Indeed, after all, when a man is down it makes very little difference what the world thinks of him, unless in this way: the world always helps a rogue, because it has a justifiable faith in his helping himself, whereas a fool or a fool's equivalent in the opinion of society--an honest man--though weak may, if once thrown, lie for ever like a sheep on the broad of his back, unless some Samaritan help him to his feet again. And Samaritans are scarce now-a-days; and when they do appear are generally as scarce of pennies as rich people are of inclination to give them. One evening in the early summer time, Dolly, putting aside the muslin curtains which draped one of the French windows leading on the lawn, entered that cool and pleasant drawing-room of which, under her _régime_, many a man and woman had carried away happy memories. As she stood with the light muslin parted above her head, she saw that her husband and Rupert sat with chairs close together, the latter talking earnestly; and she would have retreated by the way she came, for Dolly never cared to intrude on the _tête-à-tête_ of any two persons, but Mortomley said, "You had better stay, dear. It is only right you should hear what we are saying." "What is the matter?" asked Dolly, stepping up to the pair and looking from one to the other with a quick apprehension of something being wrong. Her husband rose, and walking to the hearth, stood leaning with his back against the mantel-piece. Rupert rose likewise and looked out of the window nearest to where he stood; his hands plunged deep in his pockets, his dress dusty as when he returned from town, his hair, worn long as was the artist fashion he affected; looking rough and unkempt, and an expression on his face no one probably had ever seen there before, not even when Mr. Gideon told him he must make a slight inventory of a few articles and leave behind him the first creature, gentle or simple, to whom the owners of Homewood grudged extending hospitality. How the room, the flowers, the soft evening light, the figures of the two men were photographed into her mind at that moment Mrs. Mortomley never knew until the months had come and the months had gone, and Homewood, its shady walks, its smooth lawns, its banks of flowers, its wealth of foliage, its modest luxury of appointment, its utter comfort and sweet simplicity, were all part and parcel of a past which could return--ah! nevermore. "What is the matter?" she repeated. "What has gone wrong?" "I do not know that anything has gone wrong," Rupert answered. "It may be, for aught I can tell, the beginning of greater peace than we have had for some time past. I have been telling Archie I think he ought to stop." "I have thought so often lately," said Mortomley with quiet resignation. "Stop what--stop when!" his wife interrogated; then she suddenly paused, adding the instant after, "Do you mean fail?"