Then every one whom I had often before heard censure Glanville for his rudeness, or laugh at him for his eccentricity, opened their mouths in congratulations to their own wisdom, for having long admired his talents and predicted his success. I left the “turba Remi sequens fortunam;” I felt agitated and feverish; those who have unexpectedly heard of the success of a man for whom great affection is blended with greater interest, can understand the restlessness of mind with which I wandered into the streets. The air was cold and nipping. I was buttoning my coat round my chest, when I heard a voice say, “You have dropped your glove, Mr. Pelham.” The speaker was Thornton. I thanked him coldly for his civility, and was going on, when he said, “If your way is up Pall Mall, I have no objection to join you for a few minutes.” I bowed with some hauteur; and as I seldom refuse any opportunity of knowing more perfectly individual character, I said I should be happy of his company so long as our way lay together. “It is a cold night, Mr. Pelham,” said Thornton, after a pause. “I have been dining at Hatchett’s, with an old Paris acquaintance: I am sorry we did not meet more often in France, but I was so taken up with my friend Mr. Warburton.” As Thornton uttered that name, he looked hard at me, and then added, “By the by, I saw you with Sir Reginald Glanville the other day; you know him well, I presume?” “Tolerably well,” said I, with indifference. “What a strange character he is,” rejoined Thornton; “I also have known him for some years,” and again Thornton looked pryingly into my countenance. Poor fool, it was not for a penetration like his to read the cor inscrutabile of a man born and bred like me, in the consummate dissimulation of bon ton. “He is very rich, is he not?” said Thornton, after a brief silence. “I believe so,” said I. “Humph!” answered Thornton. “Things have grown better with him, in proportion as they grew worse with me, who have had ‘as good luck as the cow that stuck herself with her own horn.’ I suppose he is not too anxious to recollect me--‘poverty parts fellowship.’ Well, hang pride, say I; give me an honest heart all the year round, in summer or winter, drought or plenty. Would to God, some kind friend would lend me twenty pounds.” To this wish I made no reply. Thornton sighed. “Mr. Pelham,” renewed he, “it is true I have known you but a short time--excuse the liberty I take--but if you could lend me a trifle, it would really assist me very much.” “Mr. Thornton,” said I, “if I knew you better, and could serve you more, you might apply to me for a more real assistance than any bagatelle I could afford you would be. If twenty pounds would really be of service to you, I will lend it you, upon this condition, that you never ask me for another farthing.” Thornton’s face brightened. “A thousand, thousand--” he began. “No,” interrupted I, “no thanks, only your promise.”