“I was anxious about you, mon cher” (they had grown wonder fully familiar over their Champagne), “you appeared so much excited last night,” he began, uncrossing his graceful legs, clad in a seraphic pair of Blin et Fils chef-d’œuvres.
“Sure such a pair were never seen!”
“You seemed so carried away by your enthusiasm that I thought you would not sleep, and thus ventured to call at this unreasonable hour to see how you were getting on.”
“Very kind and friendly of you, I’m sure,” returned Lord Alfred, quite overcome by such unhoped-for condescension on the part of his model Mentor. “I suppose I did get rather excited, but I’m all right again this morning,—at least I shall be,” he continued, as a dizzy swimming in the head obliged him to grasp a chair-back for support, “as soon as I have had a cup of coffee.”
“Or if I might suggest, a bottle of Seltzer-water with a suspicion of Cognac in it, is a much more efficient substitute: allow me to brew for you;—may I ring the bell?”
Receiving the permission he sought, Horace acted accordingly, and when the servant appeared, desired him (on a glance from Lord Alfred, delegating all authority to him) to bring a bottle of Seltzer-water, brandy, and a lemon. Possessed of these desiderata, he commenced shredding off two or three delicate little spiral circles of lemon-peel, like yellow watch-springs, then dropping these into a Brobdignagian tumbler, warranted not to run over under any severity of effervescence, he added thereunto a liqueur glass full of the purest (and strongest) Cognac. Unwiring the Seltzer-water, he allowed it to draw its own cork (for thus, under his skilful control, did the operation appear to be performed), and, forcing it to explode into the tumbler, he presented the beverage, foaming wildly, to Lord Alfred, who, at the risk of immediate suffocation, drank it off in that rabid condition, and providentially surviving, declared himself greatly benefited by the treatment. Having thus re-invigorated his patient’s exhausted frame, D’Almayne proceeded to perform the same friendly office by his mind, and very good counsel did he bestow upon him—only that his advice had this peculiarity, viz., that whilst in words he recommended Lord Alfred Courtland to bend his steps in a northerly direction, that young nobleman felt an unaccountable conviction that by proceeding due south, he should raise himself in the estimation of his Mentor and of all other men of spirit. Thus he heard, with a complacent smile, that D’Almayne was surprised at the manner in which he had carried all before him at the gaming-table on the previous evening; that every one imagined him to be an old hand at such matters; and one individual, who was generally supposed to make a very decent living by gambling, had declared his conviction that Lord Alfred played on a system, and a deucedly clever system too!—At all of which D’Almayne appeared alarmed and uneasy, and assured his friend that it was a very dangerous talent for a young man, and that it would be a great relief to his mind if Lord Alfred would promise never to go there again; to which his lordship replied by lighting a cigar, handing the box to his Mentor, and asking him whether he considered him such an irreclaimable muff as not to be able to win or lose a matter of a hundred pounds without making a ninny of himself. Declaring himself innocent of any such disrespectful innuendo, D’Almayne also lighted a cigar (it being impossible in these piping times to do anything without plenty of puffing), and these new allies grew loquacious and confidential; but with this difference, that Lord Alfred gave his confidence, and Horace obligingly received the sacred deposit. Thus, after a fair amount of the horticultural cruelty, yclept “beating about the bush,” had been committed, that good young man was made acquainted with the “secret sorrow,” which, as the reader is aware, was with much success performing the part of the “worm i’ the bud” to Lord Alfred’s “damask cheek.” As soon as Mentor thoroughly understood the state of the case, which he did in an incredibly short space of time—tact being so strongly developed in him that it almost amounted to intuition—he followed the advice of Polly in the “Beggar’s Opera,” by “pondering well” before he ventured to prescribe for the complaint of his Telemachus. Having sat with bent brows until his cigar was exhausted, he flung the end into the grate, smoothed his beloved moustaches, and then spoke oracularly:—
“You see, mon cher,” he began, “you are taking to the rôle of a flâneur, what you call a man-about-town, full early for an Englishman; thus, the chief thing you want is self-confidence, without which a man can neither do proper justice to himself nor to his position. Now it seems to me the best thing for you would be to get some pretty woman of good station to take you in hand; you must try and establish a flirtation with somebody.”
“Cui bono?” inquired Telemachus; “the governor would never stand me marrying for—oh! not for the next five years!”
“Marrying before you’re one-and-twenty! My dear fellow, what can have put such a frightful idea into your head!” exclaimed Mentor, aghast at the supposition. “No, no; marriage is the last thing I should dream of recommending, except quite as a dernier ressort. For which reason, I was about to add, that the best practice to set you at ease with yourself, and therefore with other people, will be to devote your attentions to some pretty and fashionable married woman;—there! don’t look so awfully scandalized; of course I only mean a sentimental and platonic affair—just enough to excite and interest you into self-oblivion. When you once forget your ipsissimus ego—when, as that punning friend of yours, Mr. Coverdale, would say, you cease to mind your I—all your anxieties in regard to popular opinion will vanish, and you will soon find that with your face, figure, address, and position, Lord Alfred Courtland will become the admired of all admirers. And that reminds me that Mrs. Coverdale would be just the person for that purpose;—she is very pretty, moves in good society, and, entre nous, is smitten with you already!”
“But really—of course I don’t set up to be any better than my neighbours,” stammered the poor boy, colouring at the possibility of being suspected of such slow attributes as good feeling and right principle, and yet unable entirely to silence the promptings of his better nature;—“of course I don’t set up for a saint; but Harry Coverdale is an old friend and schoolfellow, and one of the best creatures in the world; I should not like—that is, I really couldn’t—But, I beg your pardon, I don’t think I exactly understand your meaning.”