would have done to bet upon, but there was no one to bet with. The pavement began to dry, and Charles decided on a walk. He reached the clubs, and stood there for five minutes deliberating whether he should turn to the right hand or to the left, having no necessity for turning to either; and here we cannot but say that necessity is "an injured angel." He, she, or it—is never but harsh, stern, and unpitying; and "cruel necessity" is the phrase par distinction of all parted lovers. Now I hold that necessity merits more amiable adjectives;—what a great deal of trouble is saved thereby. To an undecided person like myself, the inevitable is invaluable. Before Charles had done standing like Hercules in the allegory between Pleasure and Virtue, alias the right and left of St. James’s-street—a cabriolet drove rapidly up to the door.
"My dear fellow!" said its occupier, "I am in search of you. I want you to go down with me to my aunt’s, and stay there till Wednesday. Her house is within three miles of Croydon, so you could be back in town at an hour’s notice. Let me take you to your hotel, and thence I shall get you to drive me down."
Charles accepted the offer with the gratitude of a desperate man; it was just what suited him, and he sprung into the cabriolet in the gayest spirits. Horace Langham, the knight who thus had delivered him for the dragon ennui, had long been the object of his especial envy. He was a young man about town, good-looking, well dressed, with all the externals of a gentleman, quite unquestionable. The few needful preparations were soon made, and as they settled themselves in the stanhope, Langham said, "I have made you drive us down, for my horse has been overworked lately. My aunt unluckily has a great prejudice against strange servants; but there is a nice little country-inn close by, so yours will do very well."
The conversation was for a time very animated, for Horace knew something about every one who was anybody; and was very well inclined to tell all he knew. Anecdotes though, like other treasures, must come to an end; and Charles took advantage of a pause to ask if Mrs. Langham had any family.
"Only a niece," was the reply.
"Is she pretty?" asked his companion.
"Not if you put it to my conscience," said the other; "but she is likely to be rich: will that do as well?"
Charles coloured, from "a complication of disorders." First he was quite shy enough to be annoyed at its being supposed that he cared whether there were any young ladies in the world or not; and, secondly, he was quite romantic enough to be shocked at the idea of money supplying the want of a pretty face. He was relieved from his embarrassment by Mr. Langham’s snatching the reins from his hand, and exclaiming, "Bouverie, we must drive back to town immediately! I have forgotten my aunt's netting silk—she will never forgive me!—old ladies are so cursedly unreasonable. Why did she plague me about her horrid silks? However, if we make haste, we shall yet be in time for dinner.—I wonder why old women are left in the world!"
Without waiting for Charles’s reply, he put the horse to its utmost speed, and drove furiously back to town. The drive was now any thing but agreeable: a heavy shower of rain beat directly in their faces, and
