with much success performing the part of the “worm i’ the bud” to Lord Alfred’s “damask cheek.” As soon as Mentor thoroughly understood the state of the case, which he did in an incredibly short space of time--tact being so strongly developed in him that it almost amounted to intuition--he followed the advice of Polly in the “Beggar’s Opera,” by “pondering well” before he ventured to prescribe for the complaint of his Telemachus. Having sat with bent brows until his cigar was exhausted, he flung the end into the grate, smoothed his beloved moustaches, and then spoke oracularly:-- “You see, _mon cher_,” he began, “you are taking to the _rôle_ of a _flâneur_, what you call a man-about-town, full early for an Englishman; thus, the chief thing you want is self-confidence, without which a man can neither do proper justice to himself nor to his position. Now it seems to me the best thing for you would be to get some pretty woman of good station to take you in hand; you must try and establish a flirtation with somebody.” “_Cui bono?_” inquired Telemachus; “the governor would never stand me marrying for--oh! not for the next five years!” “Marrying before you’re one-and-twenty! My dear fellow, what can have put such a frightful idea into your head!” exclaimed Mentor, aghast at the supposition. “No, no; marriage is the last thing I should dream of recommending, except quite as a _dernier ressort_. For which reason, I was about to add, that the best practice to set you at ease with yourself, and therefore with other people, will be to devote your attentions to some pretty and fashionable married woman;--there! don’t look so awfully scandalized; of course I only mean a sentimental and platonic affair--just enough to excite and interest you into self-oblivion. When you once forget your _ipsissimus ego_--when, as that punning friend of yours, Mr. Coverdale, would say, you cease to mind your _I_--all your anxieties in regard to popular opinion will vanish, and you will soon find that with your face, figure, address, and position, Lord Alfred Courtland will become the admired of all admirers. And that reminds me that Mrs. Coverdale would be just the person for that purpose;--she is very pretty, moves in good society, and, _entre nous_, is smitten with you already!” “But really--of course I don’t set up to be any better than my neighbours,” stammered the poor boy, colouring at the possibility of being suspected of such slow attributes as good feeling and right principle, and yet unable entirely to silence the promptings of his better nature;--“of course I don’t set up for a saint; but Harry Coverdale is an old friend and schoolfellow, and one of the best creatures in the world; I should not like--that is, I really couldn’t--But, I beg your pardon, I don’t think I exactly understand your meaning.” “I don’t think you do,” returned D’Almayne, his sarcastic tone expressing such unmistakable contempt that Lord Alfred actually winced as if in pain.