“Well,” said Lacquers, when he had finished his arithmetic and put his betting-book once more into his pocket, “I think it can be done--I believe a fellow _ought_ to marry, you know; what does Shakespeare say about ‘Solitude being born a twin’? it certainly sobers him”--(Sir Ascot smiled as he admitted that was undoubtedly a strong argument)--“and altogether married fellows get into more respectable habits. Look at a breakfast in a country-house; you see all the married ones up and dressed with the lark, while the single men come dawdling down at all hours. Yes, there’s a good deal to be said on both sides, like a Chancery lawsuit; but I’ll think it over, Uppy, my boy, I’ll think it over.” And Lacquers did think it over, and arrived at a conclusion as honourable to his heart as it was antagonistic to that worldly wisdom by which all with whom he associated thought it right to regulate their every action. Here was a man spoilt by the accident of personal beauty and good birth and position. From his earliest boyhood he had never been taught that there was any ulterior object in life save to shine in society, if not intellectually, why, physically, with a handsome person and fine clothes--a far more effectual passport than all the talents to the good graces of the world. What wonder that the tree grew up as it had been bent? what wonder that the hussar had scarcely two ideas beyond his uniform and his betting-book, and his seat upon a horse? that he looked on the world at large as the butterfly on the sunny square enclosed by the garden wall--a mere stage for display, a mere hot-bed for physical enjoyment, to be got the most out of during the bright, gaudy hours of noon; and afterwards--why, afterwards, when the sun goes down and the chill dews of evening clog his fading wings--the butterfly must do the best he can, and perish as he may. With such an education, the sole manly quality left was courage, and it was only the touchstone of a gentle face like Blanche’s that brought out the latent generosity of a character overlaid with faults, for which its training was more to blame than its organisation. We are obliged to confess that Lacquers was vain, thoughtless, self-opinionated, frivolous, ignorant, and empty-headed, but there _was_ some good in him, and it was brought out, as it always will be when it exists at all, by a woman’s smile, and, above all, by a woman’s misfortunes.