"Hawkehurst," he muttered to himself--"Hawkehurst, the man who leagued against me with Jedd! I swore to be even with him if ever I found the opportunity--if ever! And George refused me a few shillings; my brother, my only brother, refused to stand my friend!" Hawkehurst and George--his only brother--the images of these two men floated confusedly in his brain: he could scarcely separate them. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was still sitting outside his brother's door, on the staircase in Gray's Inn, hugging himself in his rags, and cursing his unnatural kinsman's cruelty; then in the next moment he remembered where he was, and breathed bitter curses upon that unconscious enemy whose laugh pealed out every now and then amid a chorus of light-hearted laughter. There was a little Christmas party at Charlottenburgh. Two flys were waiting in the laurel-avenue to convey Mr. Hawkehurst's guests to distant abodes. The door was opened presently, and all the bustle of departure made itself heard by that wretched wayfarer who found it so difficult to keep his hold upon the consciousness of these things. "What is it?" he said to himself--"a party! Hawkehurst has been giving a party." He had lived through too much degradation, he had descended into too deep a gulf of wretchedness, to be conscious of the contrast between his present situation and his position in those days when he had played the host, and seen handsome carriages bear prosperous guests away from his door. In that cycle of misery which he had endured, these things and the memory of them had faded from him as completely as if they had been obliterated by the passage of a century. The hapless wretch tried to give sustained attention to all the animated discussion that attended the departure of the merry guests. Half-a-dozen people seemed to be talking at once. Valentine was giving his friends counsel about the way home. "You will keep to the lower road, you know, Fred. Lawsley's cab can follow yours. You came a couple of miles out of your way. And tell that fellow Battersea Bridge is a mistake." And then followed Charlotte's friendly questioning about wraps, and hoods, and comforters, and other feminine gear. "And when are you coming to dine at Fulham?" cried one voice. "I shall certainly get those quadrilles of Offenbach's," said another. "How delightfully Mr. Lawsley sang that song of Santley's!" And anon a chorus of "Never enjoyed myself more!" "Most delightful evening!" "Pray don't come out in the cold." "Thanks; well, yes, yours are always capital." "No, I won't light up till I'm on the road." "Give my book a lift in the _D.H._, eh, old fellow?" "Are you _quite_ sure that shawl is warm enough?" "Take a rug for your feet." "Thanks, no." "Good-night." "See you on Tuesday." "Don't forget the box for D.L." "All right, old fellow!" "Lower Road, Roehampton Lane, Putney Bridge. Good-night."