ould vouchsafe him a smile, or a parting word of
consolation. But her enthusiasm of the morning was quite died out, or she
chose to be in a different mood. She fell to joking about the dowdy
appearance of Lady Betty, and mimicked the vulgarity of Mrs. Steele; and
then she put up her little hand to her mouth and yawned, lighted a taper,
and shrugged her shoulders, and dropping Mr. Esmond a saucy curtsy, sailed
off to bed.

"The day began so well, Henry, that I had hoped it might have ended
better," was all the consolation that poor Esmond's fond mistress could
give him; and as he trudged home through the dark alone, he thought, with
bitter rage in his heart, and a feeling of almost revolt against the
sacrifice he had made:--"She would have me," thought he, "had I but a name
to give her. But for my promise to her father, I might have my rank and my
mistress too."

I suppose a man's vanity is stronger than any other passion in him; for I
blush, even now, as I recall the humiliation of those distant days, the
memory of which still smarts, though the fever of baulked desire has
passed away more than a score of years ago. When the writer's descendants
come to read this memoir, I wonder will they have lived to experience a
similar defeat and shame? Will they ever have knelt to a woman, who has
listened to them, and played with them, and laughed at them--who beckoning
them with lures and caresses, and with Yes, smiling from her eyes, has
tricked them on to their knees, and turned her back and left them? All
this shame Mr. Esmond had to undergo; and he submitted, and revolted, and
presently came crouching back for more.

After this _feste_, my young Lord Ashburnham's coach was for ever rolling
in and out of Kensington Square; his lady-mother came to visit Esmond's
mistress, and at every assembly in the town, wherever the maid of honour
made her appearance, you might be pretty sure to see the young gentleman
in a new suit every week, and decked out in all the finery that his tailor
or embroiderer could furnish for him. My lord was for ever paying Mr.
Esmond compliments, bidding him to dinner, offering him horses to ride,
and giving him a thousand uncouth marks of respect and goodwill. At last,
one night at the coffee-house, whither my lord came considerably flushed
and excited with drink, he rushes up to Mr. Esmond, and cries out--"Give me
joy, my dearest colonel; I am the happiest of men."

"The happiest of men needs no deare