CHAPTER I.
VISCOUNT IPSDEN, aged twenty-five, income eighteen thousand pounds per year, constitution equine, was unhappy! This might surprise some people; but there are certain blessings, the non-possession of which makes more people discontented than their possession renders happy.
Foremost among these are "Wealth and Rank." Were I to add "Beauty" to the list, such men and women as go by fact, not by conjecture, would hardly contradict me.
The fortunate man is he who, born poor, or nobody, works gradually up to wealth and consideration, and, having got them, dies before he finds they were not worth so much trouble.
Lord Ipsden started with nothing to win; and naturally lived for amusement.

Now nothing is so sure to cease to please as pleasure--to amuse, as amusement.

Unfortunately for himself he could not at this period of his life warm to politics; so, having exhausted his London clique, he rolled through the cities of Europe in his carriage, and cruised its shores in his yacht.

But he was not happy! He was a man of taste, and sipped the arts and other knowledge, as he sauntered Europe round.
But he was not happy.
"What shall I do ?" said _l'ennuye'._ "Distinguish yourself," said one.
"How ?" No immediate answer.
"Take a _prima donna_ over," said another.
Well, the man took a _prima donna_ over, which scolded its maid from the Alps to Dover in the _lingua Toscana_ without the _bocca Romana,_ and sang in London without applause; because what goes down at La Scala does not generally go down at Il Teatro della Regina, Haymarket.
So then my lord strolled into Russia; there he drove a pair of horses, one of whom put his head down and did the work; the other pranced and capricoled alongside, all unconscious of the trace.

He seemed happier than his working brother; but the biped whose career corresponded with this playful animal's was not happy! At length an event occurred that promised to play an adagio upon Lord Ipsden 's mind.