a very strange and irregular life,
travelling from place to place, and must have spent already a great deal
of money."

"Apropos of money," said Mrs. Mervale; "I fear we must change our
butcher; he is certainly in league with the cook."

"That is a pity; his beef is remarkably fine. These London servants are
as bad as the Carbonari. But, as I was saying, poor Glyndon--"

Here a knock was heard at the door. "Bless me," said Mrs. Mervale, "it
is past ten! Who can that possibly be?"

"Perhaps your uncle, the admiral," said the husband, with a slight
peevishness in his accent. "He generally favours us about this hour."

"I hope, my love, that none of my relations are unwelcome visitors at
your house. The admiral is a most entertaining man, and his fortune is
entirely at his own disposal."

"No one I respect more," said Mr. Mervale, with emphasis.

The servant threw open the door, and announced Mr. Glyndon.

"Mr. Glyndon!--what an extraordinary--" exclaimed Mrs. Mervale; but
before she could conclude the sentence, Glyndon was in the room.

The two friends greeted each other with all the warmth of early
recollection and long absence. An appropriate and proud presentation
to Mrs. Mervale ensued; and Mrs. Mervale, with a dignified smile, and
a furtive glance at his boots, bade her husband's friend welcome to
England.

Glyndon was greatly altered since Mervale had seen him last. Though
less than two years had elapsed since then, his fair complexion was more
bronzed and manly. Deep lines of care, or thought, or dissipation, had
replaced the smooth contour of happy youth. To a manner once gentle
and polished had succeeded a certain recklessness of mien, tone, and
bearing, which bespoke the habits of a society that cared little for the
calm decorums of conventional ease. Still a kind of wild nobleness, not
before apparent in him, characterised his aspect, and gave something of
dignity to the freedom of his language and gestures.

"So, then, you are settled, Mervale,--I need not ask you if you are
happy. Worth, sense, wealth, character, and so fair a companion deserve
happiness, and command it."

"Would you like some tea, Mr. Glyndon?" asked Mrs. Mervale, kindly.

"Thank you,--no. I propose a more convivial stimulus to my old friend.
Wine, Mervale,--wine, eh!--or a bowl of old English punch. Your wife
will excuse us,--we will make a night of it!"

Mrs. Mervale drew back her chair, and tried not to look aghast. Glyndo