Let us turn one moment to another Christmas. A far more splendid table was that around which the guests were seated. Glittering glass and silver adorned it, and the company was a courtly and distinguished one.

Sir Gervais Vyner sat surrounded with his friends, happy in the escape from late calamity, and brilliant in all the glow of recovered buoyancy and spirits. Nor were the ladies of the house less disposed to enjoyment. The world was again about to dawn upon them in rosy sunshine, and they hailed its coming with true delight.

Not one of all these was, however, happier than Mr. M’Kinlay. The occasion represented to his mind something very little short of Elysium. To be ministered to by a French cook, in the midst of a distinguished company who paid him honour, was Paradise itself. To feel that while his baser wants were luxuriously provided for, all his intellectual sallies—small and humble as they were—were met with a hearty acceptance—was a very intoxicating sensation. Thus, as with half-closed eyes he slowly drew in his Burgundy, his ears drew in, not less ecstatically, such words: “How well said!” “How neatly put!” “Have you heard Mr. M’Kinlay’s last?” or, better than all, Sir Gervais himself “repeating him,” endorsing, as it were, the little bill he was drawing on Fame!

In happiness only inferior to this, Mr. Grenfell sat opposite him. Grenfell was at last where he had striven for years to be. The haughty “women,” who used to look so coldly on him in the Park, now smiled graciously when he talked, and vouchsafed towards him a manner positively cordial. Georgina had said: “I almost feel as if we were old friends, Mr. Grenfell, hearing of you so constantly from my brother;” and then little playful recognitions of his humour or his taste would be let fall, as “Of course you will say this, or think that?” all showing how well his nature had been understood, and his very influence felt, years before he was personally known.

These are real flatteries; they are the sort of delicate incense which regale sensitive organisations long palled to grosser worship. Your thorough man of the world does not want to be “praised;” he asks to be “understood,” because, in his intense self-love, he believes that such means more than praise. It is the delicate appreciation of himself he asks for, that you should know what wealth there is in him, even though he has no mind to display it.

He was an adept in the art of insinuation; besides that, he knew “every one.” And these are the really amusing people of society, infinitely more so than those who know “everything.” For all purposes of engaging attention there is no theme like humanity. Look at it as long and closely as you will, and you will see that in this great game we call “Life” no two players play alike. The first move or two may be the same, and then, all is different.

There was a third guest; he sat next Lady Vyner, in the place of honour. With a wig, the last triumph of Parisian skill, and a delicate bloom upon his cheek no peach could rival, Sir Within sat glittering in diamond studs and opal buttons, and his grand cross of the Bath. He was finer than the Épergne! and the waxlights twinkled and sparkled on him as though he were frosted silver and filigree. His eyes had their lustre too—uneasy, fitful brightness—as though the brain that ministered to them worked with moments of intermission; but more significantly painful than all was the little meaningless smile that sat upon his mouth, and never changed, whether he spoke or listened.

He had told some pointless, rambling story about an Archduchess and a Court jeweller and a celebrated Jew banker, which none could follow or fathom; and simperingly finished by assuring them that all other versions were incorrect. And there was a pause—a very painful silence that lasted above a minute. Very awful such moments are, when, in the midst of our laughter and our cheer, a terrible warning would seem to whisper to our hearts that all was not joy or gladness there! and that Decay, perhaps Death, was at the board amongst them.

Grenfell, with the hardihood that became him, tried to rally the company, and told the story of the last current scandal, the card-cheating adventure, in which young Ladarelle was mixed up. “They’ve given him five years at the galleys, I see, Sir Within,” said he; “and, I remember, you often predicted some such finish to his career.”

“Yes,” smiled the old man, tapping his jewelled snuff-box—“yes, you are quite right, Mr. Grenfell—quite right.”

“He goes off to Toulon this very day,” resumed Grenfell.

“He was a charmant garÇon,” said the old man, with another smile; “and will be an acquisition to any society he enters.”

To the first provocative to laughter this mistake excited, there quickly succeeded a far sadder, darker sentiment, and Lady Vyner arose, and the party retired to the drawing-room.

