“ ‘And sweetness and goodness enough,’ he continued, ‘to make home tolerable, and to reconcile me to myself, I think I should do yet. I shall never be in love again, that’s certain; but perhaps that would be no great matter, it would enable me to choose with my eyes open⁠—and I should make a good husband in spite of it; but could anyone be in love with me?⁠—that’s the question. With your good looks and powers of fascination’ (he was pleased to say), ‘I might hope; but as it is, Huntingdon, do you think anybody would take me⁠—ruined and wretched as I am?’

“ ‘Yes, certainly.’

“ ‘Who?’

“ ‘Why, any neglected old maid, fast sinking in despair, would be delighted to⁠—’

“ ‘No, no,’ said he⁠—‘it must be somebody that I can love.’

“ ‘Why, you just said you never could be in love again!’

“ ‘Well, love is not the word⁠—but somebody that I can like. I’ll search all England through, at all events!’ he cried, with a sudden burst of hope, or desperation. ‘Succeed or fail, it will be better than rushing headlong to destruction at that d⁠⸺⁠d club: so farewell to it and you. Whenever I meet you on honest ground or under a Christian roof, I shall be glad to see you; but never more shall you entice me to that devil’s den!’

“This was shameful language, but I shook hands with him, and we parted. He kept his word; and from that time forward he has been a pattern of propriety, as far as I can tell; but till lately I have not had very much to do with him. He occasionally sought my company, but as frequently shrunk from it, fearing lest I should wile him back to destruction, and I found his not very entertaining, especially as he sometimes attempted to awaken my conscience and draw me from the perdition he considered himself to have escaped; but when I did happen to meet him, I seldom failed to ask after the progress of his matrimonial efforts and researches, and, in general, he could give me but a poor account. The mothers were repelled by his empty coffers and his reputation for gambling, and the daughters by his cloudy brow and melancholy temper⁠—besides, he didn’t understand them; he wanted the spirit and assurance to carry his point.

At first, he could dimly perceive her faults, and they gave him considerable uneasiness; but now his passion and her art together have blinded him to everything but her perfections and his amazing good fortune. Last night he came to me brimful of his newfound felicity:

“ ‘Huntingdon, I am not a castaway!’ said he, seizing my hand and squeezing it like a vice. ‘There is happiness in store for me yet⁠—even in this life⁠—she loves me!’

“ ‘Indeed!’ said I. ‘Has she told you so?’

“How do you know?” said I.

“I’m laughing at you, just now, love,” said he, redoubling his machinations.

When I entered my room, I was surprised to see Annabella Wilmot standing before my toilet-table, composedly surveying her features in the glass, with one hand flirting her gold-mounted whip, and the other holding up her long habit.