“Ah! the nation that produced _'Le philosophe sans le savoir.'_ And now it has added, _'Le philosophe sans le vouloir,'_ and you have stumbled on him. What a life for an aged man! _Fortunatus ille senex qui ludicola vivit._ Tantalus handcuffed and glowering over a gambling-table; a hell in a hell.” “Oh, Harrington!--” “Exclamations not allowed in sober argument, Zoe.” “Come, Ned, it is not heart-disease, it is purse disease. Just do me a favor. Here are five sovereigns; give those to the old beggar, and let him risk them.” “I could hardly take such a liberty with an old gentleman of his age and appearance--a man of honor too, and high sentiments. Why, I'd bet seven to four he is one of Napoleon's old soldiers.” The ladies sided unanimously with Severne. “What! offer a _vieux de l'Empire_ five pounds? Oh, fie!” “Fiddle-dee-dee!” said the indomitable Vizard. “Besides, he will do it with his usual grace. He will approach the son of Mars with that feigned humility which sits so well on youth, and ask him, as a personal favor, to invest five pounds for him at _rouge-et-noir._ The old soldier will stiffen into double dignity at first, then give him a low wink, and end by sitting down and gambling. He will be cautious at starting, as one who opens trenches for the siege of Mammon; but soon the veteran will get heated, and give battle; he will fancy himself at Jena, since the croupiers are Prussians. If he loses, you cut him dead, being a humdrum Englishman; and if he wins, he cuts you, and pockets the cash, being a Frenchman that talks sentiment.” This sally provoked a laugh, in which Severne joined, and said, “Really, for a landed proprietor, you know a thing or two.” He consented at last, with some reluctance, to take the money; and none of the persons present doubted that he would execute the commission with a grace and delicacy all his own. Nevertheless, to run forward a little with the narrative, I must tell you that he never did hand that five pound to the venerable sire; a little thing prevented him--the old man wasn't born yet. “And now,” said Vizard, “it is our last day in Homburg. You are all going to gratify your mania--lunacy is contagious. Suppose I gratify mine.” “Do dear,” said Zoe; “and what is it?” “I like your asking that; when it was publicly announced last night, and I fled discomfited to my balcony, and, in my confusion, lighted a cigar. My mania is--the Klosking.” “That is not a mania; it is good taste. She is admirable.” “Yes, in an opera; but I want to know how she looks and talks in a room; and that is insane of me.” “Then so you _shall,_ insane or not. I will call on her this morning, and take you in my hand.” “What an ample palm! and what juvenile audacity! Zoe, you take my breath away.”