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he said calmly.	No speaker	what is in this letter,"<\|quote\|>he said calmly.</\|quote\|>"No one shall, Maurice; come,	no one must ever know what is in this letter,"<\|quote\|>he said calmly.</\|quote\|>"No one shall, Maurice; come, let us burn it." "Burn	God," he moaned, "my brother, my brother!" "'Sh, dearie, think--it 's--it 's--Frank." "That 's it, that 's it--that 's what I can't forget. It 's Frank,--Frank, my brother." Suddenly he sat up and his eyes stared straight into hers. "Leslie, no one must ever know what is in this letter,"<\|quote\|>he said calmly.</\|quote\|>"No one shall, Maurice; come, let us burn it." "Burn it? No, no," he cried, clutching at his breast. "It must not be burned. What! burn my brother's secret? No, no, I must carry it with me,--carry it with me to the grave." "But, Maurice----" "I must carry it with	me. Oh, Frank, Frank, Frank!" "Never mind, Maurice. It is as if you alone knew it." "It is not, I say, it is not!" He turned upon his face and began to weep passionately, not like a man, but like a child whose last toy has been broken. "Oh, my God," he moaned, "my brother, my brother!" "'Sh, dearie, think--it 's--it 's--Frank." "That 's it, that 's it--that 's what I can't forget. It 's Frank,--Frank, my brother." Suddenly he sat up and his eyes stared straight into hers. "Leslie, no one must ever know what is in this letter,"<\|quote\|>he said calmly.</\|quote\|>"No one shall, Maurice; come, let us burn it." "Burn it? No, no," he cried, clutching at his breast. "It must not be burned. What! burn my brother's secret? No, no, I must carry it with me,--carry it with me to the grave." "But, Maurice----" "I must carry it with me." She saw that he was overwrought, and so did not argue with him. When the doctor came, he found Maurice Oakley in bed, but better. The medical man diagnosed the case and decided that he had received some severe shock. He feared too for his heart, for the patient	she ministered to his needs pending the doctor's arrival. She bathed his face and temples, chafed his hands, and forced the brandy between his lips. Finally he stirred and his hands gripped. "The letter!" he gasped. "Yes, dear, I have it; I have it." "Give it to me," he cried. She handed it to him. He seized it and thrust it into his breast. "Did--did--you read it?" "Yes, I did not know----" "Oh, my God, I did not intend that you should see it. I wanted the secret for my own. I wanted to carry it to my grave with me. Oh, Frank, Frank, Frank!" "Never mind, Maurice. It is as if you alone knew it." "It is not, I say, it is not!" He turned upon his face and began to weep passionately, not like a man, but like a child whose last toy has been broken. "Oh, my God," he moaned, "my brother, my brother!" "'Sh, dearie, think--it 's--it 's--Frank." "That 's it, that 's it--that 's what I can't forget. It 's Frank,--Frank, my brother." Suddenly he sat up and his eyes stared straight into hers. "Leslie, no one must ever know what is in this letter,"<\|quote\|>he said calmly.</\|quote\|>"No one shall, Maurice; come, let us burn it." "Burn it? No, no," he cried, clutching at his breast. "It must not be burned. What! burn my brother's secret? No, no, I must carry it with me,--carry it with me to the grave." "But, Maurice----" "I must carry it with me." She saw that he was overwrought, and so did not argue with him. When the doctor came, he found Maurice Oakley in bed, but better. The medical man diagnosed the case and decided that he had received some severe shock. He feared too for his heart, for the patient constantly held his hands pressed against his bosom. In vain the doctor pleaded; he would not take them down, and when the wife added her word, the physician gave up, and after prescribing, left, much puzzled in mind. "It 's a strange case," he said; "there 's something more than the nervous shock that makes him clutch his chest like that, and yet I have never noticed signs of heart trouble in Oakley. Oh, well, business worry will produce anything in anybody." It was soon common talk about the town about Maurice Oakley's attack. In the seclusion of his chamber	catastrophe came. I wanted much to carry back to her. I gambled to make more. I would surprise her. Luck was against me. Night after night I lost. Then, just before the dinner, I woke from my frenzy to find all that I had was gone. I would have asked you for more, and you would have given it; but that strange, ridiculous something which we misname Southern honour, that honour which strains at a gnat and swallows a camel, withheld me, and I preferred to do worse. So I lied to you. The money from my cabinet was not stolen save by myself. I am a liar and a thief, but your eyes shall never tell me so." "Tell the truth and have Berry released. I can stand it. Write me but one letter to tell me of this. Do not plead with me, do not forgive me, do not seek to find me, for from this time I shall be as one who has perished from the earth; I shall be no more." "Your brother, FRANK." By the time the servants came they found Mrs. Oakley as white as her lord. But with firm hands and compressed lips she ministered to his needs pending the doctor's arrival. She bathed his face and temples, chafed his hands, and forced the brandy between his lips. Finally he stirred and his hands gripped. "The letter!" he gasped. "Yes, dear, I have it; I have it." "Give it to me," he cried. She handed it to him. He seized it and thrust it into his breast. "Did--did--you read it?" "Yes, I did not know----" "Oh, my God, I did not intend that you should see it. I wanted the secret for my own. I wanted to carry it to my grave with me. Oh, Frank, Frank, Frank!" "Never mind, Maurice. It is as if you alone knew it." "It is not, I say, it is not!" He turned upon his face and began to weep passionately, not like a man, but like a child whose last toy has been broken. "Oh, my God," he moaned, "my brother, my brother!" "'Sh, dearie, think--it 's--it 's--Frank." "That 's it, that 's it--that 's what I can't forget. It 's Frank,--Frank, my brother." Suddenly he sat up and his eyes stared straight into hers. "Leslie, no one must ever know what is in this letter,"<\|quote\|>he said calmly.</\|quote\|>"No one shall, Maurice; come, let us burn it." "Burn it? No, no," he cried, clutching at his breast. "It must not be burned. What! burn my brother's secret? No, no, I must carry it with me,--carry it with me to the grave." "But, Maurice----" "I must carry it with me." She saw that he was overwrought, and so did not argue with him. When the doctor came, he found Maurice Oakley in bed, but better. The medical man diagnosed the case and decided that he had received some severe shock. He feared too for his heart, for the patient constantly held his hands pressed against his bosom. In vain the doctor pleaded; he would not take them down, and when the wife added her word, the physician gave up, and after prescribing, left, much puzzled in mind. "It 's a strange case," he said; "there 's something more than the nervous shock that makes him clutch his chest like that, and yet I have never noticed signs of heart trouble in Oakley. Oh, well, business worry will produce anything in anybody." It was soon common talk about the town about Maurice Oakley's attack. In the seclusion of his chamber he was saying to his wife: "Ah, Leslie, you and I will keep the secret. No one shall ever know." "Yes, dear, but--but--what of Berry?" "What of Berry?" he cried, starting up excitedly. "What is Berry to Frank? What is that nigger to my brother? What are his sufferings to the honour of my family and name?" "Never mind, Maurice, never mind, you are right." "It must never be known, I say, if Berry has to rot in jail." So they wrote a lie to Frank, and buried the secret in their breasts, and Oakley wore its visible form upon his heart. XIV FRANKENSTEIN Five years is but a short time in the life of a man, and yet many things may happen therein. For instance, the whole way of a family's life may be changed. Good natures may be made into bad ones and out of a soul of faith grow a spirit of unbelief. The independence of respectability may harden into the insolence of defiance, and the sensitive cheek of modesty into the brazen face of shamelessness. It may be true that the habits of years are hard to change, but this is not true of the first	mentioned the matter, I did not know that Berry was in prison, else this letter would have been written sooner. I have been wanting to write it for so long, and yet have been too great a coward to do so." "I know that you will be disappointed in me, and just what that disappointment will cost you I know; but you must hear the truth. I shall never see your face again, or I should not dare to tell it even now. You will remember that I begged you to be easy on your servant. You thought it was only my kindness of heart. It was not; I had a deeper reason. I knew where the money had gone and dared not tell. Berry is as innocent as yourself--and I--well, it is a story, and let me tell it to you." "You have had so much confidence in me, and I hate to tell you that it was all misplaced. I have no doubt that I should not be doing it now but that I have drunken absinthe enough to give me the emotional point of view, which I shall regret to-morrow. I do not mean that I am drunk. I can think clearly and write clearly, but my emotions are extremely active." "Do you remember Claire's saying at the table that night of the farewell dinner that some dark-eyed mademoiselle was waiting for me? She did not know how truly she spoke, though I fancy she saw how I flushed when she said it: for I was already in love--madly so." "I need not describe her. I need say nothing about her, for I know that nothing I say can ever persuade you to forgive her for taking me from you. This has gone on since I first came here, and I dared not tell you, for I saw whither your eyes had turned. I loved this girl, and she both inspired and hindered my work. Perhaps I would have been successful had I not met her, perhaps not." "I love her too well to marry her and make of our devotion a stale, prosy thing of duty and compulsion. When a man does not marry a woman, he must keep her better than he would a wife. It costs. All that you gave me went to make her happy." "Then, when I was about leaving you, the catastrophe came. I wanted much to carry back to her. I gambled to make more. I would surprise her. Luck was against me. Night after night I lost. Then, just before the dinner, I woke from my frenzy to find all that I had was gone. I would have asked you for more, and you would have given it; but that strange, ridiculous something which we misname Southern honour, that honour which strains at a gnat and swallows a camel, withheld me, and I preferred to do worse. So I lied to you. The money from my cabinet was not stolen save by myself. I am a liar and a thief, but your eyes shall never tell me so." "Tell the truth and have Berry released. I can stand it. Write me but one letter to tell me of this. Do not plead with me, do not forgive me, do not seek to find me, for from this time I shall be as one who has perished from the earth; I shall be no more." "Your brother, FRANK." By the time the servants came they found Mrs. Oakley as white as her lord. But with firm hands and compressed lips she ministered to his needs pending the doctor's arrival. She bathed his face and temples, chafed his hands, and forced the brandy between his lips. Finally he stirred and his hands gripped. "The letter!" he gasped. "Yes, dear, I have it; I have it." "Give it to me," he cried. She handed it to him. He seized it and thrust it into his breast. "Did--did--you read it?" "Yes, I did not know----" "Oh, my God, I did not intend that you should see it. I wanted the secret for my own. I wanted to carry it to my grave with me. Oh, Frank, Frank, Frank!" "Never mind, Maurice. It is as if you alone knew it." "It is not, I say, it is not!" He turned upon his face and began to weep passionately, not like a man, but like a child whose last toy has been broken. "Oh, my God," he moaned, "my brother, my brother!" "'Sh, dearie, think--it 's--it 's--Frank." "That 's it, that 's it--that 's what I can't forget. It 's Frank,--Frank, my brother." Suddenly he sat up and his eyes stared straight into hers. "Leslie, no one must ever know what is in this letter,"<\|quote\|>he said calmly.