h, although fast glazing, still
retained something of its keen, searching shrewdness.

"Now tell me, my good sir, how many hours more can you keep in
this--this breath?"

The doctor looked at Godolphin.

"I understand you," said Saville; "you are shy on these points. Never
be shy, my good fellow; it is inexcusable after twenty: besides, it is
a bad compliment to my nerves--a gentleman is prepared for every event.
Sir, it is only a roturier whom death, or anything else, takes by
surprise. How many hours, then, can I live?"

"Not many, I fear, sir: perhaps until daybreak."

"My day breaks about twelve o'clock, p.m.," said Saville, as drily as
his gasps would let him. "Very well;--give me the cordial;--don't let me
go to sleep--I don't want to be cheated out of a minute. So, so--! I
am better. You may withdraw, doctor. Let my spaniel come up. Bustle,
Bustle!--poor fellow! poor fellow! Lie down, sir! be quiet! And now,
Godolphin, a few words in farewell. I always liked you greatly; you know
you were my protege, and you have turned out well. You have not been led
away by the vulgar passions of politics, and place, and power. You have
had power over power itself; you have not office, but you have fashion.
You have made the greatest match in England; very prudently not marrying
Constance Vernon, very prudently marrying Lady Erpingham. You are at
the head and front of society; you have excellent taste, and spend your
wealth properly. All this must make your conscience clear--a wonderful
consolation! Always keep a sound conscience; it is a great blessing on
one's death-bed--it is a great blessing tome in this hour, for I have
played my part decently--eh?--I have enjoyed life, as much as so dull a
possession can be enjoyed; I have loved, gamed, drunk, but I have never
lost my character as a gentleman: thank Heaven, I have no remorse of
that sort! Follow my example to the last and you will die as easily. I
have left you my correspondence and my journal; you may publish them if
you like; if not, burn them. They are full of amusing anecdotes; but I
don't care for fame, as you well know--especially posthumous fame. Do as
you please then, with my literary remains. Take care of my dog--'tis
a good creature; and let me be quietly buried. No bad taste--no
ostentation--no epitaph. I am very glad I die before the d--d Revolution
that must come; I don't want to take wine with the Member for Holborn
Bars. I am a type of a system; I expi