My pet will see this at a glance, that the
two colours really alternate in equal batches.
Had I been one of the players—just to give
you an idea of the easy way the money is
made—I should have earned enough in
ten minutes to have paid all our year's
rent.

This morning, when we are all doing our
procession at the wells, that agreeable man
of God, the Dean of——, comes up to me,
with that smug obsequiousness which he
has unconsciously got to exhibit to
inferiors, from the habit of always addressing
lords and baronets.

"I saw your name," he said, "in the
Fremdenliste, and at once thought you
must be one of the Edward Austens of
Berkshire. Am I right—the member?"

"Yes," I said; " my father was Edward
Austen, the member."

"Good gracious! I was sure of it. How
wonderful are the ways"—he was going to
add " of Providence!" but more decorously
substituted, " the ways—ahem—we find
people turning up!"

Of course he had not heard of my fall in
ilic world, or, if he had, thought it was
one of those genteel bits of ruin which
don't affect people of condition. He was
a great man at a charity sermon, and very
strong "against Rome." We walked up
and down together, he chattering all the
time, with every now and again a nod and
"How d'ye do?" to some one. After which
he would get abstracted, and look after
that lord uneasily—I think meditating
whether there was likely to be a vacancy
beside the lord, when he might join in. I
remember a sermon by this dignitary of
extraordinary warmth and power, on the
text, " Go up higher," which, in his own
life, he illustrated forcibly; and I believe
the true bearing for him of the text was
unconsciously this: "he that humbleth
himself" was to do so, through the hope of
being exalted.  I dare say I do him wrong
in this, for he was a charitable man; but
certainly loved a lord a little too much.
He asked me, "to make one of their
party" at dinner at the Shepherdess, a
mean, obscure place, which some
irreverent people always called "that pot-
house of a place," but where " the swells"
were fond of planning dinners. Is not this
the world all over? Some obscure spot or
thing is taken up by " ladies of quality"—
no matter what discomfort or stupidity
follows—the world pronounces it charming,
and would give their poor battered souls—
the cheapest thing they have—to get there.

I went to the Shepherdess that evening,
and found ten people at the dean's table.
Only one lord—the salt of the earth—but
certainly some " nice people," as he would
call them. The dinner was bad enough,
as, indeed, Mr. Boxwell, a hearty jovial
member of parliament, said plainly.

"In fact, my dear dean, what surprises
me altogether is to find you in this queer
place at all."

"Find me here," repeated the dean—
"find me here! Surely there are the
nicest people—Lord——, Lady——, and
Sir John; why, there is nothing queer about
them."

"I don't mean that; but I was thinking
of a sermon I have heard of yours, on
' Responsibility,' and all that, and how one
preached more by simply not saying a
word, than by regular sermons. A capital
idea, by the way, which I wish was carried
out in all our churches."

"Oh, that's all very well," said the dean.

(I know these conversations amuse my
pet, and I try to recollect scraps of them
as nearly as possible.)

"In short, it is so droll to find all the
good people gathered here—aprons, shovels,
white ties, gaiters, high collars, holy
faces—all clustered about a common
gambling-house. You can call it Kursaal, and
all that, and talk of the croupier and such
dignified names; but we know, if the great
Blanc himself took a scrubby room in St.
James's-street, the police would just burst
in, and drag him and his croupiers with
unnecessary violence before Sir Thomas
Henry, who would refuse bail."

I enjoyed this thoroughly. These axe
my own views, only put so much better.
But the dean was a shrewd man, and
when he saw we were all listening, said:
"Oh, we come for our healths. We are
ordered here, sir—our health. Those people
have nothing to do with us. And, to tell
you the truth, I don't look at it in that
way at all. They tell me it is all perfectly
fair and above board; and I hear the good
they do, the sums they give away in
charity, is something incalculable. The
widows and the orphans of the place come
to them, and never go away empty."

I was astonished to hear such careless
language from a man in so responsible a
position, and could not resist saying,
"But how many a widow and orphan, Mr.
Dean, have they made destitute? How many
households have they filled with desolation?
The ruin they have caused spreads over
every land, and many and many are the