CHAPTER LXII.
OF A SOLEMN RESOLUTION WHICH CAPTAIN DEVEREUX REGISTERED AMONG HIS HOUSEHOLD GODS, WITH A LIBATION.
When Devereux entered his drawing-room, and lighted his candles, he was in a black and bitter mood.

He stood at the window for a while, and drummed on the pane, looking in the direction of the barrack, where all the fun was going on, but thinking, in a chaotic way, of things very different, and all toned with that strange sense of self-reproach and foreboding which, of late, had grown habitual with him--and not without just cause.
'This shall be the last.

'Twas dreadful, seeing that poor Nan; and I want it--I can swear, I really and honestly want it--only one glass to stay my heart.

Everyone may drink in moderation--especially if he's heart-sick, and has no other comfort--one glass and no more--curse it.' So one glass of brandy--I'm sorry to say, unmixed with water--the handsome misanthropist sipped and sipped, to the last drop; and then sat down before his fire, and struck, and poked, and stabbed at it in a bitter, personal sort of way, until here and there some blazes leaped up, and gave his eyes a dreamy sort of occupation; and he sat back, with his hands in his pockets, and his feet on the fender, gazing among the Plutonic peaks and caverns between the bars.
'I've had my allowance for to-night; to-morrow night, none at all.

'Tis an accursed habit: and I'll not allow it to creep upon me.