The house was darkened, and a coach was in front of it.

“Yessir,” said the footman, “Miss Manners has been quite ill.  She is now some better, and Dr. James is with her.  Mrs. Manners begs company will excuse her.”

And Mr. Marmaduke?  The man said, with as near a grin as he ever got, that the marster was gone to Mrs. Cornelys’s assembly.  As I turned away, sick at heart, the physician, in his tie-wig and scarlet cloak, came out, and I stopped him.  He was a testy man, and struck the stone an impatient blow with his staff.

“’Od’s life, sir.  I am besieged day and night by you young gentlemen.  I begin to think of sending a daily card to Almack’s.”

“Sir, I am an old friend of Miss Manners,” I replied, “having grown up with her in Maryland—­”

“Are you Mr. Carvel?” he demanded abruptly, taking his hat from his arm.

“Yes,” I answered, surprised.  In the gleam of the portico lanthorn he scrutinized me for several seconds.

“There are some troubles of the mind which are beyond the power of physic to remedy, Mr. Carvel,” said he.  “She has mentioned your name, sir, and you are to judge of my meaning.  Your most obedient, sir.  Good night, sir.”

And he got into his coach, leaving me standing where I was, bewildered.

That same fear of being alone, which has driven many a man to his cups, sent me back to Brooks’s for company.  I found Fox and Comyn seated at a table in the corner of the drawing-room, for once not playing, but talking earnestly.  Their expressions when they saw me betrayed what my own face must have been.

“What is it?” cried Comyn, half rising; “is she—­is she—­”

“No, she is better,” I said.

He looked relieved.

“You must have frightened him badly, Jack,” said Fox.

I flung myself into a chair, and Fox proposed whist, something unusual for him.  Comyn called for cards, and was about to go in search of a fourth, when we all three caught sight of the Duke of Chartersea in the door, surveying the room with a cold leisure.  His eye paused when in line with us, and we were seized with astonishment to behold him making in our direction.

“Squints!” exclaimed Mr. Fox, “now what the devil can the hound want?”

“To pull your nose for sending him to market,” my Lord suggested.

Fox laughed coolly.

“Lay you twenty he doesn’t, Jack,” he said.

His Grace plainly had some business with us, and I hoped he was coming to force the fighting.  The pieces had ceased to rattle on the round mahogany table, and every head in the room seemed turned our way, for the Covent Garden story was well known.  Chartersea laid his hand on the back of our fourth chair, greeted us with some ceremony, and said something which, under the circumstances, was almost unheard of in that day:  “If you stand in need of one, gentlemen, I should deem it an honour.”