“My father,” interrupted Gawtrey, “refused me the money (but a small sum) that, once struck with the strong impulse of a sincere penitence, I begged of him, to enable me to get an honest living in a humble trade. His refusal soured the penitence--it gave me an excuse for my career and conscience grapples to an excuse as a drowning wretch to a straw. And yet this hard father--this cautious, moral, money-loving man, three months afterwards, suffered a rogue--almost a stranger--to decoy him into a speculation that promised to bring him fifty per cent. He invested in the traffic of usury what had sufficed to save a hundred such as I am from perdition, and he lost it all. It was nearly his whole fortune; but he lives and has his luxuries still: he cannot speculate, but he can save: he cared not if I starved, for he finds an hourly happiness in starving himself.” “And your friend,” said Philip, after a pause in which his young sympathies went dangerously with the excuses for his benefactor; “what has become of him, and the poor girl?” “My friend became a great man; he succeeded to his father’s peerage--a very ancient one--and to a splendid income. He is living still. Well, you shall hear about the poor girl! We are told of victims of seduction dying in a workhouse or on a dunghill, penitent, broken-hearted, and uncommonly ragged and sentimental. It may be a frequent case, but it is not the worst. It is worse, I think, when the fair, penitent, innocent, credulous dupe becomes in her turn the deceiver--when she catches vice from the breath upon which she has hung--when she ripens, and mellows, and rots away into painted, blazing, staring, wholesale harlotry--when, in her turn, she ruins warm youth with false smiles and long bills--and when worse--worse than all--when she has children, daughters perhaps, brought up to the same trade, cooped, plumper, for some hoary lecher, without a heart in their bosoms, unless a balance for weighing money may be called a heart. Mary became this; and I wish to Heaven she had rather died in an hospital! Her lover polluted her soul as well as her beauty: he found her another lover when he was tired of her. When she was at the age of thirty-six I met her in Paris, with a daughter of sixteen. I was then flush with money, frequenting salons, and playing the part of a fine gentleman. She did not know me at first; and she sought my acquaintance. For you must know, my young friend,” said Gawtrey, abruptly breaking off the thread of his narrative, “that I am not altogether the low dog you might suppose in seeing me here. At Paris--ah! you don’t know Paris--there is a glorious ferment in society in which the dregs are often uppermost! I came here at the Peace, and here have I resided the greater part of each year ever since. The vast masses of energy and life, broken up by the great thaw of the Imperial system, floating along the tide, are terrible icebergs for the vessel of the state.