nd the absurdity of it is more than I can face.

"Why did I ever come here? What induced me ever to put foot in a land
where the very natives do not know their own customs, and where all is
permitted and nothing is tolerated? It is too late to ask you to come
and see me through this troublesome affair; and indeed my present
vacillation is whether to marry the young lady or run away bodily; for I
own to you I am afraid--heartily afraid--to fight a man that might be my
grandfather; and I can't bear to give the mettlesome old fellow the fun
of shooting at me for nothing. And worse--a thousand times worse than
all this,--Alice will have such a laugh at me! Ay, Carlo, here is the
sum of my affliction.

"I must close this, as I shall have to look out for some one long of
stride and quick of eye, to handle me on the ground. Meanwhile, order
dinner for two on Saturday week, for I mean to be with you; and,
therefore, say nothing of those affairs which interest us, _ultra
montant_. I write by this post to M'C. to meet me as I pass through
Dublin; and, of course, the fellow will want money. I shall therefore
draw on Cipriani for whatever is necessary, and you must be prepared to
tell him the outlay was indispensable. I have done nothing, absolutely
nothing, here,--neither seduced man nor woman, and am bringing back to
the cause nothing greater or more telling than

"Norman Maitland."

CHAPTER XXIV. A STARLIT NIGHT IN A GARDEN

It was late at night, verging indeed on morning, when Maitland finished
his letter. All was silent around, and in the great house the lights
were extinguished, and apparently all retired to rest. Lighting his
cigar, he strolled out into the garden. The air was perfectly still; and
although there was no moon, the sky was spangled over with stars, whose
size seemed greater seen through the thin frosty atmosphere. It was
pre-eminently the bright clear elastic night of a northern latitude, and
the man of pleasure in a thousand shapes, the voluptuary, the _viveur_,
was still able to taste the exquisite enjoyment of such an hour,
as though his appetite for pleasure bad not been palled by all the
artifices of a life of luxury. He strolled about at random from alley to
alley, now stopping to inhale the rich odor of some half-sleeping plant,
now loitering at some old fountain, and bathing his temples with the
ice-cold water. He was one of those men--it is not so small a category
as it might seem--who fancy t