Notwithstanding his intercession with Maurice on behalf of Lady Adela’s forthcoming novel, Lionel did not seem disposed to resume the friendly relations with the people up at Campden Hill which had formerly existed.  He did not even call after the dinner-party.  If Mr. Octavius Quirk were for the moment installed as chief favorite, he had no wish to interfere with him; there were plenty of other houses open, if one chose to go.  But the fact is, Lionel now spent many afternoons and nearly every evening at the Garden Club; whist before dinner, poker after supper, being the established rule.  Moreover, a new element had been introduced, as far as he was concerned.  Mr. Percival Miles had been elected a member of the club, and had forthwith presented himself in the card-room, where he at once distinguished himself by his bold and intrepid play.  The curious thing was that, while openly professing a kind of cold acquaintanceship, it was invariably against Lionel Moore that he made his most determined stand; with the other players he might play an ordinarily discreet and cautious game; but when Moore could be challenged, this pale-faced young man never failed promptly to seize the opportunity.  And the worst of it was that he had extraordinary luck, both in the run of the cards and in his manoeuvres.

“What is that young whipper-snapper up to?” Lionel said to himself, after a particularly bad night (and morning) as he sat staring into the dead ashes of his fireplace.  “He wanted to take my life—­until my good angel interfered and saved me.  Now does he want to break me financially?  By Jove! they’re coming near to doing it among them.  I shall have to go to Moss to-morrow for another L250.  Well, what does it matter?  The luck must turn some time.  If it doesn’t?—­if it doesn’t?—­then there may come the trip before the mast, as the final panacea, according to Maurice.  Australia?—­there would be freedom there, and perhaps forgetfulness.”

As he was passing into his bedroom he chanced to observe a package that was lying on a chair, and for a second he glanced at the handwriting of the address.  It was Miss Burgoyne’s.  What could she want with him now?  He cut the string, and opened the parcel; behold, here was the brown-and-scarlet woollen vest that she had knitted for him with her own fair hands.  Why these impatiently down-drawn brows?  A true lover would have passionately kissed this tender token of affection, and bethought him of all the hours and half-hours and quarters of an hour during which she had been employed in her pretty task, no doubt thinking of him all the time.  Alas! the love-gift was almost angrily thrown on to the chair again—­and he went into his own room.

CHAPTER XXII.

PRIUS DEMENTAT.