en door of the
dining-room--and passed straight on to the carriage. "I shan't wait,
Regina!" he shouted, from the doorstep. "Let him go by himself!" said
Amelius indignantly, as Regina hurried into the room. "Oh, hush, hush,
dear! Suppose he heard you? No week shall pass without my writing to
you; promise you will write back, Amelius. One more kiss! Oh, my dear!"
The servant interposed, keeping discreetly out of sight. "I beg your
pardon, miss, my master wishes to know whether you are going with him or
not." Regina waited to hear no more. She gave her lover a farewell look
to remember her by, and ran out.

That innate depravity which Amelius had lately discovered in his own
nature, let the forbidden thoughts loose in him again as he watched the
departing carriage from the door. "If poor little Sally had been in her
place--!" He made an effort of virtuous resolution, and stopped there.
"What a blackguard a man may be," he penitently reflected, "without
suspecting it himself!"

He descended the house-steps. The discreet servant wished him good
morning, with a certain cheery respect--the man was delighted to have
seen the last of his hard master for some months to come. Amelius
stopped and turned round, smiling grimly. He was in such a reckless
humour, that he was even ready to divert his mind by astonishing a
footman. "Richard," he said, "are you engaged to be married?" Richard
stared in blank surprise at the strange question--and modestly admitted
that he was engaged to marry the housemaid next door. "Soon?" asked
Amelius, swinging his stick. "As soon as I have saved a little more
money, sir." "Damn the money!" cried Amelius--and struck his stick on
the pavement, and walked away with a last look at the house as if he
hated the sight of it. Richard watched the departing young gentleman,
and shook his head ominously as he shut the door.

CHAPTER 2

Amelius went straight back to the cottage, with the one desperate
purpose of reverting to the old plan, and burying himself in his books.
Surveying his well-filled shelves with an impatience unworthy of a
scholar, Hume's "History of England" unhappily caught his eye. He took
down the first volume. In less than half an hour he discovered that
Hume could do nothing for him. Wisely inspired, he turned to the truer
history next, which men call fiction. The writings of the one supreme
genius, who soars above all other novelists as Shakespeare soars above
all other dramatists