id Classon, shivering, as he emptied the gin
into his glass.

"I think you 've had enough already," said Grog, rudely, as he flung
both tumbler and its contents out of the window. "Go, have a wash, and
make yourself a little decent-looking; one would imagine, to see you,
you had passed your night in the 'lock-up'!"

"When you see me next, you 'll fancy I 'm an archdeacon." So saying, and
guiding himself by the chairs, Paul Classon left the room.

With a quiet step, and firm, neither "overtaken" by liquor nor fatigued
by the night's debauch, Davis hastened to his chamber. So long as he was
occupied with the cares of dressing, his features betrayed no unusual
anxiety; he did, indeed, endeavor to attire himself with more than
ordinary care; and one cravat after another did he fling on the floor,
where a number of embroidered vests were already lying. At length the
toilet was completed, and Grog surveyed himself in the large glass, and
was satisfied. He knew he didn't look like Annesley Beecher and that
"lot," still less did he resemble the old "swells" of Brookes's and
the Carlton; but he thought there was something military, something
sporting,--a dash of the "nag," with "Newmarket,"--about him, that might
pass muster anywhere! "At all events, Lizzy won't be ashamed of me,"
muttered he to himself. "Poor, poor Lizzy!" added he, in a broken tone;
and he sank down into a chair, and leaned his head on the table.

A gentle tap came to the door. "Come in," said he, without raising his
head; and she entered.

As the rich robe of silk rustled across the floor, he never raised his
head; nor even when, bending over, she threw an arm around his neck and
kissed his forehead, did he stir or move.

"I want you to look at me, dearest papa," said she, softly.

"My poor Lizzy,--my own dear Lizzy!" murmured he, half indistinctly;
then, starting suddenly up, he cried aloud, "Good heavens! is it worth
all this--"

"No, indeed, papa," burst she in; "it is _not_--it is _not_ worth it!"

"What do you mean?" asked he, abruptly. "What were you thinking of?"

"It was _your_ thoughts I was following out," said she, drearily.

"How handsome,--how beautiful you are, girl!" exclaimed he, as, holding
both her hands, he surveyed her at full length. "Is this Brussels lace?"

She nodded assent

"And what do you call these buttons?"

"They are opals."

"How it all becomes you, girl! I'd never like to see you less smartly
dressed! And now.