He ate voraciously, and drank his hot brandy-and-water, while Mrs. Yorke
worked busily at an antimacassar, in silence.

"You are not disappointed at seeing me, that's one thing, mother?"

"No. Read that." She pushed across to him the letter she had been
writing to him that evening, and pointed to this sentence: "You have my
good wishes, but _not_ my hopes--I have no hopes. I shall be surprised
if I do not have you back again before the week is out."

"Just so," said the young man, cynically. "You have the pleasure, then,
which your dear friend Joanna there never enjoyed, of seeing your own
prophecy accomplished; and I, for my part, have three hundred pounds to
solace myself with for what has certainly been a disappointment."

"I am glad you are so philosophic, Dick. It is the best thing we can be,
if we can't be religious. How did it all happen?"

"I scarcely know the plot (for there _was_ a plot), but only the
_dénouement_. I had offended a certain Mr. Fane, toady-in-ordinary to
Frederick Chandos."

"Ah!" cried Mrs. Yorke, shaking her head.

"Yes; you were right again, mother, there--the whole affair is a tribute
to your sagacity, if you will only permit me to narrate it to you. I say
that this fellow Fane, when walking with his patron's brother, stupid
Jack, had me pointed out to him in town one day as the man who had
'pulled him through,' as he called it. Can you imagine how even such a