There he had
nourished his wrath on more whiskey and soda than was good for him, and
crawled upstairs in the small hours to miserable sleeplessness.
This was the beginning of Dick's undoing, the gods (abetted by Viviette)
employing their customary procedure of first driving him mad. But
Viviette was not altogether a guilty abettor. Indeed, all day long, she
had entertained high notions of acting fairy godmother, and helping Dick
along the road to fortune and content. He himself, she learned, had
taken no steps to free himself from his present mode of life. He had not
even confided in Austin. Viviette ran over the list of her influential
friends. There was Lady Winsmere, a dowager countess of seventy,
surrounded by notabilities, at whose house she stayed now and then in
London. On the last occasion an Agent-General for one of the great
Colonies had sat next her at dinner. Then there was her friend Mrs.
Penderby, whose husband gathered enormous wealth in some mysterious way
in Mark Lane. Why should she not go up to London and open a campaign on
Dick's behalf, secure him an appointment, and come back flourishing it
before his dazzled and delighted eyes? The prospect was enchanting.
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