your charming pictures, which you must
be sure to leave me when you go"; and finally, protesting that she dared
not spoil the absurdest houseful of madmen in the whole of London,
departed (as she vaguely phrased it) for the continent of Europe.

She was no sooner gone than Somerset encountered in the corridor the
Irish nurse; sober, to all appearance, and yet a prey to singularly
strong emotion. It was made to appear, from her account, that Mr. Jones
had already suffered acutely in his health from Mrs. Luxmore's visit,
and that nothing short of a full explanation could allay the invalid's
uneasiness. Somerset, somewhat staring, told what he thought fit of the
affair.

"Is that all?" cried the woman. "As God sees you, is that all?"

"My good woman," said the young man, "I have no idea what you can be
driving at. Suppose the lady were my friend's wife, suppose she were my
fairy godmother, suppose she were the Queen of Portugal; and how should
that affect yourself or Mr. Jones?"

"Blessed Mary!" cried the nurse, "it's he that will be glad to hear it!"

And immediately she fled upstairs.

Somerset, on his part, returned to the dining-room, and, with a very
thoughtful brow and ruminating many theories, disposed of the remainder
of the bottle. It was port; and port is a wine, sole among its equals
and superiors, that can in some degree support the competition of
tobacco. Sipping, smoking, and theorising, Somerset moved on from
suspicion to suspicion, from resolve to resolve, still growing braver
and rosier as the bottle ebbed. He was a sceptic, none prouder of the
name; he had no horror at command, whether for crimes or vices, but
beheld and embraced the world, with an immoral approbation, the frequent
consequence of youth and health. At the same time, he felt convinced
that he dwelt under the same roof with secret malefactors; and the
unregenerate instinct of the chase impelled him to severity. The bottle
had run low; the summer sun had finally withdrawn; and at the same
moment, night and the pangs of hunger recalled him from his dreams.

He went forth, and dined in the Criterion: a dinner in consonance, not
so much with his purse, as with the admirable wine he had discussed.
What with one thing and another, it was long past midnight when he
returned home. A cab was at the door; and entering the hall, Somerset
found himself face to face with one of the most regular of the few who
visited Mr. Jones: a man of powerful