punishment, at the discretion of the judge, would be
the probable result. But the Dean did not choose to add to his
daughter's discomfort by explaining this. "The chances are that this
wretched man is dying. No doubt his health is bad. How should the
health of such a man be good? But had he been so hurt as to die from
it, the doctor would have found something out long since. He may be
dying, but he is not dying from what I did to him." The Dean was
disturbed, but in his perturbation he remembered that if the man were
to die there would be nothing but that little alien Popenjoy between
his daughter and the title.

Lord George hurried up to town, and took a room for himself at an hotel
in Jermyn Street. He would not go to Scumberg's, as he did not wish to
mix his private life with that of his brother. That afternoon he went
across, and was told that his brother would see him at three o'clock
the next day. Then he interrogated Mrs. Walker as to his brother's
condition. Mrs. Walker knew nothing about it, except that the Marquis
lay in bed during the most of his time, and that Dr. Pullbody was there
every day. Now Dr. Pullbody was an eminent physician, and had the
Marquis been dying from an injury in his back an eminent surgeon would
have been required. Lord George dined at his club on a mutton chop and
a half a pint of sherry, and then found himself terribly dull. What
could he do with himself? Whither could he betake himself? So he walked
across Piccadilly and went to the old house in Berkeley Square.

He had certainly become very sick of the woman there. He had discussed
the matter with himself and had found out that he did not care one
straw for the woman. He had acknowledged to himself that she was a
flirt, a mass of affectation, and a liar. And yet he went to her house.
She would be soft to him and would flatter him, and the woman would
trouble herself to do so. She would make him welcome, and in spite of
his manifest neglect would try, for the hour, to make him comfortable.

He was shown up into the drawing-room and there he found Jack De Baron,
Guss Mildmay;--and Mr. Houghton, fast asleep. The host was wakened up
to bid him welcome, but was soon slumbering again. De Baron and Guss
Mildmay had been playing bagatelle,--or flirting in the back
drawing-room, and after a word or two returned to their game. "Ill is
he?" said Mrs. Houghton, speaking of the Marquis, "I suppose he has
never recovered from that terrible blow