</\|quote\|>"No one shall, Maurice; come, let us burn it." "Burn it? No, no," he cried, clutching at his breast. "It must not be burned. What! burn my brother's secret? No, no, I must carry it with me,--carry it with me to the grave." "But, Maurice----" "I must carry it with me." She saw that he was overwrought, and so did not argue with him. When the doctor came, he found Maurice Oakley in bed, but better. The medical man diagnosed the case and decided that he had received some severe shock. He feared too for his heart, for the patient constantly held his hands pressed against his bosom. In vain the doctor pleaded; he would not take them down, and when the wife added her word, the physician gave up, and after prescribing, left, much puzzled in mind. "It 's a strange case," he said; "there 's something more than the nervous shock that makes him clutch his chest like that, and yet I have never noticed signs of heart trouble in Oakley. Oh, well, business worry will produce anything in anybody." It was soon common talk about the town about Maurice Oakley's attack. In the seclusion of his chamber he was saying to his wife: "Ah, Leslie, you and I will keep the secret. No one shall ever know." "Yes, dear, but--but--what of Berry?" "What of Berry?" he cried, starting up excitedly. "What is Berry to Frank? What is that nigger to my brother? What are his sufferings to the honour of my family and name?" "Never mind, Maurice, never mind, you are right." "It must never be known, I say, if Berry has to rot in jail." So they wrote a lie to Frank, and buried the secret in their breasts, and Oakley wore its visible form upon his heart. XIV FRANKENSTEIN Five years is but a short time in the life of a man, and yet many things may happen therein. For instance, the whole way of a family's life may be changed. Good natures may be made into bad ones and out of a soul of faith grow a spirit of unbelief. The independence of respectability may harden into the insolence of defiance, and the sensitive cheek of modesty into the brazen face of shamelessness. It may be true that the habits of years are hard to change, but this is not true of the first sixteen or seventeen years of a young person's life, else Kitty Hamilton and Joe could not so easily have become what they were. It had taken barely five years to accomplish an entire metamorphosis of their characters. In Joe's case even a shorter time was needed. He was so ready to go down that it needed but a gentle push to start him, and once started, there was nothing within him to hold him back from the depths. For his will was as flabby as his conscience, and his pride, which stands to some men for conscience, had no definite aim or direction. Hattie Sterling had given him both his greatest impulse for evil and for good. She had at first given him his gentle push, but when she saw that his collapse would lose her a faithful and useful slave she had sought to check his course. Her threat of the severance of their relations had held him up for a little time, and she began to believe that he was safe again. He went back to the work he had neglected, drank moderately, and acted in most things as a sound, sensible being. Then, all of a sudden, he went down again, and went down badly. She kept her promise and threw him over. Then he became a hanger-on at the clubs, a genteel loafer. He used to say in his sober moments that at last he was one of the boys that Sadness had spoken of. He did not work, and yet he lived and ate and was proud of his degradation. But he soon tired of being separated from Hattie, and straightened up again. After some demur she received him upon his former footing. It was only for a few months. He fell again. For almost four years this had happened intermittently. Finally he took a turn for the better that endured so long that Hattie Sterling again gave him her faith. Then the woman made her mistake. She warmed to him. She showed him that she was proud of him. He went forth at once to celebrate his victory. He did not return to her for three days. Then he was battered, unkempt, and thick of speech. She looked at him in silent contempt for a while as he sat nursing his aching head. "Well, you 're a beauty," she said finally with cutting scorn.	duty and compulsion. When a man does not marry a woman, he must keep her better than he would a wife. It costs. All that you gave me went to make her happy." "Then, when I was about leaving you, the catastrophe came. I wanted much to carry back to her. I gambled to make more. I would surprise her. Luck was against me. Night after night I lost. Then, just before the dinner, I woke from my frenzy to find all that I had was gone. I would have asked you for more, and you would have given it; but that strange, ridiculous something which we misname Southern honour, that honour which strains at a gnat and swallows a camel, withheld me, and I preferred to do worse. So I lied to you. The money from my cabinet was not stolen save by myself. I am a liar and a thief, but your eyes shall never tell me so." "Tell the truth and have Berry released. I can stand it. Write me but one letter to tell me of this. Do not plead with me, do not forgive me, do not seek to find me, for from this time I shall be as one who has perished from the earth; I shall be no more." "Your brother, FRANK." By the time the servants came they found Mrs. Oakley as white as her lord. But with firm hands and compressed lips she ministered to his needs pending the doctor's arrival. She bathed his face and temples, chafed his hands, and forced the brandy between his lips. Finally he stirred and his hands gripped. "The letter!" he gasped. "Yes, dear, I have it; I have it." "Give it to me," he cried. She handed it to him. He seized it and thrust it into his breast. "Did--did--you read it?" "Yes, I did not know----" "Oh, my God, I did not intend that you should see it. I wanted the secret for my own. I wanted to carry it to my grave with me. Oh, Frank, Frank, Frank!" "Never mind, Maurice. It is as if you alone knew it." "It is not, I say, it is not!" He turned upon his face and began to weep passionately, not like a man, but like a child whose last toy has been broken. "Oh, my God," he moaned, "my brother, my brother!" "'Sh, dearie, think--it 's--it 's--Frank." "That 's it, that 's it--that 's what I can't forget. It 's Frank,--Frank, my brother." Suddenly he sat up and his eyes stared straight into hers. "Leslie, no one must ever know what is in this letter,"<\|quote\|>he said calmly.</\|quote\|>"No one shall, Maurice; come, let us burn it." "Burn it? No, no," he cried, clutching at his breast. "It must not be burned. What! burn my brother's secret? No, no, I must carry it with me,--carry it with me to the grave." "But, Maurice----" "I must carry it with me." She saw that he was overwrought, and so did not argue with him. When the doctor came, he found Maurice Oakley in bed, but better. The medical man diagnosed the case and decided that he had received some severe shock. He feared too for his heart, for the patient constantly held his hands pressed against his bosom. In vain the doctor pleaded; he would not take them down, and when the wife added her word, the physician gave up, and after prescribing, left, much puzzled in mind. "It 's a strange case," he said; "there 's something more than the nervous shock that makes him clutch his chest like that, and yet I have never noticed signs of heart trouble in Oakley. Oh, well, business worry will produce anything in anybody." It was soon common talk about the town about Maurice Oakley's attack. In the seclusion of his chamber he was saying to his wife: "Ah, Leslie, you and I will	The Sport Of The Gods
“Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.”	Theign	give way to her sincerity.<\|quote\|>“Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.”</\|quote\|>“But you said a moment	her cry, but appeared to give way to her sincerity.<\|quote\|>“Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.”</\|quote\|>“But you said a moment ago that I should all	but after an instant, as moved by more things than she could say--moved above all, in her trouble and her pity for him, by other things than harshness: “Oh father, father, father----!” He searched her through all the compassion of her cry, but appeared to give way to her sincerity.<\|quote\|>“Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.”</\|quote\|>“But you said a moment ago that I should all the more in the other case--that of there _being_ something!” He brushed away her logic-chopping. “If you’re so keen then for past remarks I take up your own words--I accept your own terms for your putting an end to Mr.	one: because you were (yes, you _were!_) encouraging. And what I ask of you now is a word of common candour as to whether you didn’t, on your honour, turn him off because of your just then so stimulated views on the person who has been with us.” Grace replied but after an instant, as moved by more things than she could say--moved above all, in her trouble and her pity for him, by other things than harshness: “Oh father, father, father----!” He searched her through all the compassion of her cry, but appeared to give way to her sincerity.<\|quote\|>“Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.”</\|quote\|>“But you said a moment ago that I should all the more in the other case--that of there _being_ something!” He brushed away her logic-chopping. “If you’re so keen then for past remarks I take up your own words--I accept your own terms for your putting an end to Mr. Crimble.” To which, while, turning pale, she said nothing, he added: “You recognise that you profess yourself ready----” “Not again to see him,” she now answered, “if you tell me the picture’s safe? Yes, I recognise that I _was_ ready--as well as how scornfully little you then were!” “Never mind	so wildly worked yourself up.” “Yes, I’ve worked myself--that, I grant you and don’t blush for! But hardly so much as to renounce my ‘lover’--if,” she prodigiously smiled, “I were so fortunate as to have one!” “You renounced poor John mightily easily--whom you were so fortunate as to have!” Her brows rose as high as his own had ever done. “Do you call Lord John my lover?” “He was your suitor most assuredly,” Lord Theign inimitably said, though without looking at her; “and as strikingly encouraged as he was respectfully ardent!” “Encouraged by _you_, dear father, beyond doubt!” “Encouraged--er--by every one: because you were (yes, you _were!