harley, my lad, no more
feats of this nature, if you love me. No girl's heart will stand such
continual assaults as your winning horsemanship submits it to."

I was about making some half-angry reply, when he continued: "There, don't
look sulky; I have news for you. Quill has just arrived. I met him at
Lisbon; he has got leave of absence for a few days, and is coming to our
masquerade here this evening."

"This evening!" said I, in amazement; "why, is it so soon?"

"Of course it is. Have you not got all your trappings ready? The Dashwoods
came out here on purpose to spend the day; but come, I'll drive you into
town. My tilbury is ready, and we'll both look out for our costumes." So
saying, he led me along towards the house, when, after a rapid change of my
toilet, we set out for Lisbon.

CHAPTER XVII.

MAURICE.

It seemed a conceded matter between Power and myself that we should never
recur to the conversation we held in the garden; and so, although we dined
_tete-a-tete_ that day, neither of us ventured, by any allusion the most
distant, to advert to what it was equally evident was uppermost in the
minds of both.

All our endeavors, therefore, to seem easy and unconcerned were in vain;
a restless anxiety to seem interested about things and persons we were
totally indifferent to, pervaded all our essays at conversation. By
degrees, we grew weary of the parts we were acting, and each relapsed
into a moody silence, thinking over his plans and projects, and totally
forgetting the existence of the other.

The decanter was passed across the table without speaking, a half nod
intimated the bottle was standing; and except an occasional malediction
upon an intractable cigar, nothing was heard.

Such was the agreeable occupation we were engaged in, when, towards nine
o'clock, the door opened, and the great Maurice himself stood before us.

"Pleasant fellows, upon my conscience, and jovial over their liquor!
Confound your smoking! That may do very well in a bivouac. Let us have
something warm!"

Quill's interruption was a most welcome one to both parties, and we
rejoiced with a sincere pleasure at his coming.

"What shall it be, Maurice? Port or sherry mulled, and an anchovy?"

"Or what say you to a bowl of bishop?" said I.

"Hurrah for the Church, Charley! Let us have the bishop; and not to
disparage Fred's taste, we'll be eating the anchovy while the liquor's
concocting."

"Well, Maurice, and now for