is last
sovereign was all but gone. Not a tradesman would give him credit for
a coat or a pair of boots. The key of the door had been taken away
from him. The very page treated him with contumely. His clothes were
becoming rusty. There was no prospect of amusement for him during the
coming autumn or winter. He did not anticipate much excitement in
Eastern Prussia, but he thought that any change must be a change for
the better.

He assented, therefore, to the proposition made by Mr Broune, was duly
introduced to the Rev. Septimus Blake, and, as he spent his last
sovereign on a last dinner at the Beargarden, explained his intentions
for the immediate future to those friends at his club who would no
doubt mourn his departure.

Mr Blake and Mr Broune between them did not allow the grass to grow
under their feet. Before the end of August Sir Felix, with Mr and Mrs
Blake and the young Blakes, had embarked from Hull for Hamburg,--having
extracted at the very hour of parting a last five pound note from his
foolish mother. 'It will be just enough to bring him home,' said Mr
Broune with angry energy when he was told of this. But Lady Carbury,
who knew her son well, assured him that Felix would be restrained in
his expenditure by no such prudence as such a purpose would indicate.
'It will be gone,' she said, 'long before they reach their
destination.'

'Then why the deuce should you give it him?' said Mr Broune.

Mr Broune's anxiety had been so intense that he had paid half a year's
allowance in advance to Mr Blake out of his own pocket. Indeed, he had
paid various sums for Lady Carbury,--so that that unfortunate woman
would often tell herself that she was becoming subject to the great
editor, almost like a slave. He came to her, three or four times a
week, at about nine o'clock in the evening, and gave her instructions
as to all that she should do. 'I wouldn't write another novel if I
were you,' he said. This was hard, as the writing of novels was her
great ambition, and she had flattered herself that the one novel which
she had written was good. Mr Broune's own critic had declared it to be
very good in glowing language. The 'Evening Pulpit' had of course
abused it,--because it is the nature of the 'Evening Pulpit' to abuse.
So she had argued with herself, telling herself that the praise was
all true, whereas the censure had come from malice. After that article
in the 'Breakfast Table,' it did seem hard that Mr Broune should