toilet; but as he did so,
he recruited his energies from time to time by a few pages of the
French novel, and also by small doses from a bottle of curacoa which
he had in his bedroom. He was utterly a pauper. There was no pauper
poorer than he in London that day. But, nevertheless, he breakfasted
on pate de foie gras and curacoa, and regarded those dainties very
much as other men regard bread and cheese and beer.

But though he was dressing at the summons of his aunt, he had by no
means made up his mind that he would go to her. Why should he go to
her? What good would it do him? She would not give him more money.
She would only scold him for his misconduct. She might, perhaps, turn
him out of the house if he did not obey her,--or attempt to do so;
but she would be much more likely to do this when he had made her
angry by contradicting her. In neither case would he leave the house,
even though its further use were positively forbidden him, because
his remaining there was convenient; but as he could gain nothing by
seeing "the old girl," as he had called her, he resolved to escape to
his club without attending to her summons.

But his aunt, who was a better general than he, out-manoeuvred
him. He crept down the back stairs; but as he could not quite
condescend to escape through the area, he was forced to emerge upon
the hall, and here his aunt pounced upon him, coming out of the
breakfast-parlour. "Did not Lucy tell you that I wanted to see you?"
Lady Monk asked, with severity in her voice.

Burgo replied, with perfect ease, that he was going out just to
have his hair washed and brushed. He would have been back in twenty
minutes. There was no energy about the poor fellow, unless, perhaps,
when he was hunting; but he possessed a readiness which enabled him
to lie at a moment's notice with the most perfect ease. Lady Monk did
not believe him; but she could not confute him, and therefore she let
the lie pass.

"Never mind your hair now," she said. "I want to speak to you. Come
in here for a few minutes."

As there was no way of escape left to him, he followed his aunt into
the breakfast-parlour.

"Burgo," she said, when she had seated herself, and had made him
sit in a chair opposite to her, "I don't think you will ever do any
good."

"I don't much think I shall, aunt."

"What do you mean, then, to do with yourself?"

"Oh,--I don't know. I haven't thought much about it."

"You can't stay here in this house. Sir