parrying the curiosity of the French servants; he knew Dartmouth's
temper too well to venture to call a doctor, and he hoped that in a
few days the mood would wear itself out. But at the end of a week
he became seriously alarmed. He had spent the last day but one in a
desperate and fruitless attempt to rouse Dartmouth, and had used every
expedient his ingenuity could suggest. Finally, at his wits' end, he
determined to call in the help of Lord Bective Hollington, who was
Dartmouth's most intimate friend, and had lived with him and his moods
for months together. He came to this decision late on the night of the
seventh day, and at eleven the next morning he presented himself at
Hollington's apartments in the Rue Lincoln. Hollington was still in
bed and reading the morning paper, but he put it down at once.

"Send him in," he said. "Something is the matter with Harold," he
continued to himself. "Something unusual has been the matter with him
all the week, when he wouldn't even see me. Well, Jones, what is it?"
as that perturbed worthy entered. "You are an early visitor."

"Oh! my Lord!" exclaimed Jones, tearfully; "something dreadful hails
Master 'Arold."

"What is it?" demanded Hollington, quickly. "Is he ill?"

Jones shook his head. "No, my Lord; I wish 'ee was. 'Ee's worse than
hill. 'Ee's got one of 'is moods."

"Poor Harold! I thought he had got over all that since he had given
himself over to the distractions of wine, woman, and song. I haven't
seen him in one of his moods for three or four years."