oint, he became
aware of his remaining boot, of which, with unimpaired solemnity he
proceeded to divest himself; shaking his head with exceeding gravity
all the time, and sighing deeply.

'These rubbers,' said Mr Swiveller, putting on his nightcap in exactly
the same style as he wore his hat, 'remind me of the matrimonial
fireside. Cheggs's wife plays cribbage; all-fours likewise. She rings
the changes on 'em now. From sport to sport they hurry her to banish
her regrets, and when they win a smile from her, they think that she
forgets--but she don't. By this time, I should say,' added Richard,
getting his left cheek into profile, and looking complacently at the
reflection of a very little scrap of whisker in the looking-glass; 'by
this time, I should say, the iron has entered into her soul. It serves
her right!'

Melting from this stern and obdurate, into the tender and pathetic
mood, Mr Swiveller groaned a little, walked wildly up and down, and
even made a show of tearing his hair, which, however, he thought better
of, and wrenched the tassel from his nightcap instead. At last,
undressing himself with a gloomy resolution, he got into bed.

Some men in his blighted position would have taken to drinking; but as
Mr Swiveller had taken to that before, he only took, on receiving the
news that Sophy Wackles was lost to him for ever, to playing the flute;
thinking after mature consideration that it was a good, sound, dismal
occupation, not only in unison with his own sad thoughts, but
calculated to awaken a fellow-feeling in the bosoms of his neighbours.
In pursuance of this resolution, he now drew a little table to his
bedside, and arranging the light and a small oblong music-book to the
best advantage, took his flute from its box, and began to play most
mournfully.

The air was 'Away with melancholy'--a composition, which, when it is
played very slowly on the flute, in bed, with the further disadvantage
of being performed by a gentleman but imperfectly acquainted with the
instrument, who repeats one note a great many times before he can find
the next, has not a lively effect. Yet, for half the night, or more,
Mr Swiveller, lying sometimes on his back with his eyes upon the
ceiling, and sometimes half out of bed to correct himself by the book,
played this unhappy tune over and over again; never leaving off, save
for a minute or two at a time to take breath and soliloquise about the
Marchioness, and then beginning