At the conclusion of the last verse, just as she repeats the words “why, why, why,” in a very distracted and melting cadence, a voice behind startles her—she turns and beholds her guardian—so at least run the course of events in the real drama—that it should follow thus now however, “Dus aliter visum”—for just as she came to the very moving apostrophe alluded to, and called out, “why comes he not?”—a gruff voice from behind answered in a strong Cork brogue—“ah! would ye have him come in a state of nature?” at the instant a loud whistle rang through the house, and the pavillion scene slowly drew up, discovering me, Harry Lorrequer, seated on a small stool before a cracked looking-glass, my only habiliments, as I am an honest man, being a pair of long white silk stockings, and a very richly embroidered shirt with point lace collar. The shouts of laughter are yet in my ears, the loud roar of inextinguishable mirth, which after the first brief pause of astonishment gave way, shook the entire building—my recollection may well have been confused at such a moment of unutterable shame and misery; yet, I clearly remember seeing Fanny, the sweet Fanny herself, fall into an arm-chair nearly suffocated with convulsions of laughter. I cannot go on; what I did I know not. I suppose my exit was additionally ludicrous, for a new eclat de rire followed me out. I rushed out of the theatre, and wrapping only my cloak round me, ran without stopping to the barracks. But I must cease; these are woes too sacred for even confessions like mine, so let me close the curtain of my room and my chapter together, and say, adieu for a season. CHAPTER XVII. THE WAGER. It might have been about six weeks after the events detailed in my last chapter had occurred, that Curzon broke suddenly into my room one morning before I had risen, and throwing a precautionary glance around, as if to assure himself that we were alone, seized my hand with a most unusual earnestness, and, steadfastly looking at me, said— “Harry Lorrequer, will you stand by me?” So sudden and unexpected was his appearance at the moment, that I really felt but half awake, and kept puzzling myself for an explanation of the scene, rather than thinking of a reply to his question; perceiving which, and auguring but badly from my silence, he continued— “Am I then, really deceived in what I believed to be an old and tried friend?” “Why, what the devil’s the matter?” I cried out. “If you are in a scrape, why of course you know I’m your man; but, still, it’s only fair to let one know something of the matter in the meanwhile.” “In a scrape!” said he, with a long-drawn sigh, intended to beat the whole Minerva press in its romantic cadence. “Well, but get on a bit,” said I, rather impatiently; “who is the fellow you’ve got the row with? Not one of ours, I trust?”