Whether it was owing to the violence of the storm, or to the morbidness into which the last performance had thrown him, is difficult to tell, but Lord Somerville was in a despondent mood and on the brink of mental collapse, and as they are wont in such cases, visions of his past life kept passing to and fro before his half-closed eyes. He was going home! In any case it was better than this infernal comedy of fun and pleasure which invariably ended in gloom and disgust. His home was loneliness made noisy. He lived alone in that palatial mansion in Mayfair; but solitary his life had not been, since his father had left him heir to all sorts of properties, privileges and prejudices. His house had ever since been invaded by men and women of all descriptions. Some were morning callers, some afternoon ones; these were the dowagers and respectable members of the Upper Ten who accepted his invitations to a cup of tea, and made it a pretext to submit to his inspection some human goods for sale. The others were night visitors, and easily dealt with, for their business was direct and personal. Men found him unsatisfactory, for he objected to being made use of, was inaccessible to flattery, and steadily rebuked all attempts at familiarity. He never showed himself ungallant towards the fair sex, but on the contrary was liberal and even grateful for all he received; in fact he was thoroughly just and business-like in the market-place of life, and treated his visitors well, whether they were guests from 10 a.m. to 8 p.m., or carousers from 10 p.m. to 8 a.m. One thing he strongly disliked, that was any man or woman peeping at a corner of his heart. He often thought he had none, for it had never yet been in request in all his business transactions with Society. Although he had paddled in all the filthy sewers of London and foreign capitals, he somehow had a knack of brushing himself clean of all outward grime; but what he never had been able to get rid of was a nasty flavour which clung to his lips, and which no woman’s kiss could ever take away, nor any Havana cigar dispel. That mephitic taste of life was always on his lips, and to-night it was more deadly bitter than ever. Perhaps the flavour became more noxious as before his mind’s eye passed the vision of Gwendolen Towerbridge, the famous Society beauty. Not only did he thoroughly dislike the girl, but his pride was sorely wounded at having been caught by her. Yes, he was engaged—what the world called engaged—to her. How did it happen? Ah! Few men could really tell how they had been captured. A supper, the top of a coach when returning late from the races; sometimes even less than that: a glass of champagne too many, or a bodice cut too low. These certainly were not important primal causes, but they often were found to be at the fountain-head of many family disasters. The women he had known were divided into two classes: the one that had run the social race, won the