experience and knowledge of mankind, which made him
mistrust them, and himself most of all, and which perhaps was the bar
to his own advancement. My Lady Castlewood, a woman of the world, wore
always a bland mask, and received Mr. George with perfect civility,
and welcomed him to lose as many guineas as he liked at her ladyship's
card-tables. Between Mr. William and the Virginian brothers there never
was any love lost; but, as for Lady Maria, though her love affair was
over, she had no rancour; she professed for her cousins a very
great regard and affection, a part of which the young gentlemen very
gratefully returned. She was charmed to hear of Harry's valour in the
campaign; she was delighted with George's success at the theatre; she
was for ever going to the play, and had all the favourite passages of
Carpezan by heart. One day, as Mr. George and Miss Theo were taking a
sentimental walk in Kensington Gardens, whom should they light upon
but their cousin Maria in company with a gentleman in a smart suit and
handsome laced hat, and who should the gentleman be but his Majesty
King Louis of Hungary, Mr. Hagan? He saluted the party, and left them
presently. Lady Maria had only just happened to meet him. Mr. Hagan came
sometimes, he said, for quiet, to study his parts in Kensington Gardens,
and George and the two ladies walked together to Lord Castlewood's door
in Kensington Square, Lady Maria uttering a thousand compliments to Theo
upon her good looks, upon her virtue, upon her future happiness, upon
her papa and mamma, upon her destined husband, upon her paduasoy cloak
and dear little feet and shoe-buckles.

Harry happened to come to London that evening, and slept at his
accustomed quarters. When George appeared at breakfast, the Captain
was already in the room (the custom of that day was to call all army
gentlemen Captains), and looking at the letters on the breakfast-table.

"Why, George," he cries, "there is a letter from Maria!"

"Little boy bring it from Common Garden last night--Master George
asleep," says Gumbo.

"What can it be about?" asks Harry, as George peruses his letter with a
queer expression of face.

"About my play, to be sure," George answers, tearing up the paper, and
still wearing his queer look.

"What, she is not writing love-letters to you, is she, Georgy?"

"No, certainly not to me," replies the other. But he spoke no word more
about the letter; and when at dinner in Dean Street Mrs. Lamber