But Bellew, knowing nothing of that latter-day hysteria which wears the disguise, and calls itself “Temperament,” and being only a rather ordinary young man, did nothing of the kind.  Having lighted his pipe, and read the letter through again, he rang instead for Baxter, his valet.

Baxter was small, and slight, and dapper as to person, clean-shaven, alert of eye, and soft of movement,—­in a word, Baxter was the cream of gentlemen’s gentlemen, and the very acme of what a valet should be, from the very precise parting of his glossy hair, to the trim toes of his glossy boots.  Baxter as has been said, was his valet, and had been his father’s valet, before him, and as to age, might have been thirty, or forty, or fifty, as he stood there beside the table, with one eye-brow raised a trifle higher than the other, waiting for Bellew to speak.

“Baxter.”

“Sir?”

“Take a seat.”

“Thank you sir.”  And Baxter sat down, not too near his master, nor too far off, but exactly at the right, and proper distance.

“Baxter, I wish to consult with you.”

“As between Master and Servant, sir?”

“As between man and man, Baxter.”

“Very good, Mr. George, sir!”

“I should like to hear your opinion, Baxter, as to what is the proper, and most accredited course to adopt when one has been—­er—­crossed in love?”

“Why sir,” began Baxter, slightly wrinkling his smooth brow, “so far as I can call to mind, the courses usually adopted by despairing lovers, are, in number, four.”

“Name them, Baxter.”

“First, Mr. George, there is what I may term, the Course
Retaliatory,—­which is Marriage—­”

“Marriage?”

“With—­another party, sir,—­on the principle that there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out, and—­er—­pebbles on beaches, sir; you understand me, sir?”

“Perfectly, go on.”

“Secondly, there is the Army, sir, I have known of a good many enlistments on account of blighted affections, Mr. George, sir; indeed, the Army is very popular.”

“Ah?” said Bellew, settling the tobacco in his pipe with the aid of the salt-spoon, “Proceed, Baxter.”

“Thirdly, Mr. George, there are those who are content to—­to merely disappear.”

“Hum!” said Bellew.

“And lastly sir, though it is usually the first,—­there is dissipation, Mr. George.  Drink, sir,—­the consolation of bottles, and—­”

“Exactly!” nodded Bellew.  “Now Baxter,” he pursued, beginning to draw diagrams on the table-cloth with the salt-spoon, “knowing me as you do, what course should you advise me to adopt?”

“You mean, Mr. George,—­speaking as between man and man of course,—­you mean that you are in the unfortunate position of being—­crossed in your affections, sir?”

“Also—­heart-broken, Baxter.”

“Certainly, sir!”

“Miss Marchmont marries the Duke of Hyde,—­in three weeks, Baxter.”