How little could he have anticipated that within a few days he, too,
would be lying among the "vulgar fellows" who die in their youth at
five-and-thirty!

And, indeed, there seemed little evidence of such a tragic possibility;
for the very next day he was charming the House of Lords with a speech
of singular eloquence and statesmanlike grasp--the speech of a man in
the prime of his powers. Such efforts as this, however, were but as the
spasmodic flickerings of a candle that is burning to its end, and were
followed by deeper plunges into the dissipations that were surely
killing him.

It was towards the close of the month of November, in 1779, that Lord
Lyttelton left London and its fatal allurements for a few days' peaceful
life at his country seat, Pit Place, at Epsom (in those days a
fashionable health resort), where he had invited a house-party,
including several ladies, to join him. And, it should be said, no host
could possibly be more charming and gracious; for, in spite of his
depraved tastes, Lord Lyttelton was a man of remarkable fascination--a
wit, a born raconteur, and a courtier to his finger-tips.

During the first day of his residence at Epsom the following
incident--which may or may not have had a bearing on the strange events
that followed--took place.

"Lord Lyttelton," to quote Sir Digby Neave, "had come to
Pit Place in very precarious health, and was ordered not
to take any but the gentlest exercise. As he was walking
in the conservatory with Lady Affleck and the Misses
Affleck, a robin perched on an orange-tree close to them.