Then his money was coming to an end; he would soon have to sing in the streets, like Veronese, with Lady Archibald’s guitar.
Dear Lady Archibald! When things went wrong with her she would always laugh, and say:
“Les misères du jour font le bonheur du lendemain!”
This he would say or sing to himself over and over again, and go to bed at night quite hopeful and sanguine after a merry day spent among his many friends; and soon sink into sleep, persuaded that his trouble was a bad dream which next morning would scatter and dispel. But when he woke, it was to find the grim reality sitting by his pillow, and he couldn’t dry-cup it away. The very sunshine was an ache as he went out and got his breakfast with his blue spectacles on; and black care would link its bony arm in his as he listlessly
