What a shock was it then to L'Estrange, as he entered the library, to see the man whom he had ever beheld as the type of till that was happy and healthful and prosperous, haggard and careworn, his hand tremulous, and his manner abrupt and uncertain, with a certain furtive dread at moments, followed by outbursts of passionate defiance, as though he were addressing himself to others besides him who was then before him. Though on terms of cordial intimacy with the curate, and always accustomed to call him by his name, he received him as he entered the room with a cold and formal politeness, apologized for having taken the liberty to send after and recall him, and ceremoniously requested him to be seated. “We were sorry you and Miss L'Estrange could not join the picnic to-day,” said Bramleigh; “though, to be sure, it is scarcely the season yet for such diversions.” L'Estrange felt the awkwardness of saying that they had not been invited, and muttered something not very intelligible about the uncertainty of the weather. “I meant to have gone over myself,” said Bramleigh, hurriedly; “but all these,”--and he swept his hand, as he spoke, through a mass of letters on the table,--“all these have come since morning, and I am not half through them yet. What 's that the moralist says about calling no man happy till he dies? I often think one cannot speculate upon a pleasant day till after the post-hour.” “I know very little of either the pains or pleasures of the letter-bag. I have almost no correspondence.” “How I envy you!” cried he, fervently. “I don't imagine that mine is a lot many would be found to envy,” said L'Estrange, with a gentle smile. “The old story, of course. 'Qui fit, Maecenas, ut Nemo'--I forget my Horace--'ut Nemo; how does it go?” “Yes, sir. But I never said I was discontented with my lot in my life. I only remarked that I did n't think that others would envy it.” “I have it,--I have it,” continued Bramleigh, following out his own train of thought,--“I have it. 'Ut Nemo, quam sibi sortem sit coutentus.' It's a matter of thirty odd years since I saw that passage, L'Estrange, and I can't imagine what could have brought it so forcibly before me to-day.” “Certainly it could not have been any application to yourself,” said the curate, politely. “How do you mean, sir?” cried Bramleigh, almost fiercely. “How do you mean?” “I mean, sir, that few men have less cause for discontent with fortune.”