Assure
me that you don't. I am easily put out to-day. The death of poor
Bolsover--my friend before he succeeded to the title. And that
reminds me. But for a mere accident I might myself at this moment
have borne a title. My mother, before her marriage, refused the
offer of a man who rose to wealth and honours, and only a year or
two ago died a baronet. Well, well, the chances of life the
accidents of birth!"
He shook his head for some minutes, murmuring inarticulate regrets.
"I think I'll just have one more, Gammon."
"I think not, old boy. Where did you say you lived?"
"Oh, that's all right. Most comfortable lodgings in the parish of
St. Martin's-in-the-Fields. If you have the slightest doubt of my
veracity, leave me, Gammon; I beg you will leave me. I--in fact, I
have an appointment with a gentleman I met at poor Bolsover's
funeral."
With no little difficulty Gammon led him away, and by means of an
omnibus landed him at length near St. Martin's Church. No entreaty
could induce the man to give his address. He protested that a few
minutes' walk would bring him home, and as he seemed to have sobered
sufficiently, Gammon left him sitting on the church steps--a strange
object in his borrowed suit of mourning and his antiquated top hat.
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