When we again met, which was at the mess-table, it was not without evidence on either side of that peculiar consciousness which persons feel who have, or think they have, some secret in common, which the world wots not of.  Curzon’s unusually quick and excited manner would at once have struck any close observer as indicating the eve of some important step, no less than continual allusions to whatever was going on, by sly and equivocal jokes and ambiguous jests.  Happily, however, on the present occasion, the party were otherwise occupied than watching him—­being most profoundly and learnedly engaged in discussing medicine and matters medical with all the acute and accurate knowledge which characterises such discussions among the non-medical public.

The present conversation originated from some mention our senior surgeon Fitzgerald had just made of a consultation which he was invited to attend on the next morning, at the distance of twenty miles, and which necessitated him to start at a most uncomfortably early hour.  While he continued to deplore the hard fate of such men as himself, so eagerly sought after by the world, that their own hours were eternally broken in upon by external claims, the juniors were not sparing of their mirth on the occasion, at the expense of the worthy doctor, who, in plain truth, had never been disturbed by a request like the present within any one’s memory.  Some asserted that the whole thing was a puff, got up by Fitz. himself, who was only going to have a day’s partridge-shooting; others hinting that it was a blind to escape the vigilance of Mrs. Fitzgerald —­a well-known virago in the regiment—­while Fitz. enjoyed himself; and a third party, pretending to sympathise with the doctor, suggested that a hundred pounds would be the least he could possibly be offered for such services as his on so grave an occasion.

“No, no, only fifty,” said Fitz. gravely.

“Fifty!  Why, you tremendous old humbug, you don’t mean to say you’ll make fifty pounds before we are out of our beds in the morning?” cried one.

“I’ll take your bet on it,” said the doctor, who had, in this instance, reason to suppose his fee would be a large one.

During this discussion, the claret had been pushed round rather freely; and fully bent, as I was, upon the adventure before me, I had taken my share of it as a preparation.  I thought of the amazing prize I was about to be instrumental in securing for my friend—­for the lady had really thirty thousand pounds—­and I could not conceal my triumph at such a prospect of success in comparison with the meaner object of ambition.  They all seemed to envy poor Fitzgerald.  I struggled with my secret for some time—­but my pride and the claret together got the better of me, and I called out, “Fifty pounds on it, then, that before ten to-morrow morning, I’ll make a better hit of it than you—­and the mess shall decide between us afterwards as to the winner.”