“I think our dining-room was most uncomfortably warm to-day, Sir Within,” said Georgina; “come and see if this little salon here with the open window is not very refreshing after it.” And Sir Within bowed and followed her.

“What do you call that, Sir?” whispered M’Kinlay to Grenfell, as they stood taking their coffee at a window. “He has just turned the corner; he has been so long loitering about. The head is gone now, and, I suppose, gone for ever.”

“My position,” whispered M’Kinlay again, “is a very painful one; he sent to me this morning about a codicil he wants executed.”

“Does he intend to make me his heir?” asked the other, laughing. “I opine not, Sir. It is of that girl—Miss Luttrell, they pretend to call her now—he was thinking; but really he is not in that state the law requires.”

“The disposing mind—-eh?”

“Just so, Sir. I could not bring myself to face a cross-examination on the subject.”

“Very proper on your part; proper and prudent, both.” “You see, Sir, the very servants noticed the way he was in to-day. Harris actually passed him twice without giving him Hock; he saw his state.”

“Cruel condition, when the very flunkeys feel for one!” “I thought at the time what evidence Harris would give—I did, indeed, Sir. No solicitor of rank in the profession could lend himself to such a proceeding.”

“Don’t do it, then,” said Grenfell, bluntly.

“Ah! it’s very well saying don’t do it, Mr. Grenfell, but it’s not so easy when you have to explain to your client why you ‘wont do it.’”

Grenfell lit a cigarette, and smoked on without reply. “It was finding myself in this difficulty,” continued M’Kinlay, “I thought I’d apply to you.”

“To me! And why, in Heaven’s name, to me?” “Simply, Sir, as Sir Within’s most intimate friend—the person, of all others, most likely to enjoy his confidence.”

“That may be true enough in one sense,” said Grenfell, evidently liking the flattery of the position attributed to him; “but though we are, as you observe, on the most intimate terms with each other, I give you my solemn word of honour he never so much as hinted to me that he was going mad.”

Mr. M’Kinlay turned angrily away; such levity was, he felt, unbecoming and misplaced, nor was he altogether easy in his mind as to the use a man so unscrupulous and indelicate might make of a privileged communication. While he stood thus irresolute, Grenfell came over to him, and, laying a finger on his arm, said:

“I’ll tell you who’ll manage this matter for you better—infinitely better—than either of us; Miss Courtenay.”

“Miss Courtenay!” repeated “the lawyer, with astonishment.

“Yes, Miss Courtenay. You have only to see, by the refined attention she bestows on him, how thoroughly she understands the break-up that has come upon his mind; her watchful anxiety to screen him from any awkward exposure; how carefully she smoothes down the little difficulties he occasionally finds at catching the clue of any theme. She sees what he is coming to, and would evidently like to spare him the pain of seeing it while his consciousness yet remains.”

“I almost think I have remarked that. I really believe you are right. And what could she do—I mean, what could I ask her to do—in this case?”

“Whatever you were about to ask me! I’m sure I’m not very clear what that was, whether to urge upon Sir Within the inexpediency of giving away a large portion of his fortune to a stranger, or the impropriety of falling into idiocy and the hands of Commissioners in Lunacy.”

Again was Mr. M’Kinlay driven to the limit of his temper, but he saw, or thought he saw, that this man’s levity was his nature, and must be borne with.

“And you advise my consulting Miss Courtenay upon it?”

“I know of none so capable to give good counsel; and here she comes. She has deposited the old man in that easy-chair for a doze, I fancy. Strange enough, the faculties that do nothing occasionally stand in need of rest and repose!”

Miss Courtenay, after consigning Sir Within to the comforts of a deep arm-chair, turned again into the garden. There was the first quarter of a clear sharp moon in the sky, and the season, though mid-winter, was mild and genial, like spring. Mr. M’Kinlay was not sorry to have received this piece of advice from Grrenfell. There was a little suit of his own he wanted to press, and, by a lucky chance, he could now do so, while affecting to be engaged by other interests. Down the steps he hastened at once, and came up with her as she stood at the little balustrade over the sea. Had he been a fine observer, or had he even had the common tact of those who frequent women’s society, he would have seen that she was not pleased to have been followed, and that it was her humour to be alone, and with her own thoughts. To his little commonplaces about the lovely night and the perfumed air, she merely muttered an indistinct assent. He tried a higher strain, and enlisted the stars and the moon, but she only answered with a dry “Yes, very bright.”

