most
melancholy visit. What could they converse about? Conversation, except
on the interdicted subject of Ferdinand's affairs, seemed quite a
mockery. At last, Ferdinand said, 'Dear Glastonbury, do not stay here;
it only makes us both unhappy. Send Louis with some clothes for me,
and some books. I will let you know before I leave this place. Upon
reflection, I shall not do so for two or three days, if I can stay as
long. See my lawyer; not that he will do anything; nor can I expect him;
but he may as well call and see me. Adieu, dear friend.'

Glastonbury was about to retire, when Ferdinand called him back. 'This
affair should be kept quiet,' he said. 'I told Louis to say I was out of
town in Brook-street. I should be sorry were Miss Temple to hear of it,
at least until after her marriage.'

Ferdinand was once more alone with the mirror, the loo-table, the
hard sofa, the caricatures which he hated even worse than his host's
portrait, the Hebrew Bible, and the Racing Calendar. It seemed a year
that he had been shut up in this apartment, instead of a day, he had
grown so familiar with every object. And yet the visit of Glastonbury
had been an event, and he could not refrain from pondering over it. A
spunging-house seemed such a strange, such an unnatural scene, for such
a character. Ferdinand recalled to his memory the tower at Armine, and
all its glades and groves, shining in the summer sun, and freshened
by the summer breeze. What a contrast to this dingy, confined, close
dungeon! And was it possible that he had ever wandered at will in that
fair scene with a companion fairer? Such thoughts might well drive a
man mad. With all his errors, and all his disposition at present not
to extenuate them, Ferdinand Armine could not refrain from esteeming
himself unlucky. Perhaps it is more distressing to believe ourselves
unfortunate, than to recognise ourselves as imprudent.

A fond mistress or a faithful friend, either of these are great
blessings; and whatever may be one's scrapes in life, either of these
may well be sources of consolation. Ferdinand had a fond mistress once,
and had Henrietta Temple loved him, why, he might struggle with all
these calamities; but that sweet dream was past. As for friends, he
had none, at least he thought not. Not that he had to complain of human
nature. He had experienced much kindness from mankind, and many were the
services he had received from kind acquaintances. With the recollection