About this time all the members of this disunited party assembled, and jointly and severally ended their day’s enjoyment (?) by returning home tired, dejected, and suffering more or less from that ailment which defies those guinea-pigs, “the faculty”--an ailment as rife in St. James’s as are cholera and smallpox within the precincts of St. Giles’s--an ailment which, thanks to those bitter curses, the forms, ceremonies, requirements, and prejudices of society, afflicts and hangs heavily on many an honest man and loving woman--an ailment indigenous even in our glorious constitution, and which has as many _aliases_ as shapes, the spleen, _ennui_, but truest name of all, the _Heart-ache!_ “_Ogni Medaglia ha il suo reverso_,” there is no rule without its exception! Horace D’Almayne was the exception to this particular rule--he was not troubled with heart-ache, because, in the metaphysical sense of the word, he did not possess a heart; but nature had made it up to him by giving him a very clear head, and thus it reasoned:-- “Yes, my pretty Kate, _tout va bien_; you have grown civil, almost kind--not yet affectionate, but that is to come. Yet she is clever; doubts, suspects me!--what children women are, even clever women; once appeal to their feelings, their impulses--bah! their reason lies captive before you--they are puppets in your hand. _Ah! c’est bien drôle cette petite existence ici bas!_ for the rest, all goes well; the beautiful Kate shall compromise herself--the millionaire shall open wider his purse strings--the bank wins for me--the little Alfred plays my game--_courage, Horace!_ thy star is in the ascendant, you will die a rich man yet!” *****