ance was like a debt
which, unrequited ere I died, sent me to my grave dishonored. Which
of you all could tell me how to endure this? What shape could your
philosophy assume?"

"Then I guessed aright," broke in Harcourt. "This was done in
vengeance."

"I have no reckoning to render you, sir," said Glencore, haughtily; "for
any confidence of mine, you are more indebted to my passion than to my
inclination. I came up here to speak and confer with you about this boy,
whose guardianship you are unable to continue longer. Let us speak of
that."

"Yes," said Harcourt, in his habitual tone of easy good humor, "they
are going to send me out to India again. I have had eighteen years of
it already; but I have no Parliamentary influence, nor could I trace a
fortieth cousinship with the House of Lords; but, after all, it might be
worse. Now, as to this lad, what if I were to take him out with me?
This artist life that he seems to have adopted scarcely promises much."

"Let me see Upton's letter," said Glencore, gravely.

"There it is. But I must warn you that the really important part is
wanting; for instead of sending us, as he promised, the communication
of his Russian Princess, he has stuffed in a mass of papers intended for
Downing Street, and a lot of doctor's prescriptions, for whose loss he
is doubtless suffering martyrdom."

"Is this credible?" cried Glencore.

"There they are, very eloquent about sulphur, and certain refugees with
long names, and with some curious hints about Spanish flies and the
flesh-brush."

Glencore flung down the papers in indignation, and walked up and down
the room without speaking.

"I'd wager a trifle," cried Harcourt, "that Madame--What 's-her-name's
letter has gone to the Foreign Office in lien of the despatches; and, if
so, they have certainly gained most by the whole transaction."

"You have scarcely considered, perhaps, what publicity may thus be given
to my private affairs," said Glencore. "Who knows what this woman may
have said; what allusions her letter may contain?"

"Very true; I never did think of that," muttered Harcourt.

"Who knows what circumstances of my private history are now bandied
about from desk to desk by flippant fools, to be disseminated afterwards
over Europe by every courier?" cried he, with increasing passion.

Before Harcourt could reply, the servant entered, and whispered a few
words in his ear. "But you already denied me," said Harcourt. "You told