ody
but his tailor and his hair-dresser. I think that, in his way, he did
grieve for the child who was gone, and who, had he lived, would have
been the intended heir of his title and property. They must now all go
from him to his enemies! And the things themselves were to himself of
so very little value! Living alone at Scumberg's was not a pleasant
life. Even going out in his brougham at nights was not very pleasant to
him. He could do as he liked at Como, and people wouldn't grumble;--but
what was there even at Como that he really liked to do? He had a half
worn out taste for scenery which he had no longer energy to gratify by
variation. It had been the resolution of his life to live without
control, and now, at four and forty, he found that the life he had
chosen was utterly without attraction. He had been quite in earnest in
those regrets as to shooting, hunting, and the duties of an English
country life. Though he was free from remorse, not believing in
anything good, still he was open to a conviction that had he done what
other people call good, he would have done better for himself.
Something of envy stirred him as he read the records of a nobleman
whose political life had left him no moment of leisure for his private
affairs;--something of envy when he heard of another whose cattle were
the fattest in the land. He was connected with Lord Grassangrains, and
had always despised that well-known breeder of bullocks;--but he could
understand now that Lord Grassangrains should wish to live, whereas
life to him was almost unbearable. Lord Grassangrains probably had a
good appetite.

On the last morning of his sojourn at Scumberg's he received two or
three letters which he would willingly have avoided by running away had
it been possible. The first he opened was from his old mother, who had
not herself troubled him much with letters for some years past. It was
as follows:--

"DEAREST BROTHERTON,--I have heard about poor Popenjoy, and I am
so unhappy. Darling little fellow. We are all very wretched here,
and I have nearly cried my eyes out. I hope you won't go away
without seeing me. If you'll let me, I'll go up to London, though
I haven't been there for I don't know how long. But perhaps you
will come here to your own house. I do so wish you would.

"Your most affectionate mother,

"H. BROTHERTON.

"P.S.--Pray don't turn George out at the end of the month."

This he a