_) encouraging. And what I ask of you now is a word of common candour as to whether you didn’t, on your honour, turn him off because of your just then so stimulated views on the person who has been with us.” Grace replied but after an instant, as moved by more things than she could say--moved above all, in her trouble and her pity for him, by other things than harshness: “Oh father, father, father----!” He searched her through all the compassion of her cry, but appeared to give way to her sincerity.<\|quote\|>“Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.”</\|quote\|>“But you said a moment ago that I should all the more in the other case--that of there _being_ something!” He brushed away her logic-chopping. “If you’re so keen then for past remarks I take up your own words--I accept your own terms for your putting an end to Mr. Crimble.” To which, while, turning pale, she said nothing, he added: “You recognise that you profess yourself ready----” “Not again to see him,” she now answered, “if you tell me the picture’s safe? Yes, I recognise that I _was_ ready--as well as how scornfully little you then were!” “Never mind what I then was--the question’s of what I actually am, since I close with you on it The picture’s therefore as safe as you please,” Lord Theign pursued, “if you’ll do what you just now engaged to.” “I engaged to do nothing,” she replied after a pause; and the face she turned to him had grown suddenly tragic. “I’ve no word to take back, for none passed between us; but I _won’t_ do what I mentioned and what you at once laughed at Because,” she finished, “the case is different.” “Different?” he almost shouted-- “_how_, different?” She didn’t look at	“It has a bearing on the so extraordinary appearance of your intimacy with him!” “You mean that if he _should_ be--what you ask me about--your exaction would then be modified?” “My request that you break it short off? That request would, on the contrary,” Lord Theign pronounced, “rest on an immense new ground. Therefore I insist on your telling me the truth.” “Won’t the truth be before you, father, if you’ll _think_ a moment--without extravagance?” After which, while, as stiffly as ever--and it probably seemed to her impatience as stupidly--he didn’t rise to it, she went on: “If I _offered_ you not again to see him, does that make for you the appearance--?” “If you offered it, you mean, on your condition--my promising not to sell? I promised,” said Lord Theign, “absolutely nothing at all!” She took him up with all expression. “So I promised as little! But that I should have been able to say what I did sufficiently meets your curiosity.” She might, wronged as she held herself, have felt him stupid not to see _how_ wronged; but he was in any case acute for an evasion. “You risked your offer for the great equivalent over which you’ve so wildly worked yourself up.” “Yes, I’ve worked myself--that, I grant you and don’t blush for! But hardly so much as to renounce my ‘lover’--if,” she prodigiously smiled, “I were so fortunate as to have one!” “You renounced poor John mightily easily--whom you were so fortunate as to have!” Her brows rose as high as his own had ever done. “Do you call Lord John my lover?” “He was your suitor most assuredly,” Lord Theign inimitably said, though without looking at her; “and as strikingly encouraged as he was respectfully ardent!” “Encouraged by _you_, dear father, beyond doubt!” “Encouraged--er--by every one: because you were (yes, you _were!_) encouraging. And what I ask of you now is a word of common candour as to whether you didn’t, on your honour, turn him off because of your just then so stimulated views on the person who has been with us.” Grace replied but after an instant, as moved by more things than she could say--moved above all, in her trouble and her pity for him, by other things than harshness: “Oh father, father, father----!” He searched her through all the compassion of her cry, but appeared to give way to her sincerity.<\|quote\|>“Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.”</\|quote\|>“But you said a moment ago that I should all the more in the other case--that of there _being_ something!” He brushed away her logic-chopping. “If you’re so keen then for past remarks I take up your own words--I accept your own terms for your putting an end to Mr. Crimble.” To which, while, turning pale, she said nothing, he added: “You recognise that you profess yourself ready----” “Not again to see him,” she now answered, “if you tell me the picture’s safe? Yes, I recognise that I _was_ ready--as well as how scornfully little you then were!” “Never mind what I then was--the question’s of what I actually am, since I close with you on it The picture’s therefore as safe as you please,” Lord Theign pursued, “if you’ll do what you just now engaged to.” “I engaged to do nothing,” she replied after a pause; and the face she turned to him had grown suddenly tragic. “I’ve no word to take back, for none passed between us; but I _won’t_ do what I mentioned and what you at once laughed at Because,” she finished, “the case is different.” “Different?” he almost shouted-- “_how_, different?” She didn’t look at him for it, but she was none the less strongly distinct “He has _been_ here--and that has done it He knows,” she admirably emphasised. “Knows what I think of him, no doubt--for a brazen young prevaricator! But what else?” She still kept her eyes on a far-off point. “What he will have seen--that I feel we’re too good friends.” “Then your denial of it’s false,” her father fairly thundered-- “and you _are_ infatuated?” It made her the more quiet. “I like him very much.” “So that your row about the picture,” he demanded with passion, “has been all a blind?” And then as her quietness still held her: “And his a blind as much--to help him to get _at_ you?” She looked at him again now. “He must speak for himself. I’ve said what I mean.” “But what the devil _do_ you mean?” Lord Theign, taking in the hour, had reached the door as in supremely baffled conclusion and with a sense of time lamentably lost. Their eyes met upon it all dreadfully across the wide space, and, hurried and incommoded as she saw him, she yet made him still stand a minute. Then she let everything go. “Do what	silence which he had yet made compatible with his air of having deeply noted every element of the scene--so that it was of this full view his participation had effectively consisted, “I haven’t the least idea, sir, what you’re talking about!” And he squarely turned his back, strolling toward the other room, the threshold of which he the next moment had passed, remaining scantily within, however, and in sight of the others, not to say of ourselves; even though averted and ostensibly lost in some scrutiny that might have had for its object the great enshrined Lawrence. There ensued upon his words and movement a vivid mute passage, the richest of commentaries, between his companions; who, deeply divided by the width of the ample room, followed him with their eyes and then used for their own interchange these organs of remark, eloquent now over Hugh’s unmistakable dismissal at short order, on which obviously he must at once act. Lady Grace’s young arms conveyed to him by a despairing contrite motion of surrender that she had done for him all she could do in his presence and that, however sharply doubtful the result, he was to leave the rest to herself. They communicated thus, the strenuous pair, for their full moment, without speaking; only with the prolonged, the charged give and take of their gaze and, it might well have been imagined, of their passion. Hugh had for an instant a show of hesitation--of the arrested impulse, while he kept her father within range, to launch at that personage before going some final remonstrance. It was the girl’s raised hand and gesture of warning that waved away for him such a mistake; he decided, under her pressure, and after a last searching and answering look at her reached the door and let himself out. The stillness was then prolonged a minute by the further wait of the two others, Lord Theign where he had been standing and his daughter on the spot from which she had not moved. It presently ended in his lordship’s turn about as if inferring by the silence that the intruder had withdrawn. “Is that young man your lover?” he said as he drew again near. Lady Grace waited a little, but spoke as quietly as if she had been prepared. “Has the question a bearing on the promise you a short time ago demanded of me?” “It has a bearing on the so extraordinary appearance of your intimacy with him!” “You mean that if he _should_ be--what you ask me about--your exaction would then be modified?” “My request that you break it short off? That request would, on the contrary,” Lord Theign pronounced, “rest on an immense new ground. Therefore I insist on your telling me the truth.” “Won’t the truth be before you, father, if you’ll _think_ a moment--without extravagance?” After which, while, as stiffly as ever--and it probably seemed to her impatience as stupidly--he didn’t rise to it, she went on: “If I _offered_ you not again to see him, does that make for you the appearance--?” “If you offered it, you mean, on your condition--my promising not to sell? I promised,” said Lord Theign, “absolutely nothing at all!” She took him up with all expression. “So I promised as little! But that I should have been able to say what I did sufficiently meets your curiosity.” She might, wronged as she held herself, have felt him stupid not to see _how_ wronged; but he was in any case acute for an evasion. “You risked your offer for the great equivalent over which you’ve so wildly worked yourself up.” “Yes, I’ve worked myself--that, I grant you and don’t blush for! But hardly so much as to renounce my ‘lover’--if,” she prodigiously smiled, “I were so fortunate as to have one!” “You renounced poor John mightily easily--whom you were so fortunate as to have!” Her brows rose as high as his own had ever done. “Do you call Lord John my lover?” “He was your suitor most assuredly,” Lord Theign inimitably said, though without looking at her; “and as strikingly encouraged as he was respectfully ardent!” “Encouraged by _you_, dear father, beyond doubt!” “Encouraged--er--by every one: because you were (yes, you _were!_) encouraging. And what I ask of you now is a word of common candour as to whether you didn’t, on your honour, turn him off because of your just then so stimulated views on the person who has been with us.” Grace replied but after an instant, as moved by more things than she could say--moved above all, in her trouble and her pity for him, by other things than harshness: “Oh father, father, father----!” He searched her through all the compassion of her cry, but appeared to give way to her sincerity.<\|quote\|>“Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.”