Once upon a time, many years before this story begins, a certain lady said, and indeed swore with an oath, that Lord Mapledurham had promised to marry her, and claimed ten thousand pounds as damages for the breach of that promise. Lord Mapledurham said his memory was treacherous about such things, and he never contradicted a lady on a question of fact: but the amount which his society was worth seemed fairly open to difference of opinion, and he asked a jury of his countrymen to value it. This cause cÉlÈbre, for such it was in its day, did not improve Lord Mapledurham’s reputation, but, on the other hand, it made Mr. Blodwell’s. That gentleman reduced the damages to one thousand, and Lord Mapledurham said that his cross-examination of the plaintiff was quite worth the money. Since then, the two had been friends, and Mr. Blodwell prided himself greatly on his intimacy with such an exclusive person as the Marquis. George enjoyed his surprise at the announcement that they would meet that evening at the dinner-party.

“Why the dickens does he ask you?”

“Upon my honour, I don’t know.”

“It will destroy the last of your reputation.”

“Oh, not if you are there, sir.”

When George arrived at Lord Mapledurham’s, he found nobody except his host and Mr. Blodwell.

“I must apologize for having nobody to meet you, Mr. Neston, except an old friend. I asked young Vane—whose insolence amuses me,—and Fitzderham, but they couldn’t come.”

“Three’s a good number,” said Mr. Blodwell.

“If they’re three men. But two men and a woman, or two women and a man—awful!”

“Well, we are men, though George is a young one.”

“I don’t feel very young,” said George, smiling, as they sat down.

“I am fifty-five,” said the Marquis, “and I feel younger every day,—not in body, you know, for I’m chockful of ailments; but in mind. I am growing out of all the responsibilities of this world.”

“And of the next?” asked Blodwell.

“In the next everything is arranged for us, pleasantly or otherwise. As to this one, no one expects anything more of me—no work, no good deeds, no career, no nothing. It’s a delicious freedom.”

“You never felt your bonds much.”

“No; but they were there, and every now and then they dragged on my feet.”

“Your view of old age is comforting,” said George.

“Only, George, if you want to realize it, you must not marry,” said Mr. Blodwell.

“No, no,” said the Marquis. “By the way, Blodwell, why did you never marry?”

“Too poor, till too late,” said Mr. Blodwell, briefly.

The Marquis raised his glass, and seemed to drink a respectful toast to a dead romance.

“And you, Lord Mapledurham?” George ventured to ask.

“Ay, ask him!” said Mr. Blodwell. “Perhaps his reason will be less sadly commonplace.”

“I don’t know,” said the Marquis, pondering. “Some of them expected it, and that disgusted me. And some of them didn’t, and that disgusted me too.”

“You put the other sex into rather a difficult position,” remarked George, laughing.

“Nothing to what they’ve put me into. Eh, Blodwell?”

“Now, tell me, Mapledurham,” said Mr. Blodwell, who was in a serious mood to-night. “On the whole, have you enjoyed your life?”

“I have wasted opportunities, talents, substance—everything: and enjoyed it confoundedly. I am no use even as a warning.”

“Ask a parson,” said Mr. Blodwell, dryly.

“I remember,” the Marquis went on, dreamily, “an old ruffian—another old ruffian—saying just the same sort of thing one night. I was at Liverpool for the Cup. Well, in the evening, I got tired of the other fellows, and went out for a turn; and down a back street, I found an old chap sitting on a doorstep,—a dirty old fellow, but uncommonly picturesque, with a long grey beard. As I came by, he was just trying to get up, but he staggered and fell back again.”

“Drunk?” asked Mr. Blodwell.

The Marquis nodded. “I gave him a hand, and asked if I could do anything for him. ‘Yes, give me a drink,’ says he. I told him he was drunk already, but he said that made no odds, so I helped him to the nearest gin-palace.”

“Behold this cynic’s unacknowledged kindnesses!” said Mr. Blodwell.

“Sat him down in a chair, and gave him liquor.

“‘Do you enjoy getting drunk?’ I asked him, just as you asked me if I had enjoyed life.

