“Yes, you'll have to go; every man has to take his turn of some objectionable post, his Gaboon and yellow fever days. I myself passed a year at Stutgard. The Bramleighs are now events of the past. There's no use in fighting against these things. They were, and they are not: that's the whole story. It's very hard on every one, especially hard upon _me_. Reverses in life sit easily enough on the class that furnishes adventurers, but in _my_ condition there are no adventurers. You and others like you descend to the ranks, and nobody thinks the worse of you. _We_--we cannot! that's the pull you have. We are born with our epaulettes, and we must wear them till we die.” “It does not seem a very logical consequence, notwithstanding, to me, that because my brother may have to defend his title to his estate, that I must accept a post that is highly distasteful to me.” “And yet it is the direct consequence. Will you do me the favor to touch that bell. I should like some claret-cup. The fact is, we all of us take too little out of our prosperity! Where we err is, we experiment on good fortune: now we should n't do that, we should realize. You, for instance, ought to have made your 'running' while your father was entertaining all the world in Belgravia The people could n't have ignored _you_, and dined with _him_; at least, you need not have let them.” “So that your Lordship already looks upon us as bygones, as things of the past?” “I am forced to take this very disagreeable view. Will you try that cup? it is scarcely iced enough for my liking. Have you remarked that they never make cup properly in an hotel? The clubs alone have the secret.” “I suppose you will confer with Cutbill before you return an answer to Augustus?” said Temple, stiffly. “I may--that is, I may listen to what that very plausible but not very polished individual has to say, before I frame the exact terms of my reply. We are all of us, so to say, 'dans des mauvais draps.' _You_ are going where you hate to go, and I, who really should have had no share in this general disaster, have taken my ticket in the lottery when the last prize has just been paid over the counter.” “It is very hard on you indeed,” said the other, scornfully. “Nothing less than your sympathy would make it endurable;” and as he spoke he lighted a bedroom candle and moved towards the door. “Don't tell them at F. O. that you are going out unwillingly, or they'll keep you there. Trust to some irregularity when you are there, to get recalled, and be injured. If a man can only be injured and brought before the House, it's worth ten years' active service to him. The first time I was injured I was made secretary of embassy. The second gave me my K. C. B., and I look to my next misfortune for the Grand Cross. Good-bye. Don't take the yellow fever, don't marry a squaw.” And with a graceful move of the hand he motioned an adieu, and disappeared. CHAPTER XXX. ON THE ROAD