</\|quote\|>“But you said a moment ago that I should all the more in the other case--that of there _being_ something!” He brushed away her logic-chopping. “If you’re so keen then for past remarks I take up your own words--I accept your own terms for your putting an end to Mr. Crimble.” To which, while, turning pale, she said nothing, he added: “You recognise that you profess yourself ready----” “Not again to see him,” she now answered, “if you tell me the picture’s safe? Yes, I recognise that I _was_ ready--as well as how scornfully little you then were!” “Never mind what I then was--the question’s of what I actually am, since I close with you on it The picture’s therefore as safe as you please,” Lord Theign pursued, “if you’ll do what you just now engaged to.” “I engaged to do nothing,” she replied after a pause; and the face she turned to him had grown suddenly tragic. “I’ve no word to take back, for none passed between us; but I _won’t_ do what I mentioned and what you at once laughed at Because,” she finished, “the case is different.” “Different?” he almost shouted-- “_how_, different?” She didn’t look at him for it, but she was none the less strongly distinct “He has _been_ here--and that has done it He knows,” she admirably emphasised. “Knows what I think of him, no doubt--for a brazen young prevaricator! But what else?” She still kept her eyes on a far-off point. “What he will have seen--that I feel we’re too good friends.” “Then your denial of it’s false,” her father fairly thundered-- “and you _are_ infatuated?” It made her the more quiet. “I like him very much.” “So that your row about the picture,” he demanded with passion, “has been all a blind?” And then as her quietness still held her: “And his a blind as much--to help him to get _at_ you?” She looked at him again now. “He must speak for himself. I’ve said what I mean.” “But what the devil _do_ you mean?” Lord Theign, taking in the hour, had reached the door as in supremely baffled conclusion and with a sense of time lamentably lost. Their eyes met upon it all dreadfully across the wide space, and, hurried and incommoded as she saw him, she yet made him still stand a minute. Then she let everything go. “Do what you like with the picture!” He jerked up his arm and guarding hand as before a levelled blow at his face, and with the other hand flung open the door, having done with her now and immediately lost to sight. Left alone she stood a moment looking before her; then with a vague advance, held apparently by a quickly growing sense of the implication of her act, reached a table where she remained a little, deep afresh in thought--only the next thing to fall into a chair close to it and there, with her elbows on it, yield to the impulse of covering her flushed face with her hands. BOOK THIRD I HUGH CRIMBLE waited again in the Bruton Street drawing-room--this time at the afternoon hour; he restlessly shifted his place, looked at things about him without seeing them; all he saw, all he outwardly studied, was his own face and figure as he stopped an instant before a long glass suspended between two windows. Just as he turned from that brief and perhaps not wholly gratified inspection Lady Grace--that he had sent up his name to whom was immediately apparent--presented herself at the entrance from the other room. These young persons had hereupon no instant exchange of words; their exchange was mute--they but paused where they were; while the silence of each evidently tested the other for full confidence. A measure of this comfort came first, it would have appeared, to Hugh; though he then at once asked for confirmation of it. “Am I right, Lady Grace, am I right?--to have _come_, I mean, after so many days of not hearing, not knowing, and perhaps, all too stupidly, not trying.” And he went on as, still with her eyes on him, she didn’t speak; though, only, we should have guessed, from her stress of emotion. “Even if I’m wrong, let me tell you, I don’t care--simply because, whatever new difficulty I may have brought about for you here a fortnight ago, there’s something that to-day adds to my doubt and my fear too great a pang, and that has made me feel I can scarce bear the suspense of them as they are.” The girl came nearer, and if her grave face expressed a pity it yet declined a dread. “Of what suspense do you speak? Your still being without the other opinion--?” “Ah, that worries me, yes; and	your lover?” he said as he drew again near. Lady Grace waited a little, but spoke as quietly as if she had been prepared. “Has the question a bearing on the promise you a short time ago demanded of me?” “It has a bearing on the so extraordinary appearance of your intimacy with him!” “You mean that if he _should_ be--what you ask me about--your exaction would then be modified?” “My request that you break it short off? That request would, on the contrary,” Lord Theign pronounced, “rest on an immense new ground. Therefore I insist on your telling me the truth.” “Won’t the truth be before you, father, if you’ll _think_ a moment--without extravagance?” After which, while, as stiffly as ever--and it probably seemed to her impatience as stupidly--he didn’t rise to it, she went on: “If I _offered_ you not again to see him, does that make for you the appearance--?” “If you offered it, you mean, on your condition--my promising not to sell? I promised,” said Lord Theign, “absolutely nothing at all!” She took him up with all expression. “So I promised as little! But that I should have been able to say what I did sufficiently meets your curiosity.” She might, wronged as she held herself, have felt him stupid not to see _how_ wronged; but he was in any case acute for an evasion. “You risked your offer for the great equivalent over which you’ve so wildly worked yourself up.” “Yes, I’ve worked myself--that, I grant you and don’t blush for! But hardly so much as to renounce my ‘lover’--if,” she prodigiously smiled, “I were so fortunate as to have one!” “You renounced poor John mightily easily--whom you were so fortunate as to have!” Her brows rose as high as his own had ever done. “Do you call Lord John my lover?” “He was your suitor most assuredly,” Lord Theign inimitably said, though without looking at her; “and as strikingly encouraged as he was respectfully ardent!” “Encouraged by _you_, dear father, beyond doubt!” “Encouraged--er--by every one: because you were (yes, you _were!_) encouraging. And what I ask of you now is a word of common candour as to whether you didn’t, on your honour, turn him off because of your just then so stimulated views on the person who has been with us.” Grace replied but after an instant, as moved by more things than she could say--moved above all, in her trouble and her pity for him, by other things than harshness: “Oh father, father, father----!” He searched her through all the compassion of her cry, but appeared to give way to her sincerity.<\|quote\|>“Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.”</\|quote\|>“But you said a moment ago that I should all the more in the other case--that of there _being_ something!” He brushed away her logic-chopping. “If you’re so keen then for past remarks I take up your own words--I accept your own terms for your putting an end to Mr. Crimble.” To which, while, turning pale, she said nothing, he added: “You recognise that you profess yourself ready----” “Not again to see him,” she now answered, “if you tell me the picture’s safe? Yes, I recognise that I _was_ ready--as well as how scornfully little you then were!” “Never mind what I then was--the question’s of what I actually am, since I close with you on it The picture’s therefore as safe as you please,” Lord Theign pursued, “if you’ll do what you just now engaged to.” “I engaged to do nothing,” she replied after a pause; and the face she turned to him had grown suddenly tragic. “I’ve no word to take back, for none passed between us; but I _won’t_ do what I mentioned and what you at once laughed at Because,” she finished, “the case is different.” “Different?” he almost shouted-- “_how_, different?” She didn’t look at him for it, but she was none the less strongly distinct “He has _been_ here--and that has done it He knows,” she admirably emphasised. “Knows what I think of him, no doubt--for a brazen young prevaricator! But what else?” She still kept her eyes on a far-off point. “What he will have seen--that I feel we’re too good friends.” “Then your denial of it’s false,” her father fairly thundered-- “and you _are_ infatuated?” It made her the more quiet. “I like him very much.” “So that your row about the picture,” he demanded with passion, “has been all a blind?” And then as her quietness still held her: “And his a blind as much--to help him to get _at_ you?” She looked at him again now. “He must speak for himself. I’ve said what I mean.” “But what the devil _do_ you mean?” Lord Theign, taking in the hour, had reached the door as in supremely baffled conclusion and with a sense of time lamentably lost. Their eyes met upon it all dreadfully across the wide space, and, hurried and incommoded as she saw him, she yet made him still stand a minute. Then she let everything go. “Do what you like with the picture!” He jerked up his arm and guarding hand as before a levelled blow at his face, and with the other hand flung open the door, having done with her now and immediately lost to sight. Left alone she stood a moment looking before her; then with a vague advance, held apparently by a quickly growing sense of the implication of her act, reached a table where she remained a little, deep afresh in thought--only the next thing to fall into a chair close to it and there, with her elbows on it, yield to the impulse of covering her flushed face with her hands. BOOK THIRD I HUGH	The Outcry
"If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?"	Maurice Oakley	reply in a grieved voice.<\|quote\|>"If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?"</\|quote\|>"Every cent of money that	a considerable loss," was the reply in a grieved voice.<\|quote\|>"If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?"</\|quote\|>"Every cent of money that I had to secure my	a servant to bring his brother to him. Maurice found him standing weakly against the railing of the stairs. Something in his air impressed his brother strangely. "What is it, Francis?" he questioned, hurrying to him. "I have just discovered a considerable loss," was the reply in a grieved voice.<\|quote\|>"If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?"</\|quote\|>"Every cent of money that I had to secure my letter of credit is gone from my bureau." "What? When did it disappear?" "I went to my bureau to-night for something and found the money gone; then I remembered that when I opened it two days ago I must have	strong glow in Francis Oakley's face, and his laugh was frequent and ringing. Some discussion came up which sent him running up to his room for a bit of evidence. When he came down it was not to come directly to the dining-room. He paused in the hall and despatched a servant to bring his brother to him. Maurice found him standing weakly against the railing of the stairs. Something in his air impressed his brother strangely. "What is it, Francis?" he questioned, hurrying to him. "I have just discovered a considerable loss," was the reply in a grieved voice.<\|quote\|>"If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?"