiles might be more convenient than her frowns.  So he went to Lambert’s, on Ludgate Hill, and there learned that the bracelet had been sent down to Courcy Castle full two months since.

After that he dined at his club, at Sebright’s.  He dined alone, sitting by no means in bliss with his half-pint of sherry on the table before him.  A man now and then came up and spoke to him, one a few words, and another a few, and two or three congratulated him as to his marriage; but the club was not the same thing to him as it had formerly been.  He did not stand in the centre of the rug, speaking indifferently to all or any around him, ready with his joke, and loudly on the alert with the last news of the day.  How easy it is to be seen when any man has fallen from his pride of place, though the altitude was ever so small, and the fall ever so slight.  Where is the man who can endure such a fall without showing it in his face, in his voice, in his step, and in every motion of every limb?  Crosbie knew that he had fallen, and showed that he knew it by the manner in which he ate his mutton-chop.

At half-past eight he was again in Portman Square, and found the two ladies crowding over a small fire in a small back drawing-room.  The furniture was all covered with brown holland, and the place had about it that cold comfortless feeling which uninhabited rooms always produce.  Crosbie, as he had walked from the club up to Portman Square, had indulged in some serious thoughts.  The kind of life which he had hitherto led had certainly passed away from him.  He could never again be the pet of a club, or indulged as one to whom all good things were to be given without any labour at earning them on his own part.  Such for some years had been his good fortune, but such could be his good fortune no longer.  Was there anything within his reach which he might