“His drink didn’t interfere with his tongue, it only seemed to take him in the legs. He put down his glass, and made me a little speech.

“‘Liquor,’ says he, ‘has been my curse; it’s broken up my home, spoilt my work, destroyed my character, sent me and mine to gaol and shame. God bless liquor! say I.’

“I told him he was an old beast, much as you, Blodwell, told me I was, in a politer way. He only grinned, and said, ‘If you’re a gentleman, you’ll see me home. Lying in the gutter costs five shillings, next morning, and I haven’t got it.’

“‘All right,’ said I; and after another glass we started out. He knew the way, and led me through a lot of filthy places to one of the meanest dens I ever saw. A red-faced, red-armed, red-voiced (you know what I mean) woman opened the door, and let fly a cloud of Billingsgate at him. The old chap treated her with lofty courtesy.

“‘Quite true, Mrs. Bort,’ says he; ‘you’re always right: I have ruined myself.’

“‘And yer darter!’ shrieked the woman.

“‘And my daughter. And I am drunk now, and hope to be drunk to-morrow.’

“‘Ah! you old beast!’ said she, just as I had, shaking her fist.

“He turned round to me, and said, ‘I am obliged to you, sir. I don’t know your name.’

“‘You wouldn’t be better off if you did,’ says I. ‘You couldn’t drink it.’

“‘Will you give me a sovereign?’ he asked. ‘A week’s joy, sir,—a week’s joy and life.’

“‘Give it me,’ said the woman, ‘then me and she’ll get something to eat, to keep us alive.’

“I’m a benevolent man at bottom, Mr. Neston, as Blodwell remarks. I said,

“‘Here’s a sovereign for you and her’ (I supposed she meant the daughter) ‘to help in keeping you alive; and here’s a sovereign for you, sir, to help in killing you—and the sooner the better, say I.’

“‘You’re right,’ said he. ‘The liquor’s beginning to lose its taste. And when that’s gone, Luke Gale’s gone!’”

“Luke who?” burst from the two men.

Lord Mapledurham looked up. “What’s the matter? Gale, I think. I found out afterwards that the old animal had painted water-colours—the only thing he had to do with water.”

“The Lord hath delivered her into your hand,” said Mr. Blodwell to George.

“Are you drunk too, Blodwell?” asked the Marquis.

“No; but——”

“What was the woman’s name?” asked George, taking out a note-book.

“Bort. Going to tell me?”

“Well, if you don’t mind——”

“Not a bit. Tell me later on, if it’s amusing. There are so precious few amusing things.”

“You didn’t see the daughter, did you?”

“Oh, of course it’s the daughter! No.”

“Did you ever know a man named Witt?”

“Never; but, Mr. Neston, I have heard of a Mrs. Witt. Now, Blodwell, either out with it, or shut up and let’s talk of something else.”

“The latter, please,” said Mr. Blodwell, urbanely.

And the Marquis, who had out-grown the vanity of desiring to know everything, made no effort to recur to the subject. Only, as George took his leave, he received a piece of advice, together with a cordial invitation to come again.

“Excuse me, Mr. Neston,” said the Marquis. “I fancy I have given you some involuntary assistance to-night.”

“I hope so. I shall know in a day or two.”

“To like to be right, Mr. Neston, is the last weakness of a wise man; to like to be thought right is the inveterate prejudice of fools.”

“That last is a hard saying, my lord,” said George, with a laugh.

“It really depends mostly on your income,” answered the Marquis. “Good-night, Mr. Neston.”

George said good-night, and walked off, shrugging his shoulders at the thought that even so acute a man as Lord Mapledurham seemed unable to appreciate his position.

“They all want me to drop it,” he mused. “Well, I will, unless——! But to-morrow I’ll go to Liverpool.”

He was restless and excited. Home and bed seemed unacceptable, and he turned into the Themis Club, whence the machinations of the enemy had not yet ejected him. There, extended on a sofa and smoking a cigar, he found Sidmouth Vane.

