s
was the only person who admired him nearly as much as he did himself.
Like the old Romans, _partem et circenses_ constituted his list of
indispensables; and had it been inevitable to dispense with one of them
for a time, Reginald would have resigned the bread rather than the game.
On this particular morning, his basket of grievances was full. The
damp had put his moustache out of curl; he had found a poor breakfast
provided for him--and Reginald was by no means indifferent to his
breakfast--and, worst of all, the mirror was fixed so high up on the
wall that he could not see himself comfortably. The usual religious
rites of the morning before his own dear image had, therefore, to be
very imperfectly performed. Reginald grumbled sorely within himself as
he went through the cold stone passages which led to the Earl's chamber.

His master lifted very sad eyes to his face.

"De Echingham, I wish to set out for Ashridge to-morrow. Can you be
ready?"

Ashridge! De Echingham would as soon have received marching orders for
Spitzbergen. If there were one place in the world which he hated in his
inmost soul, it was that Priory in Buckinghamshire, which Earl Edmund
had himself founded. He would be worse off there than even in
Bermondsey Palace, with nothing around him but silent walls and almost
equally silent monks. De Echingham ventured on remonstrance.

"Would not your Lordship find Berkhamsted much more pleasurable,
especially at this season?"

"I do not want pleasure," answered the Earl wearily. "I want rest."

And he rose and began to walk aimlessly up and down the room, in that
restless manner which was well suited to emphasise his words.

"But--your Lordship's pardon granted--would you not find it far better
to seek for distraction and pleasance in the Court, than to shut
yourself up in a gloomy cell with those monks?"

Earl Edmund stopped in his walk and looked at Reginald, whose speech
touched his quick sense of humour.

"I would advise you to give thanks in your prayers to-night, De
Echingham."

"For what, my Lord?"

"That you have as yet no conception of a sorrow which is past
distraction by pleasance. `Vinegar upon nitre!' You never tasted it, I
should think."

"I thank your Lordship, I never did," said Reginald, who took the
allusion quite literally.

"Well, I have done, and I did not like it," rejoined his master. "I
prefer the monks' _soupe maigre_, if you please. Be so good as to mak