“Very few more of such exquisite nights are to fall to my lot, Miss Georgina,” said he, sighing. “A day or two more must see me plodding my weary way north’ard, over the Mont Cenis pass.”

“I wonder you don’t go by Marseilles, or by the Cornich,” said she, carelessly, as though the route itself was the point at issue.

“What matters the road which leads me away from where I have been so—happy?” He was going to say “blest;” but he had not been blessed, and he was too technically honest to misdirect in his brief. No rejoinder of any kind followed on this declaration. He paused, and asked himself, “What next? Is the Court with me?” Oh! what stores of law lore, what wealth of Crown cases reserved, what arguments in Banco, would he not have given, at that moment, for a little insight into that cunning labyrinth, a woman’s heart! Willingly would he have bartered the craft it had taken years to accumulate for that small knowledge of the sex your raw AttachÉ or rawer Ensign seem to have as a birthright. “I am too abrupt,” thought he. “I must make my approaches more patiently—more insidiously. I’ll mask my attack, and begin with Sir Within.”

“I have been plotting all day, Miss Courtenay,” said he, in a calmer tone, “how to get speech of you. I am in great want of your wise counsel and kindly assistance. May I indulge the hope that they will not be denied me?”

“Let me learn something of the cause, Sir, in which they are to be exercised.”

“One for which you feel interested; so much I can at least assure you. Indeed,” added he, with a more rhetorical flourish of manner, “it is a case that would enlist the kindly sympathies of every generous heart.”

“Yes, yes—I understand; a poor family—a distressed tradesman—a sick wife—ailing children. Don’t tell me any details; they are always the same—always painful. I will subscribe, of course. I only wonder how you chanced upon them. But never mind; count on me, Mr. M’Kinlay: pray do.”

She was turning impatiently away, when he followed, and said, “You have totally misapprehended me, Miss Courtenay. It was not of a poor person I was thinking at all. It was of a very rich one. I was about to bespeak your interest for Sir Within Wardle.”

“For Sir Within Wardle! What do you mean, Sir?” said she, in a voice tremulous with feeling, and with a flush on her cheek, which, in the faint light, fortunately Mr. M’Kinlay failed to remark.

“Yes, Miss Courtenay. It is of him I have come to speak. It is possible I might not have taken this liberty, but in a recent conversation I have held with Mr. Grenfell, he assured me that you, of all others, were the person to whom I ought to address myself.”

“Indeed, Sir,” said she, with a stern, cold manner. “May I ask what led your friend to this conclusion?”

“The great friendship felt by this family for Sir Within, the sincere interest taken by all in his welfare,” said he, hurriedly and confusedly, for her tone had alarmed him, without his knowing why or for what.

“Go on, Sir; finish what you have begun.”

“I was going to mention to you, Miss Courtenay,” resumed he, in a most confidential voice, “that Sir Within had sent for me to his room yesterday morning, to confer with him on certain matters touching his property. I was not aware before what a large amount was at his disposal, nor how free he was to burden the landed estate, for it seems that his life-interest was the result of a certain family compact. But I ask your pardon for details that can only weary you.”

“On the contrary, M’Kinlay, it is a subject you have already made as interesting as a novel. Pray go on.”

And he did go on; not the less diffusely that she gave him the closest attention, and showed, by an occasional shrewd or pertinent question, with what interest she listened. We are not to suppose the reader as eager for these details, however, and we skip them altogether, merely arriving at that point of the narrative where Mr. M’Kinlay recounted the various provisions in Sir Within’s last will, and the desire expressed by him to append a codicil.

“He wants, my dear Miss Courtenay,” said he, warming with his theme—“he wants to make a sort of provision for this girl he called his ward—Miss Luttrell, he styles her; a project, of course, to which I have no right to offer objection, unless proposed in the manner in which I heard it, and maintained on such grounds as Sir Within was pleased to uphold it.”

