And every time Berkley looked at him he went into another fit of uncontrollable laughter, as he realised the one delightful weakness in this thorough-paced rogue--pride in the lustre cast upon himself by the immaculate appearance of a fashionable master.

But after reflection, it did not astonish him too much; the besetting weakness of rogues is vanity in one form or another.

This happened to be an unusual form.
"Burgess," he said, "I don't care how you go to hell.

Go with me if you like or go it alone." "Thank you, sir." "You're welcome," replied Berkley gravely, and, tucking his cane up under one arm, he went out to business, drawing on a pair of lemon-coloured kid gloves.
Later he searched his pockets for the cigar he had denied himself the evening before.

It was not there.