To this man’s quiet home Harold Jerningham came sometimes as to a haven of shelter. He was wont to drop in upon the modest Berkshire household unexpectedly, with the bronze of an Oriental sun still upon his face, or a fur coat, in which he had travelled from St. Petersburgh, hanging loosely on his arm. He came hither for rest, for a brief interval of repose from “the fever called living;” and it was here, in the house that had been built for his great-grandfather’s bailiff, that the owner of three country-seats and an almost inexhaustible revenue found the nearest approach to happiness which he had experienced during the last twenty years. Eustace Thorburn’s arrangements for beginning his new life were of the simplest order. He found a letter from M. de Bergerac waiting for him on his return to London--such a letter as only a gentleman can write--a letter which placed the secretary at once on the footing of a friend, and gave him promise of friendly welcome. The young man spent the last night of his stay in London with Daniel Mayfield. The uncle and nephew dined together at one of those snug little haunts which the literary Bohemian affected, and Daniel’s soul expanded under the influence of Chambertin at nine shillings a bottle. He had received a cheque in payment of his latest Massacre of the Innocents in the way of reviewing, and it was in vain that Eustace tried to arrest his extravagant orders. “The best you can do for us in the shape of dinner, Tom,” he said to the waiter, with whom he was on the familiar terms of an _habitué_; “and--let me see the wine-card: yes, Dancer sticks to his old prices, I perceive. What nethermost circle can that man expect to inhabit in the under world, I wonder? Johannisberg with the oysters, Tom: if you were well up in your Charles de Bernard, you would be aware that Chablis is the mistake of the half-educated diner. After the soup you may give us a bottle of the old Madeira--_the_ Madeira, remember--no modern French concoction, flavoured with burnt-sugar. We will not go into sparkling, Tom--sparkling is the luxury of the vulgar; wines that leap and bubble are the pet delusion of the _oi polloi_; we will therefore confine ourselves to the borders of the Rhine. If your still Moselle is worthy of a gentleman’s attention, you may bring us a bottle. The Chambertin I know to be tolerable; so after dinner we will stick to _that_.”