"I never knew a man who could get such a fine effect out of so small a knowledge of the Scriptures," said young Spencer, the Duchess of Marlborough's prodigal grandson, and one of the finest gentlemen upon town. He and his elder brother were both patrons of the house in Poland Street, supped there with a confidential friend or two on a bladebone of mutton and a magnum of Burgundy, after the play, as the prologue to a quiet hour at hazard, or gave a choice banquet in the French style to a bevy of stage beauties. Lavendale marked the change in Fétis from the grave and high-bred servant to the audacious jester, and saw in it the clue to the man's character--a creature of various masks, who could fit his manners to the occasion; but he saw also that the man was of a highly nervous excitable temperament, and that a long life of iniquity had wasted his physical forces to extreme attenuation. "He is of a more spiritual type than his master, in spite of that gentleman's various accomplishments," thought Lavendale, "and with him the flame in the lamp burns brighter, the oil that feeds it wastes faster. Not a man to stand a violent shock of any kind, I doubt." As the night wore on, and the party grew more riotous, and less observant of one another, Lavendale took an opportunity to talk apart with Fétis. "I think we have met before, Monsieur Fétis?" he said. "Yes, my lord, frequently. I was at Ringwood Abbey in attendance upon Mr. Topsparkle while you were visiting there last winter." "True, 'twas there I saw you, slipping past me in a corridor with a most incomparable modesty. I dreamt not what a roguish wit was hidden under so subdued and sober an aspect." "Your lordship must consider that in Mr. Topsparkle's house I am in some measure a servant. Here I am on my own ground, and these gentlemen are good enough to indulge all my follies." "Ringwood Abbey did not give me my first knowledge of you," said Lavendale, watching the crafty face, as Fétis trifled with a silver-gilt snuffbox. "Your renown had reached me before then. I heard of you some years ago when I was travelling in Italy, where you are still remembered." "Indeed, my lord! It is ten years since I was in Italy." "These memories were of an older date. They went back to the last century, when you were a youth and a student, an adept in chemistry, I am told." Fétis started, and turned towards his interlocutor with an ashen countenance, the snuffbox shaking in his tremulous hand. "Who told you that?" he asked; "who remembers me so long?" "An old Venetian who happened to hear of you at that time, and who is one of my most intimate friends." "Will your lordship tell me his name?" He had recovered himself by this time, and had closed the snuffbox, not without spilling a slight shower of the scented mixture upon his olive-silk knee-breeches. "Borromeo." Fétis shook his head.