ble must perish ingloriously. He knew,
too, how, for very shame's sake, they would screen one of themselves,
and by a hundred devices seem to contradict before the world what they
lament over behind its back; and, lastly, he knew well that he had
always a title and a lineage to bestow, and that the peerage was the
great prize among the daughters of men.

Now, latterly, he had been pushing prerogative somewhat too far. He
had won large sums from young men not out of their teens; he had been
associated in play transactions with names less than reputable; and,
finally, having backed a stable to an immense amount at Newmarket, had
levanted on the day of his losing. He had done the act deliberately and
calmly. It was a coup which, if successful, replaced him in credit and
affluence; if a failure, it only confirmed the wavering judgment of his
set, and left him to shift for the future in a different sphere; for,
while a disgraced viscount is very bad company for viscounts, he is
often a very welcome guest amongst that amiably innocent class who think
the privileges of the aristocracy include bad morals with blue ribbons.

The Turf could now no longer be a career with him. Ecarte and lansquenet
were almost as much out of the question. Billiards, as Sir Walter said
of literature, "might be a walking-stick, but never a crutch." There
was, then, nothing left for it but marriage. A rich heiress was his last
coup; and as, in all likelihood, the thing could not be done twice, it
required geat circumspection.

In England this were easy enough. The manufacturing districts were grown
ambitious. Cotton lords were desirous of a more recognized nobility,
and millowners could be found ready to buy a coronet at the cost of half
their fortune. But from England late events had banished him, and with a
most damaged reputation.

Now, carrying nobility to the Continent was like bringing coals to
Newcastle, the whole length and breadth of the land being covered with
counts, barons, dukes, and princes; and although English nobility stands
on a different footing, there was no distinguishing the "real article"
amid this mass of counterfeit.

Every Frenchman of small fortune was an emigre count. Every German, of
none, was sure to be a baron. All Poles, unwashed, uncombed, and uncared
for, were of the very cream of the aristocracy; and as for Italians!
it was a nation of princes, with their uncles all cardinals. To be a
viscount in such company w