“Digby,” said L’Estrange, with some grave alteration of manner, “talk neither of dying nor begging. You were nearer death when the balls whistled round you at Waterloo. If soldier meets soldier and says ‘Friend, thy purse,’ it is not begging, but brotherhood. Ashamed! By the soul of Belisarius! if I needed money, I would stand at a crossing with my Waterloo medal over my breast, and say to each sleek citizen I had helped to save from the sword of the Frenchman, ‘It is your shame if I starve.’ Now, lean upon me; I see you should be at home: which way?”
The poor soldier pointed his hand towards Oxford Street, and reluctantly accepted the proffered arm.
“And when you return from your relations, you will call on me? What—hesitate? Come, promise.”
“I will.”
“On your honour.”
“If I live, on my honour.”
“I am staying at present at Knightsbridge, with my father; but you will always hear of my address at No.—, Grosvenor Square, Mr. Egerton’s. So you have a long journey before you?”
“Very long.”
“Do not fatigue yourself,—travel slowly. Ho, you foolish child! I see you are jealous of me. Your father has another arm to spare you.”
Thus talking, and getting but short answers, Lord L’Estrange continued to exhibit those whimsical peculiarities of character, which had obtained for him the repute of heartlessness in the world. Perhaps the reader may think the world was not in the right; but if ever the world does judge rightly of the character of a man who does not live for the world nor talk of the world nor feel with the world, it will be centuries after the soul of Harley L’Estrange has done with this planet.