venteen years' purchase, in the
present aspect of politics. Love to Jane and the girls, and
believe me ever yours,

Charles Frobisher.

The task completed, he turned to the morning papers, which, with a
mass of tradesmen's bills, notes, and cards of invitation, littered the
table. He had not read long, when a deep-drawn yawn from the further end
of the room aroused him, and Frobisher arose and walked towards a sofa,
on which was stretched a man somewhat about the middle of life, but
whose bright eye and fresh complexion showed little touch of time. His
dress, slightly disordered, was a dinner costume, and rather inclined
towards over-particularity; at least, the jewelled buttons of his vest
and shirt evinced a taste for display that seemed not ill to consort
with the easy effrontery of his look.

Taking his watch from his pocket, he held it to his ear, saying, "There
is an accomplishment, Charley, I 've never been able to acquire,--to
wind my watch at supper-time. What hour is it?"

"Two," said the other, laconically.

"By Jove! how I must have slept Have you been to bed?"

"Of course. But, I 'd swear, with less success than you have had on that
old sofa. I scarcely closed my eyes for ten minutes together."

"That downy sleep only comes of a good conscience and a heart at ease
with itself," said the other. "You young gentlemen, who lead bad lives,
know very little about the balmy repose of the tranquil mind."

"Have you forgotten that you were to ride out with Lady Cecilia this
morning?" said Frobisher, abruptly.

"Not a bit of it. I even dreamed we were cantering together along the
sands, where I was amusing her ladyship with some choice _morceaux_ of
scandal from that set in society she professes to hold in such horror
that she will not receive them at court, but for whose daily sayings and
doings she has the keenest zest."

"Foster is gone with her," rejoined Lord Charles, "and I suspect she is
just as well pleased. Before this he has told her everything about our
late sitting, and the play, and the rest of it!"

"Of course he has; and she is dying to ask Mr. Softly, the young
chaplain's advice, whether rooting us all out would not be a 'good
work.'"

"Since when have you become so squeamish about card-playing, Mr.
Linton?"

"I? Not in the least! I 'm only afraid that some of my friends may
turn to be so when they hear of my successes. You know what happened to
Wycherley when he got th