arred his appearance; while
his natural good-humor lapsed too frequently into the lamentations of
an idle man that Providence neglected him or that his creditors were too
attentive.

It happens, however, that it is rather his circumstances than his person
which concern this history. And, briefly, these were something in
this sort. Born a poor relation and guided by no strong hand, he had
gradually seen himself, as Reverend uncles and Right Honorable cousins
died off, approach nearer and nearer to the ancient barony of Tulliwuddle
(created 1475 in the peerage of Scotland), until this year he had
actually succeeded to it. But after his first delight in this piece of
good fortune had subsided he began to realize in himself two notable
deficiencies very clearly, the lack of money, and more vaguely, the
want of any preparation for filling the shoes of a stately courtier
and famous Highland chieftain. He would often, and with considerable
feeling, declare that any ordinary peer he could easily have become, but
that being old Tulliwuddle's heir, by Gad! he didn't half like the job.

At present he was being tolerated or befriended by a small circle of
acquaintances, and rapidly becoming a familiar figure to three or four
tailors and half a dozen door-keepers at the stage entrances to divers
Metropolitan theatres. In the circle of acquaintances, the humorous
sagacity of Essington struck him as the most astonishing thing he had
ever known. He felt, in fact, much like a village youth watching his
first conjuring performance, and while the whim lasted (a period which
Essington put down as probably six weeks) he would have gone the length
of paying a bill or ordering a tie on his recommendation alone.

To-night the distinguished appearance and genial conversation of
Essington's friend impressed him more than ever with the advantages of
knowing so remarkable a personage. A second bottle succeeded the first,
and a third the second, the cordiality of the dinner growing all the
while, till at last his lordship had laid aside the last traces of his
national suspicion of even the most charming strangers.

"I say, Essington," he said, "I had meant to tell you about a devilish
delicate dilemma I'm in. I want your advice."

"You have it," interrupted his host. "Give her a five-pound note, see
that she burns your letters, and introduce her to another fellow."

"But--er--that wasn't the thing----"

"Tell him you'll pay in six months, an