Harley answered, “That he could not but fancy the gentleman was mistaken, as he never saw a face promise more honesty than that of the old man he had met with.”—“His face!” said a grave-looking man, when sat opposite to him, squirting the juice of his tobacco obliquely into the grate. There was something very emphatical in the action, for it was followed by a burst of laughter round the table. “Gentlemen,” said Harley, “you are disposed to be merry; it may be as you imagine, for I confess myself ignorant of the town; but there is one thing which makes me hear the loss of my money with temper: the young fellow who won it must have been miserably poor; I observed him borrow money for the stake from his friend: he had distress and hunger in his countenance: be his character what it may, his necessities at least plead for him.” At this there was a louder laugh than before. “Gentlemen,” said the lawyer, one of whose conversations with Harley we have already recorded, “here’s a pretty fellow for you! to have heard him talk some nights ago, as I did, you might have sworn he was a saint; yet now he games with sharpers, and loses his money, and is bubbled by a fine tale of the Dead Sea, and pawns his watch; here are sanctified doings with a witness!” “Young gentleman,” said his friend on the other side of the table, “let me advise you to be a little more cautious for the future; and as for faces—you may look into them to know whether a man’s nose be a long or a short one.” CHAPTER XXVIII. HE KEEPS HIS APPOINTMENT. THE last night’s raillery of his companions was recalled to his remembrance when he awoke, and the colder homilies of prudence began to suggest some things which were nowise favourable for a performance of his promise to the unfortunate female he had met with before. He rose, uncertain of his purpose; but the torpor of such considerations was seldom prevalent over the warmth of his nature. He walked some turns backwards and forwards in his room; he recalled the languid form of the fainting wretch to his mind; he wept at the recollection of her tears. “Though I am the vilest of beings, I have not forgotten every virtue; gratitude, I hope, I shall still have left.”—He took a larger stride—“Powers of mercy that surround me!” cried he, “do ye not smile upon deeds like these? to calculate the chances of deception is too tedious a business for the life of man!”—The clock struck ten.—When he was got down-stairs, he found that he had forgot the note of her lodgings; he gnawed his lips at the delay: he was fairly on the pavement, when he recollected having left his purse; he did but just prevent himself from articulating an imprecation. He rushed a second time up into his chamber. “What a wretch I am!” said he; “ere this time, perhaps—” ’Twas a perhaps not to be borne;—two vibrations of a pendulum would have served him to lock his bureau; but they could not be spared.