essful to-night.

"By Jove, I _am_ savage!" said the other, setting his teeth, "and I
know enough of your ways to teach you different behaviour. The parson
has treated me like a gentleman--like what I used to be, though he
don't like me; but you!--By Jove! It was only my own name I signed,
after all," he continued, after a pause, lowering his voice; "but you,
you blackleg--"

"Stop a little," said the Curate, rising up. "Though you seem both to
have forgotten it, this is my room. I don't mean to have any
altercations here. I have taken you in for the sake of your--family,"
said Mr Wentworth, with a momentary gasp, "and you have come because
you are my brother. I don't deny any natural claims upon me; but I am
master of my own house and my own leisure. Get up, Jack, and tell me
what you want. When I understand what it is, you can lounge at your
will; but in the mean time get up and explain: and as for you,
Wodehouse--"

Jack Wentworth faced round on his sofa, and then, with a kind of
involuntary motion, slid his feet to the ground. He looked at his
brother with extreme amazement as he closed his novel and tossed away
the end of his cigar. "It's much better not to mention names," he
said, in a half-apologetic way. "Our friend here is under a temporary
cloud. His name, in fact, is--Smith, I think." But as he spoke he sat
upright, a little startled to find that Frank, whom he remembered only
as a lad, was no longer to be coerced and concussed. As for the other,
he came forward with the alacrity of a man who began to see some hope.

"By Jove, my name _is_ Wodehouse, though," he said, in the argumentative
tone which seemed habitual to him; his voice came low and grumbling
through his beard. He was not of the class of triumphant sinners,
whatever wickedness he might be capable of. To tell the truth, he had
long, long ago fallen out of the butterfly stage of dissipation, and had
now to be the doer of dirty work, despised and hustled about by such men
as Jack Wentworth. The wages of sin had long been bitter enough, though
he had neither any hope of freeing himself, nor any wish to do so; but
he took up a grumbling tone of self-assertion as soon as he had an
opening. "The parson treats me like a gentleman--like what I used to
be," he repeated, coming into the light, and drawing a chair towards the
table. "My name is Wodehouse--it's my own name that I have signed after
all, by Jove!" said the unlucky prodigal. It seemed to giv