'Poverty is a nuisance. I have admired dowerless girls in my day--do so still--but never go farther than mere admiration; so no girl of mine shall ever marry any man who cannot keep her in the style to which she has been accustomed. It was, perhaps, a foolish match Ida made with Beverley, though he had that snug place in the Midlands--or rather, the reversion of it when his father died; but now she is a widow--ha! ha! bless my soul, that I should be the father of a widow!--and with her natural attractions, enhanced by a handsome dowry, may yet be a peeress--who knows?' Jerry Vane, with silent rage swelling in his heart, glanced at Chute, as much as to say: 'How intolerable--how detestable--all this is!' 'She is a widow,' continued Sir Carnaby, eyeing fondly the ruby wine in his glass, as he held it between him and the lustre, with one eye closed for a moment, 'but with all her attractions, may perhaps remain so if she continues this horrible folly of unfathomable grief, and all that sort of thing.' 'It does honour to her heart!' sighed poor Jerry. 'She is becoming an enthusiast and a visionary. The girl's grief bores me, and times there are when I wish that you, friend Vane, may come to the rescue, after all.' A little smile flitted across the face of Vane as he merely bowed to this remark, which he cared not to follow, as he was doubtful whether it was the baronet or his wine that was talking now; but he glanced at Trevor Chute, and both rose to depart, thinking they had now quite enough of Sir Carnaby's 'hospitality.' But the latter, seized by a sudden access of friendship or familiarity, on finding that he could no longer prevail on them to remain, proposed, as the night was fine, and their ways lay together, to walk so far and enjoy a cigar. It was impossible to decline this: the 'weeds' were lit; Sir Carnaby took an arm of each--perhaps his steps were a little unsteady--and as they turned away towards Piccadilly, he began anew to sing the praises of Desmond, with the pertinacity with which wine will sometimes make a man recur again and again to the same subject. 'Good style of fellow, and all that sort of thing, don't you know, Chute? Has a fortune--comfortable thing that--very!--but it has prevented--it has prevented----' 'What, Sir Carnaby?' asked Trevor, wearily. 'The development of his genius.' Trevor Chute laughed aloud at this, and said: 'Ah! there is nothing like a hand-to-hand free fight with the world for _that_.' 'You are a soldier, Chute, but the world is no longer a bivalve, which one may, like ancient Pistol, open by the sword. Desmond graduated at Oxford.' 'As stroke oar, Sir Carnaby, I presume.' 'He would have taken the highest honours, Chute, and all that sort of thing, don't you know, only--only----' 'He could not?' 'Not at all,' replied Sir Carnaby, somewhat tartly. 'He preferred that they should be taken, Chute, by those who set their hearts on such things; yet for Clare's sake, I wish----'