“By Jove it is,” said I, as I sprang forward, and seizing my fair friend in my arms, saluted upon both cheeks my quondam flame, Miss Kamworth, now the wife of my old friend Jack Waller, of whom I have made due mention in an early chapter of these Confessions.

Were I given a muster roll of my acquaintance to say which of them might inhabit this deserted mansion, Jack Waller would certainly have been the last I should have selected—­the gay, lively, dashing, high-spirited Jack, fond of society, dress, equipage, living greatly in the world, known to and liked by every body, of universal reputation.  Did you want a cavalier to see your wife through a crush at the opera, a friend in a duel, a rider for your kicking horse in a stiff steeple chase, a bow oar for your boat at a rowing match, Jack was your man.  Such then was my surprise at finding him here, that although there were many things I longed to inquire about, my first question was—­

“And how came you here?”

“Life has its vicissitudes,” replied Jack, laughing; “many stranger things have come to pass than my reformation.  But first of all let us think of breakfast; you shall have ample satisfaction for all your curiosity afterwards.”

“Not now, I fear; I am hurrying on to Munich.”

“Oh, I perceive; but you are aware that—­your friends are not there.”

“The Callonbys not at Munich!” said I, with a start.

“No; they have been at Saltzburgh, in the Tyrol, for some weeks; but don’t fret yourself, they are expected to-morrow in time for the court masquerade; so that until then at least you are my guest.”

Overjoyed at this information, I turned my attention towards madame, whom I found much improved; the embonpoint of womanhood had still farther increased the charms of one who had always been handsome; and I could not help acknowledging that my friend Jack was warrantable in any scheme for securing such a prize.

CHAPTER L.

Jack Waller’s story.

The day passed quickly over with my newly-found friends, whose curiosity to learn my adventures since we parted, anticipated me in my wish to learn theirs.  After an early dinner, however, with a fresh log upon the hearth, a crusty flask of red hermitage before us, Jack and I found ourselves alone and at liberty to speak freely together.

“I scarcely could have expected such would be our meeting, Jack,” said I, “from the way we last parted.”

“Yes, by Jove, Harry; I believe I behaved but shabbily to you in that affair; but ‘Love and War,’ you know; and besides we had a distinct agreement drawn up between us.”

“All true; and after all you are perhaps less to blame than my own miserable fortune that lies in wait to entrap and disappoint me at every turn in life.  Tell me what do you know of the Callonbys?”

“Nothing personally; we have met them at dinner, a visit passed subsequently between us, ‘et voila tout;’ they have been scenery hunting, picture hunting, and all that sort of thing since their arrival; and rarely much in Munich; but how do you stand there? to be or not to be—­eh?”