“And what were these, pray?” said she, softly.

“It will tax your gravity if I tell you, Miss Courtenay,” said he, holding his handkerchief to his mouth, as though the temptation to laugh could not be repressed. “I assure you it tried me sorely when I heard him.”

“I have much control over my feelings, Sir. Go on.”

“You’ll scarce believe me, Miss Courtenay. I’m certain you’ll think me romancing.”

“I hope I form a very different estimate of your character, Sir.”

“‘Well,’ said he, ‘I should like you to make a codicil, to include a bequest to Miss Luttrell; because, in the event of my marrying’—don’t laugh, Miss Courtenay; on my honour he said it—‘in the event of my marrying, it would be more satisfactory that this matter were previously disposed of.’”

“Well, Sir!” said she; and, short as that speech was, it banished every mirthful emotion out of Mr. M’Kinlay’s heart, and sent a cold thrill through him.

“It was not the thought of providing for this young lady made me laugh, Miss Courtenay; far from it. I thought it laudable, very laudable; indeed, if certain stories were to be believed, Sir Within was only just, not generous. What amused me was the pretext, the possible event of his marrying. It was that which overcame me completely.”

“And to which, as you say, you offered strenuous objection?”

“No, Miss Conrtenay. No. Nothing of the kind. I objected to entertain the question of altering the will, accompanied as the request was by what I could not help regarding as symptoms of a wandering, incoherent intellect.”

“What do you mean, Sir? Do you intend to insinuate that Sir Within Wardle is insane? Is that your meaning?”

“I should certainly say his mind is verging on imbecility. I don’t think the opinion will be disputed by any one who sat at table with him to-day.”

“I declare, Sir, you amaze me!” cried she, in a voice of terror. “You amaze and you frighten me. Are there any others of us in whom you detect incipient madness? Did you remark any wildness in my sister’s eyes, or any traits of eccentricity in my mother’s manner? To common, vulgar apprehensions—to my brother’s and my own—Sir Within was most agreeable to-day. We thought him charming in those little reminiscences of a life where, be it remembered, the weapons are not the coarse armour of every-day society, but the polished courtesies that Kings and Princes deal in. I repeat, Sir, to our notions his anecdotes and illustrations were most interesting.”

Mr. M’Kinlay stood aghast. What could have brought down upon him this avalanche of indignation and eloquence? Surely in his remark on that old man’s imbecility he could not be supposed to insinuate anything against the sanity of the others! His first sensation was that of terror; his second was anger. He was offended—“sorely hurt,” he would have called it—to be told that in a matter of social usage, in what touched on conventionalities, he was not an efficient testimony.

“I am aware, fully aware, Miss Courtenay,” said he, gravely, “that Sir Within’s society is not my society; that neither our associations, our topics, or our ways of life, are alike; but, on a question which my professional opinion might determine—and such a question might well arise—I will say that there are few men at the English Bar would be listened to with more deference.”

“Fiddle-faddle, Sir! We have nothing to do with the Bar or Barristers, here. I have a great esteem for you—we all have—and I assure you I can give no better proof of it than by promising that I will entirely forget this conversation—every word of it.”

She waved her hand as she said “By-by!” and flitted rather than walked away, leaving Mr. M’Kinlay in a state of mingled shame and resentment that perfectly overwhelmed him.

For the honour of his gallantry I will not record the expressions with which he coupled her name; they were severe—they were even unprofessional; but he walked the garden alone till a late hour of the evening, and when Sir Gervais went at last in search of him, he refused to come in to tea, alleging much preoccupation of mind, and hinting that an urgent demand for his presence in London might possibly—he was not yet quite certain—oblige him to take a very hurried leave of his kind hosts.

In fact, Mr. M’Kinlay was in the act of determining with himself the propriety of a formal demand for Miss Courtenay in marriage, and endeavouring to make it appear that he “owed it to himself,” but, in reality, was almost indifferent as to the upshot. There are such self-delusions in the lives of very shrewd men when they come to deal with women, and in the toils of one of these we leave him.