“Why didn’t you come to Lord Mapledurham’s, Vane?” asked George.

“Oh, have you been there? I was dining with my chief. I didn’t know you knew Mapledurham.”

“I met him yesterday for the first time.”

“He’s a queer old sinner,” said Vane. “But have you heard the news?”

“No. Is there any?”

“Tommy Myles has got engaged.”

George started. He had a presentiment of the name of the lady.

“Pull yourself together, my dear boy,” continued Vane. “Bear it like a man.”

“Don’t be an ass, Vane. I suppose it’s Miss Bourne?”

Vane nodded. “It would really be amusing,” he said, “if you’d tell me honestly how you feel. But, of course, you won’t. You’ve begun already to look as if you’d never heard of Miss Bourne.”

“Bosh!” said George.

“Now, I always wonder why fellows do that. When I’ve been refused by a girl, and——”

“I beg your pardon,” said George. “I haven’t been refused by Miss Bourne.”

“Well, you would have been, you know. It comes to the same thing.”

George laughed. “I dare say I should; but I never meant to expose myself to such a fate.”

“George, my friend, do you think you’re speaking the truth?”

“I am speaking the truth.”

“Not a bit of it,” responded Vane, calmly. “A couple of months ago you meant to ask her; and, what’s more, she’d have had you.”

George was dimly conscious that this might be so.

“It isn’t my moral,” Vane went on.

“Your moral?”

“No. I took it from the Bull’s-eye.”

George groaned.

“They announce the marriage to-night, and add that they have reason to believe that the engagement has come about largely through the joint interest of the parties in l’affaire Neston.”

“I should say they are unusually accurate.”

“Meaning thereby, to those who have eyes, that she’s jilted you because of your goings-on, and taken up with Tommy. In consequence, you are to-night ‘pointing a moral and adorning a tale.’”

“The devil!”

“Yes, not very soothing, is it? But so it is. I looked in at Mrs. Pocklington’s, and they were all talking about it.”

“The Pocklingtons were?”

“Yes. And they asked me——”

“Who asked you?”

“Oh, Violet Fitzderham and Laura Pocklington,—if it was the fact that you were in love with Miss Bourne.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said it was matter of notoriety.”

“Confound your gossip! There’s not a word of truth in it.”

“I didn’t say there was. I said it was a matter of notoriety. So it was.”

“And did they believe it?”

“Did who believe it?” asked Vane, smiling slightly.

“Oh, Miss Pocklington, and—and the other girl.”

“Yes, Miss Pocklington and the other girl, I think, believed it.”

“What did they say?”

“The other girl said it served you right.”

“And——?”

“And Miss Pocklington said it was time for some music.”

“Upon my soul, it’s too bad!”

“My dear fellow, you know you were in love with her—in your fishlike kind of way. Only you’ve forgotten it. One does forget it when——”

“Well?” asked George.

“When one’s in love with another girl. Ah, George, you can’t escape my eagle eye! I saw your game, and I did you a kindness.”

George thought it no use trying to keep his secret. “That’s your idea of a kindness, is it?”

“Certainly. I’ve made her jealous.”

“Really,” said George, haughtily, “I think this discussion of ladies’ feelings is hardly in good taste.”

“Quite right, old man,” answered Vane, imperturbably. “It’s lucky that didn’t strike you before you’d heard all you wanted to.”

“I say, Vane,” said George, leaning forward, “did she seem——”

“Miss Pocklington, or the other girl?”

“Oh, damn the other girl! Did she, Vane, old boy?”

“Yes, she did, a little, George, old boy.”

“I’m a fool,” said George.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Vane, tolerantly. “I’m always a fool myself about these things.”

“I must go and see them to-morrow. No, I can’t go to-morrow; I have to go out of town.”

“Ah! where?”

“Liverpool, on business.”

“Liverpool, on business! Dear me! I’ll tell you another odd thing, George,—a coincidence.”

“Well?”

“You’re going to Liverpool to-morrow on business. Well, to-day, Mrs. Witt went to Liverpool on business.”

“The devil!” said George, for the second time.