the lip that smiles, not the eye."

"Exactly as you say; you have seen him, then?"

"Why, I am not sure, since you say his name is Gower."

"He says his name is Gower," returned Lord Castleton, dryly, as he
inhaled the Beaudesert mixture.

"And where is he now,--with Mr. Trevanion?"

"Yes, I believe so. Ah! here we are--Fudge & Fidget! But perhaps,"
added Lord Castleton, with a gleam of hope in his blue eye,--"perhaps
they are not at home!"

Alas! that was an illusive "imagining," as the poets of the nineteenth
century unaffectedly express themselves. Messrs. Fudge & Fidget were
never out to such clients as the Marquis of Castleton; with a deep sigh,
and an altered expression of face, the Victim of Fortune slowly
descended the steps of the carriage.

"I can't ask you to wait for me," said he; "Heaven only knows how long I
shall be kept! Take the carriage where you will, and send it back to
me."

"A thousand thanks, my dear lord, I would rather walk. But you will let
me call on you before I leave town."

"Let you!--I insist on it. I am still at the old quarters,--under
pretence," said the marquis, with a sly twinkle of the eyelid, "that