putting it into the hands of another man who was
absolutely without conscience in the use he would make of it. He knew
that he was creating for himself trouble, and in all probability
loss, which he was ill able to bear. But the thing was one which came
within the pale of his laws. Such assistance as that he might ask of
others, and had asked and received before now. It was a reckless deed
on his part, but then all his doings were reckless. It was consonant
with his mode of life.

"I thought you would, old fellow," said Burgo, as he got up to go
away. "Perhaps, you know, I shall pull through in this; and perhaps,
after all, some part of her fortune will come with her. If so you'll
be all right."

"Perhaps I may. But look here, Burgo,--don't you give that fellow up
the bill till you've got the money into your fist."

"You may be quite easy about that. I know their tricks. He and I will
go to the bank together, and we shall squabble there at the door
about four or five odd sovereigns,--and at last I shall have to give
him up two or three. Beastly old robber! I declare I think he's worse
than I am myself." Then Burgo Fitzgerald took a little more brandy
and water and went away.

He was living at this time in the house of one of his relatives in
Cavendish Square, north of Oxford Street. His uncles and his aunts,
and all those who were his natural friends, had clung to him with a
tenacity that was surprising; for he had never been true to any of
them, and did not even pretend to like them. His father, with whom
for many years he had not been on speaking terms, was now dead; but
he had sisters whose husbands would still open their houses to him,
either in London or in the country;--would open their houses to him,
and lend him their horses, and provide him with every luxury which
the rich enjoy,--except ready money. When the uttermost stress of
pecuniary embarrassment would come upon him, they would pay something
to stave off the immediate evil. And so Burgo went on. Nobody now
thought of saying much to reproach him. It was known to be waste of
words, and trouble in vain. They were still fond of him because he
was beautiful and never vain of his beauty;--because in the midst
of his recklessness there was always about him a certain kindliness
which made him pleasant to those around him. He was soft and gracious
with children, and would be very courteous to his lady cousins. They
knew that as a man he was worthless, but nev