emedy, Mr. Carvel," said he. "She has mentioned your name,
sir, and you are to judge of my meaning. Your most obedient, sir. Good
night, sir."

And he got into his coach, leaving me standing where I was, bewildered.

That same fear of being alone, which has driven many a man to his cups,
sent me back to Brooks's for company. I found Fox and Comyn seated at
a table in the corner of the drawing-room, for once not playing, but
talking earnestly. Their expressions when they saw me betrayed what my
own face must have been.

"What is it?" cried Comyn, half rising; "is she--is she--"

"No, she is better," I said.

He looked relieved.

"You must have frightened him badly, Jack," said Fox.

I flung myself into a chair, and Fox proposed whist, something unusual
for him. Comyn called for cards, and was about to go in search of a
fourth, when we all three caught sight of the Duke of Chartersea in the
door, surveying the room with a cold leisure. His eye paused when in
line with us, and we were seized with astonishment to behold him making
in our direction.

"Squints!" exclaimed Mr. Fox, "now what the devil can the hound want?"

"To pull your nose for sending him to market," my Lord suggested.

Fox laughed coolly.

"Lay you twenty he doesn't, Jack," he said.

His Grace plainly had some business with us, and I hoped he was coming
to force the fighting. The pieces had ceased to rattle on the round
mahogany table, and every head in the room seemed turned our way, for
the Covent Garden story was well known. Chartersea laid his hand on
the back of our fourth chair, greeted us with some ceremony, and said
something which, under the circumstances, was almost unheard of in
that day: "If you stand in need of one, gentlemen, I should deem it an
honour."

The situation had in it enough spice for all of us. We welcomed him with
alacrity. The cards were cut, and it fell to his Grace to deal, which
he did very prettily, despite his heavy hands. He drew Charles Fox, and
they won steadily. The conversation between deals was anywhere; on the
virtue of Morello cherries for the gout, to which his Grace was already
subject; on Mr. Fox's Ariel, and why he had not carried Sandwich's cup
at Newmarket; on the advisability of putting three-year-olds on the
track; in short, on a dozen small topics of the kind. At length, when
Comyn and I had lost some fifty pounds between us, Chartersea threw down
the cards.

"My coach waits to-night, gentl