"I tell you, Burgoyne," he said, "Greatorex
isn't a bad fellow."

Sir Charles Burgoyne shrugged his shoulders,
and yawned.

"Oh, very well," he replied. "Have it your
own way. I hate argument."

"Castletowers likes him," said the young man.
"Castletowers asks him down to Surrey, you
see."

"Castletowers is too good natured by half."

"And Vaughan . . . ."

"Vaughan owes him money, and just endures
him."

The Honourable Edward Brandon rubbed his
head all over, looking more helpless and more
irritable than before. It was a very small head,
and there was very little in it.

"Confound him!" groaned he. "He has
taken up paper of mine, too. I must be civil to
him."

Sir Charles Burgoyne gave utterance to a
dismal whistle; thrust his hands deep down into
his pockets; and said nothing.

"What else can I do?" said Brandon.

"Pay him."

"You might as well tell me to eat him!"

"Nonsense. Borrow the money from
somebody else.

"I wish I could. I wish I knew whom to ask.
I should be so very grateful, you know. It's
only two hundred and fifty."

And the young fellow stared hard at the
Guardsman, who stared just as hard at the Duke
of York's column over the way.

"You can't suggest any one?" he continued,
after a moment.

"I, my dear fellow? Diable! I haven't an
idea."

"You—couldn't manage it for me yourself, I
suppose?"

Sir Charles Burgoyne took his hands from his
pockets, and his hat from a neighbouring peg.

"Edward Brandon," he said, impressively,
"I'm as poor as Saint Simeon Stylites."

"Never heard of the fellow in my life," said
Brandon, peevishly. "Who is he?"

"My dear boy, your religious education has
been neglected. Look for him in your catechism,
and, 'when found, make a note of.'"

"I'll tell you what it is, Burgoyne," said Brandon,
suspicious of "chaff," and, like all weak
people when they are out of temper, slightly
spiteful—"poor, or not poor, you're a clever
fellow at a bargain. Talk of your not wanting
a fancy price, indeed! What's five hundred
guineas if it's not a fancy price, I should like to
know?"

"Mon enfant, you know nothing about it,"
said the Guardsman, placidly.

"I know it was an awful lot too much for that
mare and cab."

"The mare and cab were dirt cheap at the
money."

"Cheap! cheap—when to my certain
knowledge you only gave a hundred and twenty for
the Lady of Lyons, and have had the best part
of two seasons out of her since!"

The Beauty listened with an imperturbable
smile, drew on his gloves, buttoned them,
adjusted his hat, and, having done all these things
with studied deliberation, replied:

"My dear Brandon, I really envy your
memory. Cultivate it, my good fellow, and it
will be a credit to you. Au revoir."

With this he went over to the nearest glass,
corrected the tie of his cravat, and sauntered
towards the door. He had not reached it, however,
when he paused, turned, and came back again.

"By-the-by," said he, "if you're in any present
difficulty, and actually want that two hundred
and fifty—do you want it?"

"Oh, by Jove, don't I! Never wanted it so
much in my life."

"Well, then, there's Trefalden. He's as rich
as the Bank of England, and flings his money
about like water. Ask him, Brandon. He'll be
sure to lend it to you. Vale."

And the baronet once more turned on his heel,
leaving his irritable young friend to swear off his
indignation as best he could. Whereupon the
Honourable Edward Brandon, addressing himself
apparently to the Duke of York upon his column,
did swear with "bated breath" and remarkable
fluency; rubbed his head frantically, till he looked
like an electrical doll; and finally betook himself
to the billiard-room.

When they were both gone, a gentleman who
had been sitting in the adjoining window,
entrenched behind, and apparently absorbed in, the
Times of the day, laid his paper aside;
entered a couple of names in his pocket-book,
smiling quietly the while; and then left the room.
He paused on his way out, to speak to the hall
porter.

"I have waited for Mr. Trefalden," he said,
"till I can wait no longer. You are sure he has
not gone up-stairs?"

"Quite sure, sir."

"Be so good, then, as to give him this card,
and say, if you please, that I will call upon him
at his chambers to-morrow."

The porter laid the card aside with the new
member's letters, of which there were several.
It bore the name of William Trefalden.

CHAPTER XVII. SAXON AT HOME.

"MR. TREFALDEN."

Thus announced by a stately valet, who
received him with marked condescension in
the ante-chamber, and even deigned to open the
door of the reception-room beyond, Mr. Trefalden
passed into his cousin's presence. He was not
alone. Lord Castletowers and Sir Charles
Burgoyne were there; Lord Castletowers leaning
familiarly over the back of Saxon's chair,
dictating the words of a letter which Saxon was
writing; Sir Charles Burgoyne extended at full
length on a sofa, smoking a cigarette with his
eyes closed. Both visitors were obviously as
much at home as if in their own chambers. They