I mystify you; I can see that. “Now,” he said, “no one can blunder in upon us. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. His business has thriven; legacies have unexpectedly dropped into his lap; and, to crown all, he has made a large fortune by a lucky speculation in South-Sea stock,—made it, too, where so many others have lost fortunes, your humble servant amongst the number—ha! ha! In a word, Sir, Mr. " Sir Rowland moved irresolutely towards the door, but recoiled before a sad spectacle. He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery.
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