</\|quote\|>"Every cent of money that I had to secure my letter of credit is gone from my bureau." "What? When did it disappear?" "I went to my bureau to-night for something and found the money gone; then I remembered that when I opened it two days ago I must have left the key in the lock, as I found it to-night." "It 's a bad business, but don't let 's talk of it now. Come, let 's go back to our guests. Don't look so cut up about it, Frank, old man. It is n't as bad as it might	that he cared for? Had the speech had a hidden meaning for her? She could never tell. She could not understand this man who had been so much to her for so long, and yet did not seem to know it; who was full of romance and fire and passion, and yet looked at her beauty with the eyes of a mere comrade. She sighed as she rose with the rest of the women to leave the table. The men lingered over their cigars. The wine was old and the stories new. What more could they ask? There was a strong glow in Francis Oakley's face, and his laugh was frequent and ringing. Some discussion came up which sent him running up to his room for a bit of evidence. When he came down it was not to come directly to the dining-room. He paused in the hall and despatched a servant to bring his brother to him. Maurice found him standing weakly against the railing of the stairs. Something in his air impressed his brother strangely. "What is it, Francis?" he questioned, hurrying to him. "I have just discovered a considerable loss," was the reply in a grieved voice.<\|quote\|>"If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?"</\|quote\|>"Every cent of money that I had to secure my letter of credit is gone from my bureau." "What? When did it disappear?" "I went to my bureau to-night for something and found the money gone; then I remembered that when I opened it two days ago I must have left the key in the lock, as I found it to-night." "It 's a bad business, but don't let 's talk of it now. Come, let 's go back to our guests. Don't look so cut up about it, Frank, old man. It is n't as bad as it might be, and you must n't show a gloomy face to-night." The younger man pulled himself together, and re-entered the room with his brother. In a few minutes his gaiety had apparently returned. When they rejoined the ladies, even their quick eyes could detect in his demeanour no trace of the annoying thing that had occurred. His face did not change until, with a wealth of fervent congratulations, he had bade the last guest good-bye. Then he turned to his brother. "When Leslie is in bed, come into the library. I will wait for you there," he said, and walked sadly	a chill through her gaiety. She did not want to be suspicious, but what was the cause of that tell-tale flush? He was not a man easily disconcerted; then why so to-night? But her companion talked on with such innocent composure that she believed herself mistaken as to the reason for his momentary confusion. Someone cried gayly across the table to her: "Oh, Miss Claire, you will not dare to talk with such little awe to our friend when he comes back with his ribbons and his medals. Why, we shall all have to bow to you, Frank!" "You 're wronging me, Esterton," said Francis. "No foreign decoration could ever be to me as much as the flower of approval from the fair women of my own State." "Hear!" cried the ladies. "Trust artists and poets to pay pretty compliments, and this wily friend of mine pays his at my expense." "A good bit of generalship, that, Frank," an old military man broke in. "Esterton opened the breach and you at once galloped in. That 's the highest art of war." Claire was looking at her companion. Had he meant the approval of the women, or was it one woman that he cared for? Had the speech had a hidden meaning for her? She could never tell. She could not understand this man who had been so much to her for so long, and yet did not seem to know it; who was full of romance and fire and passion, and yet looked at her beauty with the eyes of a mere comrade. She sighed as she rose with the rest of the women to leave the table. The men lingered over their cigars. The wine was old and the stories new. What more could they ask? There was a strong glow in Francis Oakley's face, and his laugh was frequent and ringing. Some discussion came up which sent him running up to his room for a bit of evidence. When he came down it was not to come directly to the dining-room. He paused in the hall and despatched a servant to bring his brother to him. Maurice found him standing weakly against the railing of the stairs. Something in his air impressed his brother strangely. "What is it, Francis?" he questioned, hurrying to him. "I have just discovered a considerable loss," was the reply in a grieved voice.<\|quote\|>"If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?"</\|quote\|>"Every cent of money that I had to secure my letter of credit is gone from my bureau." "What? When did it disappear?" "I went to my bureau to-night for something and found the money gone; then I remembered that when I opened it two days ago I must have left the key in the lock, as I found it to-night." "It 's a bad business, but don't let 's talk of it now. Come, let 's go back to our guests. Don't look so cut up about it, Frank, old man. It is n't as bad as it might be, and you must n't show a gloomy face to-night." The younger man pulled himself together, and re-entered the room with his brother. In a few minutes his gaiety had apparently returned. When they rejoined the ladies, even their quick eyes could detect in his demeanour no trace of the annoying thing that had occurred. His face did not change until, with a wealth of fervent congratulations, he had bade the last guest good-bye. Then he turned to his brother. "When Leslie is in bed, come into the library. I will wait for you there," he said, and walked sadly away. "Poor, foolish Frank," mused his brother, "as if the loss could matter to him." III THE THEFT Frank was very pale when his brother finally came to him at the appointed place. He sat limply in his chair, his eyes fixed upon the floor. "Come, brace up now, Frank, and tell me about it." At the sound of his brother's voice he started and looked up as though he had been dreaming. "I don't know what you 'll think of me, Maurice," he said; "I have never before been guilty of such criminal carelessness." "Don't stop to accuse yourself. Our only hope in this matter lies in prompt action. Where was the money?" "In the oak cabinet and lying in the bureau drawer. Such a thing as a theft seemed so foreign to this place that I was never very particular about the box. But I did not know until I went to it to-night that the last time I had opened it I had forgotten to take the key out. It all flashed over me in a second when I saw it shining there. Even then I did n't suspect anything. You don't know how I felt to	evil invitation could have come nigh to him. But this younger brother, this half ward of theirs, was an unruly member. He talked and laughed, rode and walked, with Claire Lessing with the same free abandon, the same show of uninterested good comradeship, that he had used towards her when they were boy and girl together. There was not a shade more of warmth or self-consciousness in his manner towards her than there had been fifteen years before. In fact, there was less, for there had been a time, when he was six and Claire three, that Francis, with a boldness that the lover of maturer years tries vainly to attain, had announced to Claire that he was going to marry her. But he had never renewed this declaration when it came time that it would carry weight with it. They made a fine picture as they sat together to-night. One seeing them could hardly help thinking on the instant that they were made for each other. Something in the woman's face, in her expression perhaps, supplied a palpable lack in the man. The strength of her mouth and chin helped the weakness of his. She was the sort of woman who, if ever he came to a great moral crisis in his life, would be able to save him if she were near. And yet he was going away from her, giving up the pearl that he had only to put out his hand to take. Some of these thoughts were in the minds of the brother and sister now. "Five years does seem a long while," Francis was saying, "but if a man accomplishes anything, after all, it seems only a short time to look back upon." "All time is short to look back upon. It is the looking forward to it that counts. It does n't, though, with a man, I suppose. He's doing something all the while." "Yes, a man is always doing something, even if only waiting; but waiting is such unheroic business." "That is the part that usually falls to a woman's lot. I have no doubt that some dark-eyed mademoiselle is waiting for you now." Francis laughed and flushed hotly. Claire noted the flush and wondered at it. Had she indeed hit upon the real point? Was that the reason that he was so anxious to get back to Paris? The thought struck a chill through her gaiety. She did not want to be suspicious, but what was the cause of that tell-tale flush? He was not a man easily disconcerted; then why so to-night? But her companion talked on with such innocent composure that she believed herself mistaken as to the reason for his momentary confusion. Someone cried gayly across the table to her: "Oh, Miss Claire, you will not dare to talk with such little awe to our friend when he comes back with his ribbons and his medals. Why, we shall all have to bow to you, Frank!" "You 're wronging me, Esterton," said Francis. "No foreign decoration could ever be to me as much as the flower of approval from the fair women of my own State." "Hear!" cried the ladies. "Trust artists and poets to pay pretty compliments, and this wily friend of mine pays his at my expense." "A good bit of generalship, that, Frank," an old military man broke in. "Esterton opened the breach and you at once galloped in. That 's the highest art of war." Claire was looking at her companion. Had he meant the approval of the women, or was it one woman that he cared for? Had the speech had a hidden meaning for her? She could never tell. She could not understand this man who had been so much to her for so long, and yet did not seem to know it; who was full of romance and fire and passion, and yet looked at her beauty with the eyes of a mere comrade. She sighed as she rose with the rest of the women to leave the table. The men lingered over their cigars. The wine was old and the stories new. What more could they ask? There was a strong glow in Francis Oakley's face, and his laugh was frequent and ringing. Some discussion came up which sent him running up to his room for a bit of evidence. When he came down it was not to come directly to the dining-room. He paused in the hall and despatched a servant to bring his brother to him. Maurice found him standing weakly against the railing of the stairs. Something in his air impressed his brother strangely. "What is it, Francis?" he questioned, hurrying to him. "I have just discovered a considerable loss," was the reply in a grieved voice.<\|quote\|>"If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?"