sual; but, in the course of a half-hour, the
luck turned and favoured my Lord March, who was at first very surly when
Mr. Draper, Mr. Warrington's man of business, came bowing into the room,
where he accepted Harry's invitation to sit and drink. Mr. Warrington
always asked everybody to sit and drink, and partake of his best. Had he
a crust, he would divide it; had he a haunch, he would share it; had
he a jug of water, he would drink about with a kindly spirit; had he a
bottle of Burgundy, it was gaily drunk with a thirsty friend. And don't
fancy the virtue is common. You read of it in books, my dear sir, and
fancy that you have it yourself because you give six dinners of twenty
people and pay your acquaintance all round; but the welcome, the
friendly spirit, the kindly heart? Believe me, these are rare qualities
in our selfish world. We may bring them with us from the country when we
are young, but they mostly wither after transplantation, and droop and
perish in the stifling London air.

Draper did not care for wine very much, but it delighted the lawyer to
be in the company of a great man. He protested that he liked nothing
better than to see piquet played by two consummate players and men of
fashion; and, taking a seat, undismayed by the sidelong scowls of his
lordship, surveyed the game between the gentlemen. Harry was not near
a match for the experienced player of the London clubs. To-night, too,
Lord March held better cards to aid his skill.

What their stakes were was no business of Mr. Draper's. The gentlemen
said they would play for shillings, and afterwards counted up their
gains and losses, with scarce any talking, and that in an undertone. A
bow on both sides, a perfectly grave and polite manner on the part of
each, and the game went on.

But it was destined to a second interruption, which brought an
execration from Lord March's lips. First was heard a scuffling
without--then a whispering--then an outcry as of a woman in tears,
and then, finally, a female rushed into the room, and produced that
explosion of naughty language from Lord March.

"I wish your women would take some other time for coming, confound 'em,"
says my lord, laying his cards down in a pet.

"What, Mrs. Betty!" cried Harry.

Indeed it was no other than Mrs. Betty, Lady Maria's maid; and Gumbo
stood behind her, his fine countenance beslobbered with tears.

"What has happened?" asks Mr. Warrington, in no little perturbation of
spirit.