ought: the family tradition, the social scheme--the girl.

"What a brute I am!" he said. "I'm never wholly of it. I either want
to do as they did when George Villiers had his innings, or play the gipsy
as I did so many years."

The gipsy! As he held the papers in his hand he thought as he had done
last night, of the gipsy-van on Ridley Common, and of--how well he
remembered her name!--of Andree.

He suddenly threw his head back, and laughed. "Well, well, but it is
droll! Last night, an English gentleman, an honourable member with the
Treasury Bench in view; this morning an adventurer, a Romany. I itch for
change. And why? Why? I have it all, yet I could pitch it away this
moment for a wild night on the slope, or a nigger hunt on the Rivas.
Chateau-Leoville, Goulet, and Havanas at a bob?--Jove, I thirst for a
swig of raw Bourbon and the bite of a penny Mexican! Games, Gaston,
games! Why the devil did little Joe worry at being made 'move on'? I've
got 'move on' in every pore: I'm the Wandering Jew. Oh, a gentleman born
am I! But the Romany sweats from every inch of you, Gaston Belward!
What was it that sailor on the Cyprian said of the other? 'For every
hair of him was rope-yarn, and every drop of blood Stockholm tar!'"

He opened a paper. Immediately he was interested. Another; then,
quickly, two more; and at last, getting to his feet with an exclamation,
he held a document to the light, and read it through carefully. He was
alone in the room. He calmly folded it up, put it in his pocket, placed
the rest of the papers back, locked the box, and passing into the next
room, gave it to the clerk. Then he went out, a curious smile on his
face. He stopped presently on the pavement.