"Another evening we must have Fairthorn's flute," said Darrell. "What a pity he was not here to-night!--he would have enjoyed such reading-- no one more." Said Mrs. Morley, "He was here once or twice during the evening; but he vanished!" "Vanishing seems his forte," said George. Darrell looked annoyed. It was his peculiarity to resent any jest, however slight, against an absent friend; and at that moment his heart was perhaps more warmed towards Dick Fairthorn than to any man living. If he had not determined to be as amiable and mild towards his guests as his nature would permit, probably George might have had the flip of a sarcasm which would have tingled for a month. But as it was, Darrell contented himself with saying gravely: "No, George; Fairthorn's foible is vanishing; his forte is fidelity. If my fortune were to vanish, Fairthorn would never disappear; and that's more than I would say if I were a King, and Fairthorn--a Bishop!" After that extraordinary figure of speech, "Good-nights" were somewhat hastily exchanged; and Fairthorn was left; behind the curtain with feelings towards all his master's guests as little, it is to be hoped, like those of a Christian Bishop towards his fellow-creatures, as they possibly could be. CHAPTER VII. "Domus et placens Uxor." FAIRTHORN FINDS NOTHING /PLACENS/ IN THE /UXOR/, TO WHOM /DOMUS/ IS INDEBTED FOR ITS DESTRUCTION. Another day! Lionel is expected to arrive an hour or two after noon. Darrell is in his room--his will once more before him. He has drawn up a rough copy of the codicil by which Fawley is to pass away, and the name of Darrell be consigned to the care of grateful Learning, linked with prizes and fellowships;--a public property--lost for ever to private representatives of its sepulchred bearers. Preparations for departure from the doomed dwelling-house have begun. There are large boxes on the floor; and favourite volumes--chiefly in science or classics--lie piled beside them for selection. What is really at the bottom of Guy Darrell's heart? Does he feel reconciled to his decision? Is the virtue of his new self-sacrifice in itself a consoling reward? Is that cordial urbanity, that cheerful kindness, by which he has been yet more endearing himself to his guests, sincere or assumed? As he throws aside his pen, and leans his cheek on his hand, the expression of his countenance may perhaps best answer those questions. It has more unmingled melancholy than was habitual to it before, even when in his gloomiest moods; but it is a melancholy much more soft and subdued; it is the melancholy of resignation--that of a man who has ceased a long struggle--paid his offering to the appeased Nemesis, in casting into the sea the thing that had been to him the dearest.