"Hold hard, Digby; I wouldn't be your friend if I didn't tell you." "Didn't tell me what?" "Why, man, haven't you heard? The firm of Griffin, Keane, and Co. is ruined. 'Pon honour. South Sea biz, or something. Had it from a friend, who had it from one of the firm. It's a secret, mind. But it is true." "Good heavens, D'Orsay, you do not tell me so? Then I too am ruined!" "What! you haven't proposed--you're not tied?" "Nay, nay; all but. That is nothing, D'Orsay--nothing; but on the strength of this marriage I have borrowed thousands. Fleet prison is my fate if what you say is true." "Look here, Digby," said D'Orsay, after a pause, "you are a man of the world, like myself. Now if I were you, I should transfer my affections. See?" "In which quarter?" "Why, there is Miss Gordon; a trifle old, to be sure, but positively rolling in wealth, and rolling her eyes whenever she sees you." Sir Digby muttered something about a bag of broken bottles, but D'Orsay went on,-- "I'd marry _her_; 'pon honour I should." "Think of life with that old hag." "Think of life in the Fleet, my friend." Sir Digby winced, and for a time made no reply. "D'Orsay," he said at last, "I am a man, and, I trust, a gentleman. I'd prefer to marry Gerty even--even--" "If she were a beggar. Bravo, Digby!" And D'Orsay laughed in the way men of the world do laugh. "I didn't say that. I--I--'pon my soul, D'Orsay, I do not know what to do." * * * * * Miss Gordon was the belle of that ball, as far at least as dress and jewellery were concerned. She came of a noble family, too, and gave herself all the airs common in those days to ladies of title--hauteur, dignity, and condescension by turns. But towards Sir Digby she was as soft and sweet as a three-month-old kitten. If Sir Digby Auld had meant to propose to sweet Gerty Keane that night, he never had a chance, for neither she nor her father appeared. It was reported that he had had a fit. But this was not so. After he was dressed, however, and the carriage waiting, he received a letter. He no sooner read it than it dropped from his hands on the floor, and he leaned back in his chair with his face to his hands. Gerty was by his side in a moment. "O father, are you ill?" she cried. "Shall I summon assistance?" He recovered himself at once. "Nay, nay," he said; "only grief for the death of an old friend." He smoothed her hair as he replied. "Gerty, we will not go out to-night." But the letter he picked off the floor and carefully put away in his pocket-book. * * * * *