e is that of a predestined octogenarian."

"Nay," answered Audley, "I was but uttering one of those vague
generalities which are common upon all mortal lips. And now farewell,--I
must see this baron."

"Not yet, until you have promised to consent to my proposal, and be
once more member for Lansmere. Tut! don't shake your head. I cannot be
denied. I claim your promise in right of our friendship, and shall be
seriously hurt if you even pause to reflect on it."

"Well, well, I know not how to refuse you, Harley; but you have not been
to Lansmere yourself since--since that sad event. You must not revive
the old wound,--you must not go; and--and, I own it, Harley, the
remembrance of it pains even me. I would rather not go to Lansmere."

"Ah, my friend, this is an excess of sympathy, and I cannot listen to
it. I begin even to blame my own weakness, and to feel that we have no
right to make ourselves the soft slaves of the past."

"You do appear to me of late to have changed," cried Egerton, suddenly,
and with a brightening aspect. "Do tell me that you are happy in the
contemplation of your new ties,--that I shall live to see you once more
restored to your former self."

"All I can answer, Audley," said L'Estrange, with a thoughtful brow,
"is, that you are right in one thing,--I am changed; and I am struggling
to gain strength for duty and for honour. Adieu! I shall tell my father
that you accede to our wishes."

CHAPTER VI.

When Harley was gone, Egerton sunk back on his chair, as if in extreme
physical or mental exhaustion, all the lines of his countenance relaxed
and jaded.

"To go back to that place--there--there--where--Courage, courage! what
is another pang?"

He rose with an effort, and folding his arms tightly across his breast,
paced slowly to and fro the large, mournful, solitary room. Gradually
his countenance assumed its usual cold and austere composure,--the
secret eye, the guarded lip, the haughty, collected front. The man of
the world was himself once more.

"Now to gain time, and to baffle the usurer," murmured Egerton, with
that low tone of easy scorn, which bespoke consciousness of superior
power and the familiar mastery over hostile natures. He rang the bell:
the servant entered.

"Is Baron Levy still waiting?"

"Yes, sir."

"Admit him." Levy entered.

"I beg your pardon, Levy," said the ex-minister, "for having so long
detained you. I am now at your commands."

"My dear fellow,"