Then he laughed bitterly, for he knew that he was playing at self-deceit; he felt that he could not stir from London--that he was, as it were, fixed, and without a desire to leave the spot where he could feel that she was near. "No," he said, after a while; "I'll not give up yet. I made a vow, and I'll keep it. She is not his yet. She may have been--she must have been--deceived. I have been condemned. No; she would not listen. I don't know--there, I think I'm half mad!" Just then his hand came in contact with a couple of letters which had been awaiting him on his return, and which one of the waiters had handed to him, to be thrust unnoticed into his pocket. "Bills," said the waiter, to one of his fellows. "How nice to be tradesman to those young swells! I s'pose some of them must pay, some time or other, or else people couldn't live." "O yes," said the other; "some of them pay, and those who will pay, have to pay for those who won't." "Through the nose," said number one with a wink. "To be sure," said his confrere; and then they laughed at one another, and winked again. But the waiter was wrong: those were not bills; one being a long and affectionate letter from Sir Philip Vining, telling Charley that he would be in town the next day, and asking if it would be convenient for his son to meet him at the station. The other was from Laura Bray, saying that they had heard from Sir Philip that he would be in town the next day, and asking that he and Charley would dine in Harley-street, where was the Brays' town house, on the next day but one. The above was all formal, and written at mamma's command, but Laura had added a postscript, asking that Charley would come for the sake of the old times when they were friends. Max would be away, and the party very small. Then came a quiet reminder of the encounter, and a word to say that the writer had looked out day by day, in the expectation of receiving a call, while poor Nelly was _au desespoir_. Charley smiled grimly as he read the letter over, and then carelessly thrust it back into the envelope with the bold address which waiter number one had kindly taken for a tradesman's hand. "Take the good the gods provide one," said Charley with a bitter laugh, as he smoked furiously, and tossed down glass after glass of claret to allay the fevered rush of thought through his brain. "I'll go," he said at last, "and see little Nell. Poor little wiry weedy Nell!--what a genuine, free-hearted, jolly little lass it is! But there, if I do, shell only make some reference to the past." Charley Vining's thoughts came so fast that night, that they jostled and stumbled over one another in the most confused way imaginable, till once more, shining out like a star amidst the surrounding darkness, the light of Ella's face seemed to slowly rise, and he sat there thinking of her till the waiters yawned with misery because he did not retire.