Young in years, old in vice, the wretched nobleman who lies in the vault, by the coffin of that old aunt, scarcely better than himself, whose guineas supplied his early profligacy--alas! he ruined his ill-fated, beautiful cousin, and she died heart-broken, and her little child, both there--in that melancholy and contaminated house.' So he rambled on, and from one tale to another, till little Lily's early bed-hour came.
I don't know whether it was Doctor Walsingham's visit in the morning, and the chance of hearing something about it, that prompted the unquiet Tom Toole to roll his cloak about him, and buffet his way through storm and snow, to Devereux's lodgings.

It was only a stone's-throw; but even that, on such a night, was no trifle.
However, up he went to Devereux's drawing-room, and found its handsome proprietor altogether in the dumps.

The little doctor threw off his sleety cloak and hat in the lobby, and stood before the officer fresh and puffing, and a little flustered and dazzled after his romp with the wind.
Devereux got up and received him with a slight bow and no smile, and a 'Pray take a chair, Doctor Toole.' 'Well, this _is_ a bright fit of the dismals,' said little Toole, nothing overawed.

'May I sit near the fire ?' 'Upon it,' said Devereux, sadly.
'Thank'ee,' said Toole, clapping his feet on the fender, with a grin, and making himself comfortable.

'May I poke it ?' 'Eat it--do as you please--anything--everything; play that fiddle (pointing to the ruin of Puddock's guitar, which the lieutenant had left on the table), or undress and go to bed, or get up and dance a minuet, or take that pistol, with all my heart, and shoot me through the head.' 'Thank'ee, again.