h. He had forgotten all about his companion as he
hurried into the familiar room which was so little like itself, but
yet was somehow conscious with annoyance that the stranger followed
him through its half-shut door. The scene within was one which was
never effaced from Mr Wentworth's memory. There were several bottles
upon the table, which the poor Curate knew by sight, and which had
been collected in his little cellar more for the benefit of Wharfside
than of himself. Removed out of the current of air which was playing
freely through the apartment, was some one lying on a sofa, with
candles burning on a table beside him. He was in a dressing-gown, with
his shirt open at the throat, and his languid frame extended in
perfect repose to catch the refreshment of the breeze. Clouds of
languid smoke, which were too far out of the way to feel the draught
between the windows, curled over him: he had a cigar in one hand,
which he had just taken from his lips, and with which he was faintly
waving off a big night-moth which had been attracted by the lights;
and a French novel, unmistakable in its paper cover, had closed upon
the other. Altogether a more languid figure never lay at rest in
undisturbed possession of the most legitimate retirement. He had the
Wentworth hair, the golden-brown, which, like all their other family
features, even down to their illnesses, the race was proud of, and a
handsome silky beard. He had lived a hard life of pleasure and
punishment; but though he had reached middle age, there was not a hair
on the handsome reprobate's head which had changed out of its original
colour. He looked languidly up when the door opened, but did not stop
the delicate fence which he was carrying on against the moth, nor the
polyglot oaths which he was swearing at it softly half under his
breath.

"Frank, I suppose," he said, calmly, as the Curate came hastily
forward. "How d'ye do? I am very glad you've come back. The country
was very charming the first day, but that's a charm that doesn't last.
I suppose you've dined: or will you ring and order something?" he
said, turning slowly round on his sofa. "Accidente! the thing will
kill itself after all. Would you mind catching it in your handkerchief
before you sit down? But don't take away the candles. It's too late to
make any exertion," said the elegant prodigal, leaning back languidly
on his sofa; "but I assure you that light is half my life."

The Curate was tired, heate