me the tenant of Falcon's Nest--was a member of a well-known
London club, chiefly affected by literary men, and after his acceptance
of Lady Thurwell's invitation, he hastened there at once and went to his
room to dress. As a rule a man does not indulge in any very profound
meditation during the somewhat tedious process of changing his morning
clothes for the monotonous garb of Western civilization. His attention
is generally fully claimed by the satisfactory adjusting of his tie and
the precaution he has to use to avoid anything so lamentable as a crease
in his shirt, and if his thoughts stray at all, it is seldom beyond the
immediate matter of his toilet, or at most a little anticipation with
regard to the forthcoming evening. If on the right side of thirty, a
pair of bright eyes may sometimes make him pause for a moment, even with
the hair brushes in his hands, to wonder if she will be there to-night,
and if by any fortunate chance he will be able to take her in to dinner.
And if the reign of the forties has commenced, it is just possible that
a little mild speculation as to the _entrees_ may be admitted. But, as a
rule, a man's thoughts do not on such an occasion strike deep beneath
the surface, and there is no record of an author having laid the plan of
his next work, or a soldier having marked out a campaign, while
struggling with a refractory tie, or obstinate parting. Even if such had
ever happened to be the case, we should not have cared to hear about it.
We prefer to think of a Napoleon planning great conquests in the serene
stillness of night among a sleeping camp and beneath a starlit sky, or
of a Wordsworth writing his poetry in his cottage home among the
mountains.

But Mr. Bernard Maddison, before he left his room that evening, had come
to a great decision--a decision which made his step the firmer, and
which asserted itself in the carriage of his head and the increased
brightness of his eyes, as he slowly descended the wide, luxurious
staircase. And he felt calmer, even happier, from having at least passed
from amid the shoals of doubt and uncertainty. The slight nervousness
had quite left him. He was still more than ordinarily pale, and there
was a look of calm resignation in his thoughtful aesthetic face which
gave to its intellectuality a touch of spirituality. One of the members
of the club said, later on in the smoking room, that Maddison seemed to
him to realize one's idea of St. Augustine in evenin