standing, half stunned and passive, in the great crisis of his fate.

The day was now fixed for their departure to Wendover, when Saville was
taken alarmingly ill; Godolphin was sent for, late one evening. He found
the soi-disant Epicurean at the point of death, but in perfect possession
of his senses. The scene around him was emblematic of his life: save
Godolphin, not a friend was by. Saville had some dozen or two of natural
children--where were they? He had abandoned them to their fate: he knew
not of their existence, nor they of his death. Lonely in his selfishness
was he left to breathe out the small soul of a man of bon-ton! But I
must do Saville the justice to say, that if he was without the mourners
and the attendants that belonged to natural ties, he did not require them.
His was no whimpering exit from life: the champagne was drained to the
last drop; and Death, like the true boon companion, was about to shatter
the empty glass.

"Well, my friend," said Saville, feebly, but pressing with weak fingers
Godolphin's hand--"well, the game is up, the lights are going out, and
presently the last guest will depart, and all be darkness!" here the
doctor came to the bedside with a cordial. The dying man, before he took
it, fixed upon the leech an eye which, although fast glazing, still
retained something of its keen, searching shrewdness.

"Now tell me, my good sir, how many hours more can you keep in this--this
breath?"

The doctor looked at Godolphin.

"I understand you," said Saville; you are shy on these points. Never be
shy, my good fellow; it is inexcusable after twenty: besides, it is a bad