The wretch had become a perfect epicure, and dined commonly at the Club with the gormandising clique there; with old Doctor Maw, Colonel Cramley (who is as lean as a greyhound and has jaws like a jack), and the rest of them.

Here you might see the wretch tippling Sillery champagne and gorging himself with French viands; and I often looked with sorrow from my table, (on which cold meat, the Club small-beer, and a half-pint of Marsala form the modest banquet,) and sighed to think it was my work.
And there were other beings present to my repentant thoughts.

Where's his wife, thought I?
Where's poor, good, kind little Laura?
At this very moment--it's about the nursery bed-time, and while yonder good-for-nothing is swilling his wine--the little ones are at Laura's knees lisping their prayers: and she is teaching them to say--'Pray God bless Papa.' When she has put them to bed, her day's occupation is gone; and she is utterly lonely all night, and sad, and waiting for him.
Oh, for shame! Oh, for shame! Go home, thou idle tippler.
How Sackville lost his health: how he lost his business; how he got into scrapes; how he got into debt; how he became a railroad director; how the Pimlico house was shut up; how he went to Boulogne,--all this I could tell, only I am too much ashamed of my part of the transaction.
They returned to England, because, to the surprise of everybody, Mrs.
Chuff came down with a great sum of money (which nobody knew she had saved), and paid his liabilities.

He is in England; but at Kennington.
His name is taken off the books of the 'Sarcophagus' long ago.

When we meet, he crosses over to the other side of the street; I don't call, as I should be sorry to see a look of reproach or sadness in Laura's sweet face.
Not, however, all evil, as I am proud to think, has been the influence of the Snob of England upon Clubs in general:--Captain Shindy is afraid to bully the waiters any more, and eats his mutton-chop without moving Acheron.