When Devereux entered his drawing-room, and lighted his candles, he was in a black and bitter mood. He stood at the window for a while, and drummed on the pane, looking in the direction of the barrack, where all the fun was going on, but thinking, in a chaotic way, of things very different, and all toned with that strange sense of self-reproach and foreboding which, of late, had grown habitual with him — and not without just cause.

‘This shall be the last. ’Twas dreadful, seeing that poor Nan; and I want it — I can swear, I really and honestly want it — only one glass to stay my heart. Everyone may drink in moderation — especially if he’s heart-sick, and has no other comfort — one glass and no more — curse it.’

So one glass of brandy — I’m sorry to say, unmixed with water — the handsome misanthropist sipped and sipped, to the last drop; and then sat down before his fire, and struck, and poked, and stabbed at it in a bitter, personal sort of way, until here and there some blazes leaped up, and gave his eyes a dreamy sort of occupation; and he sat back, with his hands in his pockets, and his feet on the fender, gazing among the Plutonic peaks and caverns between the bars.

‘I’ve had my allowance for to-night; tomorrow night, none at all. ’Tis an accursed habit: and I’ll not allow it to creep upon me. No, I’ve never fought it fairly, as I mean to do now —’tis quite easy, if one has but the will to do it.’

So he sat before his fire, chewing the cud of bitter fancy only; and he recollected he had not quite filled his glass, and up he got with a swagger, and says he —

‘We’ll drink fair, if you please — one glass — one only — but that, hang it — a bumper.’

So he made a rough calculation.

‘We’ll say so much — here or there, ’tis no great matter. A thimble full won’t drown me. Pshaw! that’s too much. What am I to do with it?— hang it. Well, we can’t help it —’tis the last.’

So whatever the quantity may have been, he drank it too, and grew more moody; and was suddenly called up from the black abyss by the entrance of little Puddock, rosy and triumphant, from the ball.

‘Ha! Puddock! Then, the fun’s over. I’m glad to see you. I’ve been tête-à-tête with my shadow — cursed bad company, Puddock. Where’s Cluffe?’

‘Gone home, I believe.’

‘So much the better. You know Cluffe better than I, and there’s a secret about him I never could find out. You have, maybe?’

‘What’s that?’ lisped Puddock.

‘What the deuce Cluffe’s good for.’

‘Oh! tut! We all know Cluffe’s a very good fellow.’

Devereux looked from under his finely pencilled brows with a sad sort of smile at good little Puddock.

‘Puddock,’ says he, ‘I’d like to have you write my epitaph.

Puddock looked at him with his round eyes a little puzzled, and then he said —

‘You think, maybe, I’ve a turn for making verses; and you think also I like you, and there you’re quite right.’

Devereux laughed, but kindly, and shook the fat little hand he proffered.

‘I wish I were like you, Puddock. We’ve the knowledge of good and evil between us. The knowledge of good is all yours: you see nothing but the good that men have; you see it — and, I dare say, truly — where I can’t. The darker knowledge is mine.’

Puddock, who thought he thoroughly understood King John, Shylock, and Richard III., was a good deal taken aback by Devereux’s estimate of his penetration.

‘Well, I don’t think you know me, Devereux,’ resumed he with a thoughtful lisp. ‘I’m much mistaken, or I could sound the depths of a villain’s soul as well as most men.’

‘And if you did you’d find it full of noble qualities,’ said Dick Devereux. ‘What book is that?’

‘The tragical history of Doctor Faustus,’ answered Puddock. ‘I left it here more than a week ago. Have you read it?’

‘Faith, Puddock, I forgot it! Let’s see what ’tis like,’ said Devereux. ‘Hey day!’ And he read —

‘Now, Faustus, let thine............