Staring at the man before him, he knows he is loathsome to him--loathsome, and his own brother! This man, who with some of the best blood of England in his veins, is so far, far below the standard that marks the gentleman.

Surely vice is degrading in more ways than one.

To the professor, Sir Hastings, with his handsome, dissipated face, stands out, tawdry, hideous, vulgar--why, every word he says is tinged with coarseness and yet, what a pretty boy he used to be, with his soft, sunny hair and laughing eyes---- "You will help me, eh ?" persists Sir Hastings, with his little dry chronic cough, that seems to shake his whole frame.
"Impossible," says the professor, simply, coldly.
_"No ?_ Why ?" The professor looks at him (a penetrating glance), but says nothing.
"Oh! damn it all!" says his brother, his brow darkening.

"You had _better,_ you know, if you want the old name kept above water much longer." "You mean---- ?" says the professor, turning a grave face to his.
"Nothing but what is honorable.

I tell you I mean to turn over a new leaf.