“I am grown very weak and foolish,” said Egerton, trying to smile. “I do not know myself. I, too, whom you have so often called ‘Stoic,’ and likened to the Iron Man in the poem which you used to read by the riverside at Eton.” “But even then, my Audley, I knew that a warm human heart (do what you would to keep it down) beat strong under the iron ribs. And I often marvel now, to think you have gone through life so free from the wilder passions. Happier so!” Egerton, who had turned his face from his friend’s gaze, remained silent for a few moments, and he then sought to divert the conversation, and roused himself to ask Harley how he had succeeded in his views upon Beatrice, and his watch on the Count. “With regard to Peschiera,” answered Harley, “I think we must have overrated the danger we apprehended, and that his wagers were but an idle boast. He has remained quiet enough, and seems devoted to play. His sister has shut her doors both on myself and my young associate during the last few days. I almost fear that, in spite of very sage warnings of mine, she must have turned his poet’s head, and that either he has met with some scornful rebuff to incautious admiration, or that he himself has grown aware of peril, and declines to face it; for he is very much embarrassed when I speak to him respecting her. But if the Count is not formidable, why, his sister is not needed; and I hope yet to get justice for my Italian friend through the ordinary channels. I have secured an ally in a young Austrian prince, who is now in London, and who has promised to back, with all his influence, a memorial I shall transmit to Vienna. _Apropos_, my dear Audley, now that you have a little breathing-time, you must fix an hour for me to present to you my young poet, the son of _her_ sister. At moments the expression of his face is so like hers.” “Ay, ay,” answered Egerton quickly, “I will see him as you wish, but later. I have not yet that breathing-time you speak of; but you say he has prospered; and, with your friendship, he is secure from fortune. I rejoice to think so.” “And your own _protégé_, this Randal Leslie, whom you forbid me to dislike—hard task!—what has he decided?” “To adhere to my fate. Harley, if it please Heaven that I do not live to return to power, and provide adequately for that young man, do not forget that he clung to me in my fall.” “If he still cling to you faithfully, I will never forget it. I will forget only all that now makes me doubt him. But you talk of not living, Audley! Pooh!—your frame is that of a predestined octogenarian.” “Nay,” answered Audley, “I was but uttering one of those vague generalities which are common upon all mortal lips. And now farewell—I must see this Baron.”