On the night before Christmas Eve two men were sitting together in George Vavasor's rooms in Cecil Street. It was past twelve o'clock, and they were both smoking; there were square bottles on the table containing spirits, with hot water and cold water in jugs, and one of the two men was using, and had been using, these materials for enjoyment. Vavasor had not been drinking, nor did it appear as though he intended to begin. There was a little weak brandy and water in a glass by his side, but there it had remained untouched for the last twenty minutes. His companion, however, had twice in that time replenished his beaker, and was now puffing out the smoke of his pipe with the fury of a steamer's funnel when she has not yet burned the black off her last instalment of fresh coals. This man was Burgo Fitzgerald. He was as handsome as ever;--a man whom neither man nor woman could help regarding as a thing beautiful to behold;--but not the less was there in his eyes and cheeks a look of haggard dissipation,--of riotous living, which had become wearisome, by its continuance, even to himself,--that told to all who saw him much of the history of his life. Most men who drink at nights, and are out till cockcrow doing deeds of darkness, become red in their faces, have pimpled cheeks and watery eyes, and are bloated and not comfortable to be seen. It is a kind dispensation of Providence who thus affords to such sinners a visible sign, to be seen day by day, of the injury which is being done. The first approach of a carbuncle on the nose, about the age of thirty, has stopped many a man from drinking. 
On the night before Christmas Eve two men were sitting together in George Vavasor's rooms in Cecil Street. It was past twelve o'clock, and they were both smoking; there were bottles of spirits and jugs of water on the table.
However, Vavasor was not drinking. There was a little weak brandy and water in a glass by his side, but it had remained untouched for the last twenty minutes. In that time his companion had twice refilled his glass, and was now puffing out smoke from his pipe with the fury of a steamer's funnel.
This man was Burgo Fitzgerald. He was as handsome as ever; but in his eyes and cheeks there was a look of haggard dissipation - a sign of riotous living which had become wearisome even to himself. Habitual drink did not make him red-faced and bloated,