So Eustace Gartney, blinded by self-complacency, prosed on to himself as he travelled homeward in one of the Orient steamers, and the curious part of it was that he actually believed that he was talking sense. A few sharp words from a sensible man or woman might have dispelled his visions of being an irresistible lover and have shown him that Lady Errington was not likely to give up everything for the sake of a man she cared nothing about; but Eustace made a confidant of no one, and, absorbed in his ridiculous dreamings, deemed himself quite a hero for resisting a dishonourable impulse, which, had he given way to it, would certainly have resulted in a manner vastly different to that which he anticipated. So the puppets were all on the stage, and it only remained for Fate in the guise of a showman to move them hither and thither according to their several destinies. CHAPTER XVII. GOSSIP. "If friends are poor and you can't use 'em, 'Tis always pleasant to abuse 'em, Although in their turn it is true, They're sure to speak the worst of you. The pot may call the kettle black, But kettle pays the favour back, And useless is all indignation, For 'tis the law of compensation." Otterburn's chambers in a pleasant street off Piccadilly were furnished in a very comfortable fashion, having been the property of an extravagant young man who came to grief on the turf, and thereupon disposed of his rooms and their contents to Angus Macjean, who was looking for apartments. As the Master had not much idea of arranging furniture according to individual taste, beyond banishing some rather "rapid" pictures from the walls and replacing them by hunting trophies from his American trip, he left the rooms in their original state, which was by no means a bad one. Johnnie Armstrong indeed had been moved to wrath by seeing such a lot of money spent on costly trifles, for the charming little statuettes in bronze, the delicate ornaments in Dresden china, and the thousand and one nick-nacks suggestive of cultured taste were all so many objects of horror in the eyes of Mr. Armstrong, being evidence of sinful waste on the part of their purchaser. In spite of his love for the turf, the former proprietor of these rooms must have had a cultured mind, rare among the gilded youth of to-day, as Angus during the earlier days of his occupancy often came across some tiny water-colour, or some rare edition of a book which showed both good taste and critical judgment. "What a pity for such a clever fellow as Bamfield to go to the dogs through racing, when he could appreciate all this sort of thing," he said half aloud one day, on turning over a charming edition of Villon's poems. "It's an ill wind that blaws naebody ony guid," observed Johnnie, who overheard this remark, "an' ye got the hail thing cheap enow."