him--loathsome, and his own brother! This man, who with some of the
best blood of England in his veins, is so far, far below the
standard that marks the gentleman. Surely vice is degrading in more
ways than one. To the professor, Sir Hastings, with his handsome,
dissipated face, stands out, tawdry, hideous, vulgar--why, every
word he says is tinged with coarseness and yet, what a pretty boy he
used to be, with his soft, sunny hair and laughing eyes----

"You will help me, eh?" persists Sir Hastings, with his little dry
chronic cough, that seems to shake his whole frame.

"Impossible," says the professor, simply, coldly.

_"No?_ Why?"

The professor looks at him (a penetrating glance), but says nothing.

"Oh! damn it all!" says his brother, his brow darkening. "You had
_better,_ you know, if you want the old name kept above water much
longer."

"You mean----?" says the professor, turning a grave face to his.

"Nothing but what is honorable. I tell you I mean to turn over a new
leaf. 'Pon my word, I mean _that._ I'm sick of all this old racket,
it's killing me. And my title is as good a one as she can find
anywhere, and if I'm dipped--rather--her money would pull me
straight again, and----"

He pauses, struck by something in the Professor's face.