life), and that the fit is over. I do not pry into your secrets; I know
their delicacy, I do not ask which of you drew back; for, to have gone
forward, to have married, would have been madness in both. Nay, it was an
_impossibility_: it could not have happened to my pupil; the ablest, the
subtlest, the wisest of my pupils. But, however it was broken off, I
repeat that I am glad it happened. One is never sure of a man's wisdom,
till he has been really and vainly in love. You know what that moralizing
lump of absurdity, Lord Edouard, has said in the Julie--'the path of the
passions conducts us to philosophy!' It is true, very true; and now that
the path has been fairly trod, the goal is at hand. _Now,_ I can confide
in your steadiness; now, I can feel that you will run no chance in future,
of over-appreciating that bauble, Woman. You will beg, borrow, steal, and
exchange or lose the jewel, with the same delicious excitement, coupled
with the same steady indifference, with which we play at a more scientific
game, and for a more comprehensive reward. I say more comprehensive
reward: for how many women may we be able to buy by a judicious bet on the
odd trick!"

"Your turn is sudden," said Godolphin, smiling; "and there is some justice
in your reasoning. The fit _is_ over; and if ever I can be wise, I have
entered on wisdom now. But talk of this no more."

"I will not," said Saville, whose unerring tact had reached just the point
where to stop, and who had led Godolphin through just that vein of
conversation, half sentimentalising, half sensible, all profligate, which
seldom fails to win the ear of a man both of imagination and of the world.
"I will not; and, to vary the topic, I will turn egoist, and tell you
_my_ adventures."

With this, Saville began a light and amusing recital of his various and