"She is such a charming poetess."

"I'd lay my life on't, she's just as wide-awake as her father," muttered Spicer to himself.

"As wide-awake? Dear me, what can you mean?"

"That's she's fly--up to trap--oh, is n't she!" went he on, still communing to himself.

"Lady Gertrude Oscot, sir?"

"No; but Grog Davis's daughter,--the new Viscountess Lackington,--my Lady. I was thinking of _her_," said Spicer, suddenly recalled to a sense of where he stood.

"I protest, sir, I cannot understand how two persons so totally dissimilar could occur to any mind at the same moment." And with this Lady Grace gathered up the details of her embroidery, and courtesying a deep and formal adieu, left the room.

"Haven't I gone and done it with both of them!" said Spicer, as he took out his cigar-case to choose a cigar; not that he had the slightest intention of lighting it in such a place,--no profanity of the kind ever occurred to him,--all he meant was the mock bravado to himself of an act that seemed to imply so much coolness, such collected courage. As to striking a light, he 'd as soon have done it in a magazine.

And sticking his cigar in his mouth, he left the house; even in the street he forgot to light it, and strolled along, turning his weed between his lips, and revolving no very pleasant thoughts in his mind: "All the way to England, down to Wales, then the Isle of Wight, seeing no end of people,--lawyers, milliners, agents, proctors, jewellers, and dressmakers--eternal explainings and expostulatings, begging for this, deprecating that; asking this man to be active and the other to be patient; and then back again over the whole breadth of Europe in atrocious weather, sea-sick and land-sick, tossed, Jolted, and shaken,--and all for what,--ay, for what? To be snubbed, outraged, and insulted, treated like a lackey,--no, but ten times worse than any lackey would bear. And why should I bear it? That's the question. Why should I? Does it signify a brass farthing to me whether the noble house of Lackington quarters its arms with the cogged dice and the marked king of the Davises? What do I care about their tarnished shield? It's rather cool of my lady to turn upon _me!_" Well reasoned and true, Mr. Spicer; you have but forgotten one small item in the account, which is the consideration accorded to you by your own set, because you were seen to mingle with those so much above you.

We are told that when farthings are shaken up a sufficiently long time with guineas in a bag, they acquire a sort of yellow lustre, which, though by no means enabling them to pass for guineas, still makes them wonderfully bright farthings, and doubtless would render them very intolerant in the company of their equals. Such was, in a measure, what had happened to Mr. Spicer; and though at first sight the process would seem a gain, it is in reality the reverse, since, after this mock gilding, the coin--whether it be man or farthing--has lost its stamp of truthfulness, and will not "pass" for even the humble value it once represented.

"At all events," thought Mr. Spicer, as he went along, "her Ladyship has not come off scot free for all her impertinence. I have given her materials for a very miserable morning, and irritated the very sorest spot in all her mind. It was just the very lesson she wanted; there's nothing will do her so much good in the world."

It is by no means an uncommon delusion for ill-natured people to fancy that they are great moral physicians, and that the bitters they drop into _your_ wine-glass and _my_ teacup are admirable tonics, which our constitutions require. The drug is not always an evil, but the doctor is detestable.

As Spicer drew nigh one of the great hotels in the Piazza di Spagna, he recognized Beecher's travelling-carriage just being unloaded at the door. They had arrived at that moment, and the courier was bustling about and giving his orders like one whose master was likely to exact much and pay handsomely.

"The whole of the first floor, Freytag," said the courier, authoritatively; "every room of it. My Lord cannot bear the disturbance of people lodged near him."

"He used not to be so particular in the 'Bench,'" muttered Spicer. "I remember his sleeping one of three in a room."

"Ah, Mr. Spicer, my Lord said, if I should meet you, to mention he wishes to see you."

"Do you think he'd receive me now, Kuffner?"

"Well, I 'll go and see."

Mr. Kuffner came speedily back, and, beckoning to Spicer to follow, led the way to Lord Lackington's room. "He is dressing for dinner, but will see you," added he, as he introduced him.

The noble Viscount did not turn from the mirror at which he was elaborately arranging his neckcloth as Spicer entered, but satisfied himself with calling out, "Take a chair, Spicer; you 'll find one somewhere."

The tone of the salutation was not more significant than the aspect of this room itself. All the articles of a costly dressing-case of silver-gilt were ranged on one table Essence-bottles, snuff-boxes, pipe-heads, with rings, jewelled buttons, and such-like knick-knackeries covered another; whatever fancy could suggest or superfluity compass of those thousand-and-one trinkets the effeminacy of our age has introduced into male costume, all abounded. Quantities, too, of the most expensive clothes were there,--rich uniforms, fur-lined pelisses, and gold-embroidered waistcoats. And as Mr. Spicer quickly made the tour of these with his eye, his gaze rested at last on my Lord himself, whose dressing-gown of silver brocade would have made a state robe for a Venetian Doge.

"Everything is in confusion just now; but if you 'll throw down some of those things, you 'll get a chair," said Beecher, carelessly.

