“It is not cheap, however, even to them,” returned Mrs. Yorke, still busy with her antimacassar.  “It may cost one one’s life, for instance.”

“And what then?” inquired Richard, carelessly.

“Nobody knows ‘what then,’ Dick.  Our fanatic yonder had one opinion; our philosopher there”—­she pointed to the skull—­“another.  Both of them know by this time, and yet can not tell us.  It is the one case where the experience of others can not benefit ourselves.”

This subject had no charms for Richard.  When we are what is vulgarly called “in the sulks,” and displeased (if we were to own it) with the system of universal government in this world, the next seems of but little importance.  There may be a miscarriage of justice (that is, a thwarting of our particular wishes) even there.  Perhaps Mrs. Yorke was aware that her son’s clouded face did not portend religious or metaphysical speculation, for she abruptly changed the subject.

“And what are you going to do, Dick, now that this Crompton plan has failed?”

He did not answer, but stood with his back to the fire, moodily stroking his silken mustache.

“Richard”—­she rose, and placed her plump white hand upon his shoulder;—­“it is very, very seldom that I ask a favor of you, but I am about to do so now.  Promise me that you will never again undertake for another what you undertook for this man Chandos.”

He laughed, as he had laughed before, in bitter fashion.  “Why not?  It was fifty pounds down; and apparently no risk:  that is, no risk from the law, which has omitted to provide for the contingency.  Next to being above the law is surely to be ahead of it.  Besides, I am really a public benefactor.  Without my help, the state would already have been deprived of the services of four young gentlemen, all of excellent families.  Of course, such a calling has its disadvantages.  It is very difficult to obtain clients.  The offer of one’s valuable assistance is liable to be declined uncivilly—­it requires the talents of a diplomatist to convey it without offense—­still, I possess those talents.  Again, undoubtedly the profession is in itself temporary, can never be permanent; but then, has not nature especially favored me for it, after my mother’s model?  Shall I not be a boy at forty, and blooming at fifty-three?  The idea of you being fifty-three, mother!”

As they stood together side by side it seemed, indeed, impossible that this young man could be her son, far less the offspring of her middle age.  She smiled upon him sadly, patting his handsome cheek.  “And is my Richard so full-grown a man,” said she, “as, to flatter, and not to grant?” It was impossible to imagine a more winsome voice, or a more tender tone.

“Nay, mother; I will promise, if you please,” said the young fellow, kissing her.  “And now, let us divide this Crompton spoil together.”  He pulled out his purse, and counted the contents.  “There is Carew’s three hundred, a few pounds I won at pool, and dull Jack’s IOU for twenty—­worth, perhaps, five.  Come, we two are partners in the game of life, you know, and must share alike.”