So, harmony being established, they ate, drank, and were merry; Champagne, Moselle, Rhine wines, French wines, wines with names we know but cannot pronounce, wines with names we do not know and could not spell if we did, were produced, and done justice to, during dinner and dessert; and then they quietly settled down to Claret at 80s. the dozen, which tasted best, as they agreed, out of tumblers; Fribourg’s finest cigars also made their appearance and were not neglected; and for some time these four lords of the creation enjoyed life undisturbed. But Frenchmen seldom sit long over their wine. D’Almayne had too many schemes, which required a cool head to carry them out, to venture to inflame his brain with the juice of the grape; and by ten o’clock Lord Alfred proposed a hand at piquet, to while away an hour or so, until it should be time to adjourn to Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s ball, to which Mentor and his pupil were invited; so Guillemard and his host began to play, Jack Beaupeep and his companion watching them, and betting half-crowns on the varying chances of the game. At first, fortune seemed inclined to befriend Lord Alfred, for he won three times consecutively; and Jack, who, as he observed, was resolved “to back the thorough-bred colt,” realised capital to the amount of seven-and-sixpence. “_Ah! bah!_ Horace, _mon cher!_ you shall bet wis me _contre moi-même!_ I cannot play for a so little stake, he does not agree wis me!” exclaimed Monsieur Guillemard, tossing down the cards pettishly. “Let us double them, Monsieur,” began Lord Alfred, eagerly; “I was just going to propose it when you spoke; nothing is more _ennuyant_ than playing for inadequate stakes.” “_Mais oui!_ you have reason, my Lord. Horace, _mon ami_, mix me _de Veau sucrée_ wis a Ouinam Laque ice in him; I have thirst; he makes hot this evening.” “Not a bad idea, only I’ve a better one,” rejoined Lord Alfred; “brew some Sherry-cobbler, Jack; ring the bell, and order the materials: it’s your deal, Monsieur Guillemard.” Sherry-cobbler is _not_ a safe thing to play piquet upon, especially when your opponent confines himself to _eau sucrée_. Lord Alfred lost, grew excited, doubled the stakes again and lost, trebled them and won, then played on recklessly against a run of ill-luck, until D’Almayne interfered. “It is twelve o’clock, Alfred, _mon cher_; we shall be late for Lady Tatt.’s.” “----Lady Tatt.!” was the uncomplimentary reply; “I shall not go.” D’Almayne leaned over him, and observing in a whisper, “You forget _la belle Alice_ is expecting you,” drew the cards from his reluctant hand. Rising sulkily, Lord Alfred walked with a slightly unsteady step to a writing-table, took pen and ink, and hastily tracing a few words, handed the paper to Monsieur Guillemard--it was a cheque for £500!