Spicer, however, preferred to take his place at the chimney, on which he leaned in an attitude that might take either the appearance of respect or familiarity, as the emergency required.

"When did you arrive?" asked my Lord.

"About two hours ago," was the short reply.

Beecher turned to gaze at the man, who answered without more semblance of deference, and now, for the first time, their eyes met. It was, evidently, Spicer's game, by a bold assertion of former intimacy, to place their future intercourse on its old footing; and just as equally decided was Beecher that no traditions of the past should rise up and obtrude themselves on the present, and so he threw into this quiet, steady stare an amount of haughty resolution, before which Spicer quailed and struck his flag.

"Perhaps I should say three hours, my Lord," added Spicer, flurriedly; and Beecher turned away with a slight curl on his lip, as though to say, "The conflict was not a very long one." Spicer marked the expression, and vowed vengeance for it.

"I thought you 'd have got here two or three days before," said Beecher, carelessly.

"Vetturino travelling is not like extra-post, my Lord," said Spicer, fawningly. "You could cover your hundred miles between breakfast and a late dinner, while we thought ourselves wonderful to get over forty from sunrise to midnight."

"That's true," yawned out Beecher; "vetturino work must be detestable."

"No man could give you a better catalogue of its grievances than your father-in-law, my Lord; he has had a long experience of them. I remember, one winter, we started from Brussels in the deep snow,--there was Baring, Hope, Fisk, Grog, and myself."

"I don't care to hear your adventures; and it would be just as agreeable to me were you to call my relative Captain Davis, as to speak of him by a vulgar nickname."

"Faith, my Lord, I did n't mean it. It slipped out quite unconsciously, Just as it did awhile ago,--far more awkwardly, by the bye,--when I was talking to Lady Lacking-ton. The dowager, I mean."

"And what occasion, sir, had you to refer to Captain Davis in _her_ company?" asked Beecher, fiercely.

"She asked me plumply, my Lord, what was her Ladyship's name, what family she came of, who her connections were, and I told her that I never heard of any of them, except her father, popularly known as Grog Davis,--a man that every one on the turf was acquainted with."

"You are a malicious scoundrel, Spicer," said Beecher, whose pale cheek now shook and trembled with passion.

"Well, I don't think so, my Lord," said the other, quietly. "It is not, certainly, the character the world gives me. And as to what passed between her Ladyship and myself this afternoon, I did my very best to escape difficulties. I told her that the Brighton affair was almost forgotten now,--it was fully eighteen years since it happened; that as to Charles Herbert's death, there were two stories,--some averring that poor Charley had actually struck Grog; and then, though the York trial was a public scandal--Well, my Lord, don't look so angrily at me; it was by no fault of _mine_ these transactions became notorious."

"And what have you been all your whole life to this Davis but his cad and errand-boy,--a fellow he has sent with a bad horse,--for he would not have trusted you with a good one,--to run for a hack stakes in an obscure county, a lounger about stables and the steps of club-houses, picking up scraps of news from the jocks and selling them to the gentlemen? Does it become you to turn out Kit Davis and run full cry after him?"

It was but rarely that Beecher's indignation could warm up to the temperature of downright passion; but when it did so, it gave the man a sort of power that few would have recognized in his weak and yielding nature; at all events, Spicer was not the man to stem such a torrent, and so he stared at him with mingled terror and anger.

"I tell you, Mr. Spicer," added Beecher, more passionately still, "if you hadn't known Davis was a thousand miles away, you 'd never have trusted yourself to speak of him in this fashion; but, for your comfort I say it, he 'll be here in a day or two."

"I never said a word of him you 'd not find in the newspapers," said Spicer, doggedly.

"When you come to settle accounts together, it will surprise me very much if there won't be matter for another paragraph in them," said Beecher, with a sneer.

Spicer winced; he tried to arrange his neckcloth, and then to button his glove, but all his efforts could not conceal a tremor that shook him from head to foot. Now, when Beecher got his "man down," he never thought he could trample enough upon him; and as he walked the room in hasty strides to and fro, he jeeringly pictured to Spicer the pleasures of his next meeting with Davis: not, indeed, but that all his eloquence was superfluous; it needed no descriptive powers to convince any who enjoyed Grog's _friendship_ what his enmity might imply.

"I know him as well as _you_ do, my Lord," said Spicer, as his patience at last gave way; "and I know, besides, there's more than half the Continent where he can't set a foot."

"Perhaps you mentioned that, also, to my sister-in-law," said Beecher, derisively.

"No, I said nothing about it!" muttered the other.

There was now a pause; each only waited for any, the slightest show of concession to make advances to the other; for although without the slightest particle of good feeling on either side, they well knew the force of the adage that enjoins friendship among knaves. My Lord thoroughly appreciated the utility of a Spicer; well did Spicer understand all the value of a peer's acquaintance.

Each ruminated long over the situation; and at last Beecher said, "Did poor Lackington leave you anything in his will?"

"A racing snaffle and two whips, my Lord."

"Poor fellow, he never forgot any one, I 'm sure," sighed Beecher.