table with Melcomb. There also he met a man, in the smallness of whose
stakes and the desperation of his play, Sinson read ruin. He paid the
gambler assiduous court.

Lewis Everope had inherited a moderate patrimony, and lived as if it
were inexhaustible. He had been to a university, only to squander his
money, and to obtain no distinction. Confident in his abilities, he
never gave them fair play. He seemed to think that intuition could
supply the place of information. He rarely finished a book--did he not
know what the author was about to say? Thus his knowledge was of
little value, because it was never complete. Every hour a new Cynthia
attracted his attention. He did almost everything by halfs, and
therefore few things well. Desultory men are not often men of
principle, and he was not one of the exceptions. He was fond of
society, and too careless to avoid its temptations. Very soon he
learned the difficulty of saying "No."

His career was much the same, when he quitted the university with a
very ignoble degree, and entered an inn of court and a pleader's
chambers, in the idea of being admitted to the forum. He became
immersed in gay company; enjoyed, like Alfieri when an ensign in the
Asti militia, the greatest possible liberty of doing nothing, which
was precisely the one thing he was determined to do; in spite of the
remonstrances of his friends, continually postponed his call to the
bar; and in point of fact never was called.

So the years sped by in idleness, and Everope's resources dwindled and
dwindled. At little over forty he was without means, and without a
profession. He still hung about the inns of court, pitied by the
charitable, despised by the worldly wise. His naturally sanguine
temper lent him a certain gaiety of heart, which made him popular with
some; and as he never plagued people with his embarrassments, he was
still able to find companions. He had been one of Travers's early
pupils, and he occasionally looked in at his chambers even yet,
although it must be owned very far from a welcome guest.

But he had reached the end of his tether. One might fancy him going
wistfully round and round, straining his chain to nibble at some
distasteful weed, eagerly pursuing any waif or stray wafted within his
circle by the wind, not yet showing his straits by the poorness of his
coat, still able to raise a laugh by some eccentricity, but with the
lustre of his eyes sadly dimmed, and the confidence of his be