“Do you hear, Lorrequer,” at last said Trevanion; “are you asleep, my dear friend?  This gentleman has been good enough to invite us to breakfast to-morrow at St. Cloud.”

I looked up, and was just able to recognise the well-trimmed moustache of Mr. Edward Bingham, as he stood mumbling something before me.  “St. Cloud —­what of St. Cloud?” said I.

“We have something in that quarter to-morrow.”

“What is it, O’Leary?  Can we go?”

“Oh! certainly—­our engagement’s an early one.”

“We shall accept your polite invitation with pleasure”—­

Here he stooped over, and whispered something in my ear; what, I cannot say, but I know that my reply, now equally lost to me, produced a hearty fit of laughing to my two friends.

My next recollection is, finding myself in a crowded loge at the theatre.  It seems that O’Leary had acceded to a proposal from some of the other party to accompany them to the Porte St. Martin, where Mrs. Bingham and her daughter had engaged a box.  Amid all the confusion which troubled thoughts and wine produced in me, I could not help perceiving a studied politeness and attention on the part of Mr. Edward Bingham towards me; and my first sobering reflection came, on finding that a place was reserved for me beside Miss Bingham, into which, by some contrivance I can in no wise explain, I found myself almost immediately installed.  To all the excitements of champagne and punch, let the attractions of a French ballet be added, and, with a singularly pretty companion at your side, to whom you have already made sufficient advances to be aware that you are no longer indifferent to her, and I venture to predict, that it is much more likely your conversation will incline to flirting than political economy; and, moreover, that you make more progress during the performance of one single pas de deux upon the stage, than you have hitherto done in ten morning calls, with an unexceptionable whisker and the best fitting gloves in Paris.  Alas! alas! it is only the rich man that ever wins at rouge et noir.  The well-insured Indiaman, with her cargo of millions, comes safe into port; while the whole venture of some hardy veteran of the wave, founders within sight of his native shore.  So is it ever; where success would be all and every thing, it never comes —­but only be indifferent or regardless, and fortune is at your feet, suing and imploring your acceptance of her favours.  What would I not have given for one half of that solicitude now so kindly expressed in my favour by Miss Bingham, if syllabled by the lips of Lady Jane Callonby —­how would my heart have throbbed for one light smile from one, while I ungratefully basked in the openly avowed preference of the other.  These were my first thoughts—­what were the succeeding ones?

“Comment elle est belle,” said a Frenchwoman, turning round in the box next to us, and directing at the same moment the eyes of a moustached hero upon my fair companion.