favour of another. Let him personally despise the former,
and esteem the latter; and let him, above all, be convinced as well as
persuaded of the truth of Vincent's remark, viz. that no sacrifice
of principle, nor of measures, was required--nothing but an alliance
against men, not measures. And who were those men? bound to me by a
single tie--meriting from my gratitude a single consideration? No! the
men, above all others, who had offered me the greatest affront, and
deserved from me the smallest esteem.

But, however human feelings might induce me to waver, I felt that it was
not by them only I was to decide. I am not a man whose vices or virtues
are regulated by the impulse and passion of the moment; if I am quick
to act, I am habitually slow to deliberate. I turned to Vincent, and
pressed his hand: "I dare not trust myself to answer you now," said
I: "give me till to-morrow; I shall then have both considered and
determined."

I did not wait for his reply. I sprung from him, turned down the passage
which leads to Pall Mall, and hastened home once more to commune with my
own heart, and--not to be still.

In these confessions I have made no scruple of owning my errors and my
foibles; all that could occasion mirth, or benefit to the reader were
his own. I have kept a veil over the darker and stormier emotions of my
soul; all that could neither amuse nor instruct him, are mine!

Hours passed on--it became time to dress--I rung for Bedos--dressed with
my usual elaborateness of pains--great emotions interfere little with
the mechanical operations of life--and drove to Guloseton's.

He was unusually entertaining; the dinner too was unusually good; but,
thinking that I was sufficiently intimate with my host not to be obliged
to belie my feelings, I remained distrait, absent, and dull.

"What is the matter with you, my friend?" said the good natured epicure;
"you have neither applauded my jokes, nor tasted my escallopes; and your
behaviour has trifled alike with my chevreuil, and my feelings." The
proverb is right, in saying "Grief is communicative." I confess that I
was eager to unbosom myself to one upon whose confidence I could depend.
Guloseton heard me with great attention and interest--"Little," said he,
kindly, "little as I care for these matters myself, I can feel for those
who do: I wish I could serve you better than by advice. However, you
cannot, I imagine, hesitate to accept Vincent's offer. What matters it