stood his old friend Charles Herbert, who had matriculated on
the same day as himself, with whom he had been merry and wise
for twelve revolving terms. Different occupations and varying
interests had interrupted the friendship, and it was six years
since Villiers had seen Herbert; and now he looked upon this
wreck of a man with grief and dismay, mingled with a certain
inquisitiveness as to what dreary chain of circumstances had
dragged him down to such a doleful pass. Villiers felt together
with compassion all the relish of the amateur in mysteries, and
congratulated himself on his leisurely speculations outside the
restaurant.

They walked on in silence for some time, and more than
one passer-by stared in astonishment at the unaccustomed
spectacle of a well-dressed man with an unmistakable beggar
hanging on to his arm, and, observing this, Villiers led the way
to an obscure street in Soho. Here he repeated his question.

"How on earth has it happened, Herbert? I always
understood you would succeed to an excellent position in
Dorsetshire. Did your father disinherit you? Surely not?"

"No, Villiers; I came into all the property at my poor
father's death; he died a year after I left Oxford. He was a
very good father to me, and I mourned his death sincerely
enough. But you know what young men are; a few months later I
came up to town and went a good deal into society. Of course I
had excellent introductions, and I managed to enjoy myself very
much in a harmless sort of way. I played a little, certainly,
but never for heavy stakes, and the few bets I made on races