Harley had usually a jest for his friend's aphorisms; but he had none now. He laid his hand kindly on Egerton's shoulder—"Before I speak of my business, tell me how you are—better?"
"Better—nay, I am always well. Pooh! I may look a little tired—years of toil will tell on the countenance. But that matters little—the period of life has passed with me when one cares how one looks in the glass."
As he spoke, Egerton completed his dress, and came to the hearth, standing there, erect and dignified as usual, still far handsomer than many a younger man, and with a form that seemed to have ample vigor to support for many a year the sad and glorious burthen of power.
"So now to your business, Harley."
"In the first place, I want you to present me, at the first opportunity, to Madame di Negra. You say she wished to know me."
"Are you serious?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, she receives this evening. I did not mean to go; but when my party breaks up—"
"You can call for me at 'The Travelers.' Do!"
"Next—you knew Lady Jane Horton better even than I did, at least in the last year of her life." Harley sighed, and Egerton turned and stirred the fire.