“One always has to go through that sort of thing,” said Johnny.

“Yes; but those who go through too much of it never get out again.  Where would you be if she got a written promise of marriage from you?” Poor Johnny did not answer this immediately, for in very truth Amelia Roper had such a document in her possession.

“Where should I be?” said he.  “Among the breaches of promise, I suppose.”

“Either that, or else among the victims of matrimony.  My belief of you is, that if you gave such a promise, you’d carry it out.”

“Perhaps I should,” said Johnny; “but I don’t know.  It’s a matter of doubt what a man ought to do in such a case.”

“But there’s been nothing of that kind yet?”

“Oh dear, no!”

“If I was you, Johnny, I’d keep away from her.  It’s very good fun, of course, that sort of thing; but it is so uncommon dangerous!  Where would you be now with such a girl as that for your wife?”

Such had been the caution given by Cradell to his friend.  And now, just as he was starting for Allington, Eames returned the compliment.  They had gone together to the Great Western station at Paddington, and Johnny tendered his advice as they were walking together up and down the platform.

“I say, Caudle, old boy, you’ll find yourself in trouble with that Mrs Lupex, if you don’t take care of yourself.”

“But I shall take care of myself.  There’s nothing so safe as a little nonsense with a married woman.  Of course, it means nothing, you know, between her and me.”

“I don’t suppose it does mean anything.  But she’s always talking about Lupex being jealous; and if he was to cut up rough, you wouldn’t find it pleasant.”

Cradell, however, seemed to think that there was no danger.  His little affair with Mrs Lupex was quite platonic and safe.  As for doing any real harm, his principles, as he assured his friend, were too high.  Mrs Lupex was a woman of talent, whom no one seemed to understand, and, therefore, he had taken some pleasure in studying her character.  It was merely a study of character, and nothing more.  Then the friends parted, and Eames was carried away by the night mail-train down to Guestwick.

How his mother was up to receive him at four o’clock in the morning, how her maternal heart was rejoicing at seeing the improvement in his gait, and the manliness of appearance imparted to him by his whiskers, I need not describe at length.  Many of the attributes of a hobbledehoy had fallen from him, and even Lily Dale might now probably acknowledge that he was no longer a boy.  All which might be regarded as good, if only in putting off childish things he had taken up things which were better than childish.