"Oh I know Myles," said Ellersby promptly, "a rattling good fellow, was with him at Cambridge but we somehow never hit it off--trying to make a fortune by his pen I hear."
"Yes! and hasn't made a penny yet, so he acts as secretary to his cousin Lord Calliston--he's next heir to the title you know, hey!"
"Much chance he'll have of it," replied Ellersby, contemptuously. "Calliston's sure to marry and have heirs, unless he kills himself in the meantime with drink--but, to revert to our former conversation--the Balscombe ménage seems slightly mixed."
"Hey! rather--it stands this way," explained Marton, eagerly; "Balscombe's jealous of his wife on account of Calliston--Lady B. is jealous of Calliston on account of Miss Penfold, and that young lady does not care two straws for the whole lot of them in comparison to Myles Desmond."
"Sounds like the second act of a French play," murmured Ellersby, yawning. "Well, when I see Lady Balscombe, I'll give you my opinion of her looks; meantime, you must be dry after all that talking, so come and have a drink."
"Where are you stopping?" asked Marton, as they went to the supper-room.
"Guelph Hotel, Jermyn Street," said Ellersby, "only for a few days till I get my rooms fixed up; I've brought such a lot of things home that my chambers look like an old curiosity shop. What are you having?"
"Champagne," replied Marton. "Oh, I say, dear boy," seeing his companion with a small glass full of brandy, "that looks bad at this hour! Hey--you haven't----
"No, I haven't," interrupted Ellersby impatiently, "I'm only taking this to-night because I don't feel up to the mark."
Marton said no more, but after parting with his companion went back to the ball-room, and meeting a friend, confided to him that poor Ellersby was going to the dogs through drink.