“La Donna e Mobile,” hummed Charley again and again, as he sat in the smoking-room of his hotel.  He had paid no heed to the concert, his eyes being fixed all the while upon Max and his two companions; but that air had been sung by one of the great artistes, and words and music had forced themselves upon him so that they seemed for hours after to be ringing in his ears.

“La Donna e Mobile.”  Yes, it was all plain enough, and it was nothing new.  He had made an impression at first, and she had seemed to love him ­perhaps, after her fashion, had loved him ­but woman’s love, he said, required feeding.  The fuel absent, the flame must become extinct.

He laughed bitterly, and a waiter came up.

“Did you ask for something, sir?”

“No!” roared Charley savagely; and the man shrunk away.

“I’ll pester her no more,” he said; “let things take their course.  I’ll go down home and see the poor old gentleman to-morrow.  I may just as well, as hang about here torturing myself over a slow fire.  I wonder how the mare looks.  A good run or two would do me no end of good.  I’ll pack up and run down to-morrow.”

Then he laughed bitterly, for he knew that he was playing at self-deceit; he felt that he could not stir from London ­that he was, as it were, fixed, and without a desire to leave the spot where he could feel that she was near.

“No,” he said, after a while; “I’ll not give up yet.  I made a vow, and I’ll keep it.  She is not his yet.  She may have been ­she must have been ­deceived.  I have been condemned.  No; she would not listen.  I don’t know ­there, I think I’m half mad!”

Just then his hand came in contact with a couple of letters which had been awaiting him on his return, and which one of the waiters had handed to him, to be thrust unnoticed into his pocket.

“Bills,” said the waiter, to one of his fellows.  “How nice to be tradesman to those young swells!  I s’pose some of them must pay, some time or other, or else people couldn’t live.”

“O yes,” said the other; “some of them pay, and those who will pay, have to pay for those who won’t.”

“Through the nose,” said number one with a wink.

“To be sure,” said his confrere; and then they laughed at one another, and winked again.

But the waiter was wrong:  those were not bills; one being a long and affectionate letter from Sir Philip Vining, telling Charley that he would be in town the next day, and asking if it would be convenient for his son to meet him at the station.  The other was from Laura Bray, saying that they had heard from Sir Philip that he would be in town the next day, and asking that he and Charley would dine in Harley-street, where was the Brays’ town house, on the next day but one.

The above was all formal, and written at mamma’s command, but Laura had added a postscript, asking that Charley would come for the sake of the old times when they were friends.  Max would be away, and the party very small.

Then came a quiet reminder of the encounter, and a word to say that the writer had looked out day by day, in the expectation of receiving a call, while poor Nelly was au désespoir.

Charley smiled grimly as he read the letter over, and then carelessly thrust it back into the envelope with the bold address which waiter number one had kindly taken for a tradesman’s hand.

“Take the good the gods provide one,” said Charley with a bitter laugh, as he smoked furiously, and tossed down glass after glass of claret to allay the fevered rush of thought through his brain.

“I’ll go,” he said at last, “and see little Nell.  Poor little wiry weedy Nell! ­what a genuine, free-hearted, jolly little lass it is!  But there, if I do, shell only make some reference to the past.”

Charley Vining’s thoughts came so fast that night, that they jostled and stumbled over one another in the most confused way imaginable, till once more, shining out like a star amidst the surrounding darkness, the light of Ella’s face seemed to slowly rise, and he sat there thinking of her till the waiters yawned with misery because he did not retire.

But he went at last; and Ella’s name was on his lips as he fell off into a heavy weary sleep, as it was the first word he uttered when waking.

The next day Sir Philip was in town, surprised and shocked to see the alteration in his son’s face; for Charley looked haggard and worn, and as if he had been engaged in a long career of dissipation.  He laughed, though, when Sir Philip reverted to it, and seemed most assiduous in his endeavours to promote the old man’s comfort.

“About this dinner at the Brays’, Charley:  I should like to go,” Sir Philip said ­“that is, if you will go with me.”

“Do you particularly wish it, sir?” said Charley.

“It would give me much pleasure, if you have no other engagement.”

“Engagement!” said Charley, with a bitter laugh that shocked Sir Philip.  “No, father, I have no engagements.  I’ll go.”

“But, my dear boy, what have you been doing with yourself? ­how do you pass your time?”

“Preparing myself for a private lunatic asylum, father,” said Charley, with a cynical laugh; and the old man felt a swelling in his throat as he thought of the alteration that had taken place since the morning of the memorable conversation in the library.

There was a something in Charley’s looks that troubled Sir Philip more than he cared to intimate:  had the young man sternly refused to visit the Brays, or to accede to his wishes in any way, he would not have been surprised; but his strange looks, his bitter words, and ready acquiescence alarmed Sir Philip; and when, an hour after, Charley left the room, the old gentleman looked anxiously for his return, till, unable to bear the suspense any longer, he rang and summoned a waiter.

“Has my son gone out?” he asked.

“Think not, Sir Philip.  I’ll make inquiry.”

Five anxious minutes passed, and then the man returned.

“No, Sir Philip, he went up to his bedroom.”

Pale and trembling, Sir Philip rose and hurried upstairs.  He knew that Charley had had some more than usually bitter reverse, and a horrible dread had invaded the troubled father’s breast, so that when he reached his son’s room door, he feared to summon him; but at last he knocked, and waited for a few moments before he struck again upon the panels, this time more forcibly.

There was no reply.