</\|quote\|>"Every cent of money that I had to secure my letter of credit is gone from my bureau." "What? When did it disappear?" "I went to my bureau to-night for something and found the money gone; then I remembered that when I opened it two days ago I must have left the key in the lock, as I found it to-night." "It 's a bad business, but don't let 's talk of it now. Come, let 's go back to our guests. Don't look so cut up about it, Frank, old man. It is n't as bad as it might be, and you must n't show a gloomy face to-night." The younger man pulled himself together, and re-entered the room with his brother. In a few minutes his gaiety had apparently returned. When they rejoined the ladies, even their quick eyes could detect in his demeanour no trace of the annoying thing that had occurred. His face did not change until, with a wealth of fervent congratulations, he had bade the last guest good-bye. Then he turned to his brother. "When Leslie is in bed, come into the library. I will wait for you there," he said, and walked sadly away. "Poor, foolish Frank," mused his brother, "as if the loss could matter to him." III THE THEFT Frank was very pale when his brother finally came to him at the appointed place. He sat limply in his chair, his eyes fixed upon the floor. "Come, brace up now, Frank, and tell me about it." At the sound of his brother's voice he started and looked up as though he had been dreaming. "I don't know what you 'll think of me, Maurice," he said; "I have never before been guilty of such criminal carelessness." "Don't stop to accuse yourself. Our only hope in this matter lies in prompt action. Where was the money?" "In the oak cabinet and lying in the bureau drawer. Such a thing as a theft seemed so foreign to this place that I was never very particular about the box. But I did not know until I went to it to-night that the last time I had opened it I had forgotten to take the key out. It all flashed over me in a second when I saw it shining there. Even then I did n't suspect anything. You don't know how I felt to open that cabinet and find all my money gone. It 's awful." "Don't worry. How much was there in all?" "Nine hundred and eighty-six dollars, most of which, I am ashamed to say, I had accepted from you." "You have no right to talk that way, Frank; you know I do not begrudge a cent you want. I have never felt that my father did quite right in leaving me the bulk of the fortune; but we won't discuss that now. What I want you to understand, though, is that the money is yours as well as mine, and you are always welcome to it." The artist shook his head. "No, Maurice," he said, "I can accept no more from you. I have already used up all my own money and too much of yours in this hopeless fight. I don't suppose I was ever cut out for an artist, or I 'd have done something really notable in this time, and would not be a burden upon those who care for me. No, I 'll give up going to Paris and find some work to do." "Frank, Frank, be silent. This is nonsense, Give up your art? You shall not do it. You shall go to Paris as usual. Leslie and I have perfect faith in you. You shall not give up on account of this misfortune. What are the few paltry dollars to me or to you?" "Nothing, nothing, I know. It is n't the money, it 's the principle of the thing." "Principle be hanged! You go back to Paris to-morrow, just as you had planned. I do not ask it, I command it." The younger man looked up quickly. "Pardon me, Frank, for using those words and at such a time. You know how near my heart your success lies, and to hear you talk of giving it all up makes me forget myself. Forgive me, but you 'll go back, won't you?" "You are too good, Maurice," said Frank impulsively, "and I will go back, and I 'll try to redeem myself." "There is no redeeming of yourself to do, my dear boy; all you have to do is to mature yourself. We 'll have a detective down and see what we can do in this matter." Frank gave a scarcely perceptible start. "I do so hate such things," he said; "and, anyway, what 's	that, Frank," an old military man broke in. "Esterton opened the breach and you at once galloped in. That 's the highest art of war." Claire was looking at her companion. Had he meant the approval of the women, or was it one woman that he cared for? Had the speech had a hidden meaning for her? She could never tell. She could not understand this man who had been so much to her for so long, and yet did not seem to know it; who was full of romance and fire and passion, and yet looked at her beauty with the eyes of a mere comrade. She sighed as she rose with the rest of the women to leave the table. The men lingered over their cigars. The wine was old and the stories new. What more could they ask? There was a strong glow in Francis Oakley's face, and his laugh was frequent and ringing. Some discussion came up which sent him running up to his room for a bit of evidence. When he came down it was not to come directly to the dining-room. He paused in the hall and despatched a servant to bring his brother to him. Maurice found him standing weakly against the railing of the stairs. Something in his air impressed his brother strangely. "What is it, Francis?" he questioned, hurrying to him. "I have just discovered a considerable loss," was the reply in a grieved voice.<\|quote\|>"If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?"</\|quote\|>"Every cent of money that I had to secure my letter of credit is gone from my bureau." "What? When did it disappear?" "I went to my bureau to-night for something and found the money gone; then I remembered that when I opened it two days ago I must have left the key in the lock, as I found it to-night." "It 's a bad business, but don't let 's talk of it now. Come, let 's go back to our guests. Don't look so cut up about it, Frank, old man. It is n't as bad as it might be, and you must n't show a gloomy face to-night." The younger man pulled himself together, and re-entered the room with his brother. In a few minutes his gaiety had apparently returned. When they rejoined the ladies, even their quick eyes could detect in his demeanour no trace of the annoying thing that had occurred. His face did not change until, with a wealth of fervent congratulations, he had bade the last guest good-bye. Then he turned to his brother. "When Leslie is in bed, come into the library. I will wait for you there," he said, and walked sadly away. "Poor, foolish Frank," mused his brother, "as if the loss could matter to him." III THE THEFT Frank was very pale when his brother finally came to him at the appointed place. He sat limply in his chair, his eyes fixed upon the floor. "Come, brace up now, Frank, and tell me about it." At the sound of his brother's voice he started and looked up as though he had been dreaming. "I don't know what you 'll think of me, Maurice," he said; "I have never before been guilty of such criminal carelessness." "Don't stop to accuse yourself. Our only hope in this matter lies in prompt action. Where was the money?" "In the oak cabinet and lying in the bureau drawer. Such a thing as a theft seemed so foreign to this place that I was never very particular about the box. But I did not know until I went to it to-night that the last time I had opened it I had forgotten to take the key out. It all flashed over me in a second when I saw it shining there. Even then I did n't suspect anything. You don't know how I felt to open that cabinet and find all my money gone. It 's awful." "Don't worry. How much was there in all?" "Nine hundred and eighty-six dollars, most of which, I am ashamed to say, I had accepted from you." "You have no right to talk that way, Frank; you know I do not begrudge a cent you want. I have never felt that my father did quite right in leaving me the bulk of the fortune; but we won't discuss that now. What I want you to understand, though, is that the money is yours as well as mine, and you are always welcome to it." The artist shook his head. "No, Maurice," he said, "I can accept no more from you. I have already used up all my own money and too much of yours in this hopeless fight. I don't suppose I was ever cut out for an artist, or I	The Sport Of The Gods
Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.	No speaker	been here, three hours ago."<\|quote\|>Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.</\|quote\|>"Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot	I thought I should have been here, three hours ago."<\|quote\|>Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.</\|quote\|>"Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a	throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sikes. "There!" he said, laying the bundle on the table. "Take care of that, and do the most you can with it. It's been trouble enough to get; I thought I should have been here, three hours ago."<\|quote\|>Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.</\|quote\|>"Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a man so for?" Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone. "Damme!" said Sikes, feeling in his breast with	footstep in the street. "At last," he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. "At last!" The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and presently returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sikes. "There!" he said, laying the bundle on the table. "Take care of that, and do the most you can with it. It's been trouble enough to get; I thought I should have been here, three hours ago."<\|quote\|>Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.</\|quote\|>"Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a man so for?" Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone. "Damme!" said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. "He's gone mad. I must look to myself here." "No, no," rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. "It's not you're not the person, Bill. I've no no fault to find with you." "Oh, you haven't, haven't you?" said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a	distrust of the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up; bitter disappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sikes; the fear of detection, and ruin, and death; and a fierce and deadly rage kindled by all; these were the passionate considerations which, following close upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot through the brain of Fagin, as every evil thought and blackest purpose lay working at his heart. He sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take the smallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a footstep in the street. "At last," he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. "At last!" The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and presently returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sikes. "There!" he said, laying the bundle on the table. "Take care of that, and do the most you can with it. It's been trouble enough to get; I thought I should have been here, three hours ago."<\|quote\|>Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.</\|quote\|>"Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a man so for?" Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone. "Damme!" said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. "He's gone mad. I must look to myself here." "No, no," rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. "It's not you're not the person, Bill. I've no no fault to find with you." "Oh, you haven't, haven't you?" said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. "That's lucky for one of us. Which one that is, don't matter." "I've got that to tell you, Bill," said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer, "will make you worse than me." "Aye?" returned the robber with an incredulous air. "Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will think I'm lost." "Lost!" cried Fagin. "She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind, already." Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew's face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat collar in his huge hand and shook	dream; it was at this still and silent hour, that Fagin sat watching in his old lair, with face so distorted and pale, and eyes so red and blood-shot, that he looked less like a man, than like some hideous phantom, moist from the grave, and worried by an evil spirit. He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old torn coverlet, with his face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side. His right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed in thought, he hit his long black nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a few such fangs as should have been a dog's or rat's. Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole, fast asleep. Towards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and then brought them back again to the candle; which with a long-burnt wick drooping almost double, and hot grease falling down in clots upon the table, plainly showed that his thoughts were busy elsewhere. Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his notable scheme; hatred of the girl who had dared to palter with strangers; and utter distrust of the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up; bitter disappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sikes; the fear of detection, and ruin, and death; and a fierce and deadly rage kindled by all; these were the passionate considerations which, following close upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot through the brain of Fagin, as every evil thought and blackest purpose lay working at his heart. He sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take the smallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a footstep in the street. "At last," he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. "At last!" The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and presently returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sikes. "There!" he said, laying the bundle on the table. "Take care of that, and do the most you can with it. It's been trouble enough to get; I thought I should have been here, three hours ago."<\|quote\|>Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.</\|quote\|>"Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a man so for?" Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone. "Damme!" said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. "He's gone mad. I must look to myself here." "No, no," rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. "It's not you're not the person, Bill. I've no no fault to find with you." "Oh, you haven't, haven't you?" said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. "That's lucky for one of us. Which one that is, don't matter." "I've got that to tell you, Bill," said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer, "will make you worse than me." "Aye?" returned the robber with an incredulous air. "Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will think I'm lost." "Lost!" cried Fagin. "She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind, already." Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew's face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat collar in his huge hand and shook him soundly. "Speak, will you!" he said; "or if you don't, it shall be for want of breath. Open your mouth and say wot you've got to say in plain words. Out with it, you thundering old cur, out with it!" "Suppose that lad that's laying there" Fagin began. Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previously observed him. "Well!" he said, resuming his former position. "Suppose that lad," pursued Fagin, "was to peach to blow upon us all first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with 'em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plant we've all been in, more or less of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water, but of his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?" cried the Jew,	and God forbid such horrors should!" replied the girl. "Good-night, good-night!" The gentleman turned away. "This purse," cried the young lady. "Take it for my sake, that you may have some resource in an hour of need and trouble." "No!" replied the girl. "I have not done this for money. Let me have that to think of. And yet give me something that you have worn: I should like to have something no, no, not a ring your gloves or handkerchief anything that I can keep, as having belonged to you, sweet lady. There. Bless you! God bless you. Good-night, good-night!" The violent agitation of the girl, and the apprehension of some discovery which would subject her to ill-usage and violence, seemed to determine the gentleman to leave her, as she requested. The sound of retreating footsteps were audible and the voices ceased. The two figures of the young lady and her companion soon afterwards appeared upon the bridge. They stopped at the summit of the stairs. "Hark!" cried the young lady, listening. "Did she call! I thought I heard her voice." "No, my love," replied Mr. Brownlow, looking sadly back. "She has not moved, and will not till we are gone." Rose Maylie lingered, but the old gentleman drew her arm through his, and led her, with gentle force, away. As they disappeared, the girl sunk down nearly at her full length upon one of the stone stairs, and vented the anguish of her heart in bitter tears. After a time she arose, and with feeble and tottering steps ascended the street. The astonished listener remained motionless on his post for some minutes afterwards, and having ascertained, with many cautious glances round him, that he was again alone, crept slowly from his hiding-place, and returned, stealthily and in the shade of the wall, in the same manner as he had descended. Peeping out, more than once, when he reached the top, to make sure that he was unobserved, Noah Claypole darted away at his utmost speed, and made for the Jew's house as fast as his legs would carry him. CHAPTER XLVII. FATAL CONSEQUENCES It was nearly two hours before day-break; that time which in the autumn of the year, may be truly called the dead of night; when the streets are silent and deserted; when even sounds appear to slumber, and profligacy and riot have staggered home to dream; it was at this still and silent hour, that Fagin sat watching in his old lair, with face so distorted and pale, and eyes so red and blood-shot, that he looked less like a man, than like some hideous phantom, moist from the grave, and worried by an evil spirit. He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old torn coverlet, with his face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side. His right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed in thought, he hit his long black nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a few such fangs as should have been a dog's or rat's. Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole, fast asleep. Towards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and then brought them back again to the candle; which with a long-burnt wick drooping almost double, and hot grease falling down in clots upon the table, plainly showed that his thoughts were busy elsewhere. Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his notable scheme; hatred of the girl who had dared to palter with strangers; and utter distrust of the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up; bitter disappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sikes; the fear of detection, and ruin, and death; and a fierce and deadly rage kindled by all; these were the passionate considerations which, following close upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot through the brain of Fagin, as every evil thought and blackest purpose lay working at his heart. He sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take the smallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a footstep in the street. "At last," he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. "At last!" The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and presently returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sikes. "There!" he said, laying the bundle on the table. "Take care of that, and do the most you can with it. It's been trouble enough to get; I thought I should have been here, three hours ago."<\|quote\|>Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.</\|quote\|>"Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a man so for?" Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone. "Damme!" said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. "He's gone mad. I must look to myself here." "No, no," rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. "It's not you're not the person, Bill. I've no no fault to find with you." "Oh, you haven't, haven't you?" said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. "That's lucky for one of us. Which one that is, don't matter." "I've got that to tell you, Bill," said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer, "will make you worse than me." "Aye?" returned the robber with an incredulous air. "Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will think I'm lost." "Lost!" cried Fagin. "She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind, already." Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew's face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat collar in his huge hand and shook him soundly. "Speak, will you!" he said; "or if you don't, it shall be for want of breath. Open your mouth and say wot you've got to say in plain words. Out with it, you thundering old cur, out with it!" "Suppose that lad that's laying there" Fagin began. Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previously observed him. "Well!" he said, resuming his former position. "Suppose that lad," pursued Fagin, "was to peach to blow upon us all first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with 'em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plant we've all been in, more or less of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water, but of his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?" cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. "Suppose he did all this, what then?" "What then!" replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. "If he was left alive till I came, I'd grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head." "What if I did it!" cried Fagin almost in a yell. "I, that knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!" "I don't know," replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it." "You would?" "Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me." "If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or" "I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill." "Wot d'ye mean?" asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to	was at this still and silent hour, that Fagin sat watching in his old lair, with face so distorted and pale, and eyes so red and blood-shot, that he looked less like a man, than like some hideous phantom, moist from the grave, and worried by an evil spirit. He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old torn coverlet, with his face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side. His right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed in thought, he hit his long black nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a few such fangs as should have been a dog's or rat's. Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole, fast asleep. Towards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and then brought them back again to the candle; which with a long-burnt wick drooping almost double, and hot grease falling down in clots upon the table, plainly showed that his thoughts were busy elsewhere. Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his notable scheme; hatred of the girl who had dared to palter with strangers; and utter distrust of the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up; bitter disappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sikes; the fear of detection, and ruin, and death; and a fierce and deadly rage kindled by all; these were the passionate considerations which, following close upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot through the brain of Fagin, as every evil thought and blackest purpose lay working at his heart. He sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take the smallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a footstep in the street. "At last," he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. "At last!" The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and presently returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sikes. "There!" he said, laying the bundle on the table. "Take care of that, and do the most you can with it. It's been trouble enough to get; I thought I should have been here, three hours ago."<\|quote\|>Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.</\|quote\|>"Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a man so for?" Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone. "Damme!" said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. "He's gone mad. I must look to myself here." "No, no," rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. "It's not you're not the person, Bill. I've no no fault to find with you." "Oh, you haven't, haven't you?" said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. "That's lucky for one of us. Which one that is, don't matter." "I've got that to tell you, Bill," said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer, "will make you worse than me." "Aye?" returned the robber with an incredulous air. "Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will think I'm lost." "Lost!" cried Fagin. "She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind, already." Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew's face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat collar in his huge hand and shook him soundly. "Speak, will you!" he said; "or if you don't, it shall be for want of breath. Open your mouth and say wot you've got to say in plain words. Out with it, you thundering old cur, out with it!" "Suppose that lad that's laying there" Fagin began. Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previously observed him. "Well!" he said, resuming his former position. "Suppose that lad," pursued Fagin, "was to peach to blow upon us all first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with 'em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plant we've all been in, more or less of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water, but of his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?" cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. "Suppose he did all this, what then?" "What then!" replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. "If he was left alive till I came, I'd grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head." "What if I did it!" cried Fagin almost in a yell. "I, that knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!" "I don't know," replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion.	Oliver Twist
"Pooh isn't there,"	Owl	while he was back again.<\|quote\|>"Pooh isn't there,"</\|quote\|>he said. "Not there?" "Has	flew off. In a little while he was back again.<\|quote\|>"Pooh isn't there,"</\|quote\|>he said. "Not there?" "Has _been_ there. He's been sitting	"Do go and see, Owl. Because Pooh hasn't got very much brain, and he might do something silly, and I do love him so, Owl. Do you see, Owl?" "That's all right," said Owl. "I'll go. Back directly." And he flew off. In a little while he was back again.<\|quote\|>"Pooh isn't there,"</\|quote\|>he said. "Not there?" "Has _been_ there. He's been sitting on a branch of his tree outside his house with nine pots of honey. But he isn't there now." "Oh, Pooh!" cried Christopher Robin. "Where _are_ you?" "Here I am," said a growly voice behind him. "Pooh!" They rushed into	prospects are rapidly becoming more favourable. At any moment----" "Have you seen Pooh?" "No. At any moment----" "I hope he's all right," said Christopher Robin. "I've been wondering about him. I expect Piglet's with him. Do you think they're all right, Owl?" "I expect so. You see, at any moment----" "Do go and see, Owl. Because Pooh hasn't got very much brain, and he might do something silly, and I do love him so, Owl. Do you see, Owl?" "That's all right," said Owl. "I'll go. Back directly." And he flew off. In a little while he was back again.<\|quote\|>"Pooh isn't there,"</\|quote\|>he said. "Not there?" "Has _been_ there. He's been sitting on a branch of his tree outside his house with nine pots of honey. But he isn't there now." "Oh, Pooh!" cried Christopher Robin. "Where _are_ you?" "Here I am," said a growly voice behind him. "Pooh!" They rushed into each other's arms. "How did you get here, Pooh?" asked Christopher Robin, when he was ready to talk again. "On my boat," said Pooh proudly. "I had a Very Important Missage sent me in a bottle, and owing to having got some water in my eyes, I couldn't read it,	first time in his life he was on a real island. Which was very exciting. It was on this morning that Owl came flying over the water to say "How do you do," to his friend Christopher Robin. "I say, Owl," said Christopher Robin, "isn't this fun? I'm on an island!" "The atmospheric conditions have been very unfavourable lately," said Owl. "The what?" "It has been raining," explained Owl. "Yes," said Christopher Robin. "It has." "The flood-level has reached an unprecedented height." "The who?" "There's a lot of water about," explained Owl. "Yes," said Christopher Robin, "there is." "However, the prospects are rapidly becoming more favourable. At any moment----" "Have you seen Pooh?" "No. At any moment----" "I hope he's all right," said Christopher Robin. "I've been wondering about him. I expect Piglet's with him. Do you think they're all right, Owl?" "I expect so. You see, at any moment----" "Do go and see, Owl. Because Pooh hasn't got very much brain, and he might do something silly, and I do love him so, Owl. Do you see, Owl?" "That's all right," said Owl. "I'll go. Back directly." And he flew off. In a little while he was back again.<\|quote\|>"Pooh isn't there,"</\|quote\|>he said. "Not there?" "Has _been_ there. He's been sitting on a branch of his tree outside his house with nine pots of honey. But he isn't there now." "Oh, Pooh!" cried Christopher Robin. "Where _are_ you?" "Here I am," said a growly voice behind him. "Pooh!" They rushed into each other's arms. "How did you get here, Pooh?" asked Christopher Robin, when he was ready to talk again. "On my boat," said Pooh proudly. "I had a Very Important Missage sent me in a bottle, and owing to having got some water in my eyes, I couldn't read it, so I brought it to you. On my boat." With these proud words he gave Christopher Robin the missage. "But it's from Piglet!" cried Christopher Robin when he had read it. "Isn't there anything about Pooh in it?" asked Bear, looking over his shoulder. Christopher Robin read the message aloud. "Oh, are those 'P's' piglets? I thought they were poohs." "We must rescue him at once! I thought he was with _you_, Pooh. Owl, could you rescue him on your back?" "I don't think so," said Owl, after grave thought. "It is doubtful if the necessary dorsal muscles----" "Then would	_The Floating Bear_ were uncertain as to which of them was meant to be on the top, but after trying one or two different positions, they settled down with _The Floating Bear_ underneath and Pooh triumphantly astride it, paddling vigorously with his feet. * * * * * Christopher Robin lived at the very top of the Forest. It rained, and it rained, and it rained, but the water couldn't come up to _his_ house. It was rather jolly to look down into the valleys and see the water all round him, but it rained so hard that he stayed indoors most of the time, and thought about things. Every morning he went out with his umbrella and put a stick in the place where the water came up to, and every next morning he went out and couldn't see his stick any more, so he put another stick in the place where the water came up to, and then he walked home again, and each morning he had a shorter way to walk than he had had the morning before. On the morning of the fifth day he saw the water all round him, and knew that for the first time in his life he was on a real island. Which was very exciting. It was on this morning that Owl came flying over the water to say "How do you do," to his friend Christopher Robin. "I say, Owl," said Christopher Robin, "isn't this fun? I'm on an island!" "The atmospheric conditions have been very unfavourable lately," said Owl. "The what?" "It has been raining," explained Owl. "Yes," said Christopher Robin. "It has." "The flood-level has reached an unprecedented height." "The who?" "There's a lot of water about," explained Owl. "Yes," said Christopher Robin, "there is." "However, the prospects are rapidly becoming more favourable. At any moment----" "Have you seen Pooh?" "No. At any moment----" "I hope he's all right," said Christopher Robin. "I've been wondering about him. I expect Piglet's with him. Do you think they're all right, Owl?" "I expect so. You see, at any moment----" "Do go and see, Owl. Because Pooh hasn't got very much brain, and he might do something silly, and I do love him so, Owl. Do you see, Owl?" "That's all right," said Owl. "I'll go. Back directly." And he flew off. In a little while he was back again.<\|quote\|>"Pooh isn't there,"</\|quote\|>he said. "Not there?" "Has _been_ there. He's been sitting on a branch of his tree outside his house with nine pots of honey. But he isn't there now." "Oh, Pooh!" cried Christopher Robin. "Where _are_ you?" "Here I am," said a growly voice behind him. "Pooh!" They rushed into each other's arms. "How did you get here, Pooh?" asked Christopher Robin, when he was ready to talk again. "On my boat," said Pooh proudly. "I had a Very Important Missage sent me in a bottle, and owing to having got some water in my eyes, I couldn't read it, so I brought it to you. On my boat." With these proud words he gave Christopher Robin the missage. "But it's from Piglet!" cried Christopher Robin when he had read it. "Isn't there anything about Pooh in it?" asked Bear, looking over his shoulder. Christopher Robin read the message aloud. "Oh, are those 'P's' piglets? I thought they were poohs." "We must rescue him at once! I thought he was with _you_, Pooh. Owl, could you rescue him on your back?" "I don't think so," said Owl, after grave thought. "It is doubtful if the necessary dorsal muscles----" "Then would you fly to him at _once_ and say that Rescue is Coming? And Pooh and I will think of a Rescue and come as quick as ever we can. Oh, don't _talk_, Owl, go on quick!" And, still thinking of something to say, Owl flew off. "Now then, Pooh," said Christopher Robin, "where's your boat?" "I ought to say," explained Pooh as they walked down to the shore of the island, "that it isn't just an ordinary sort of boat. Sometimes it's a Boat, and sometimes it's more of an Accident. It all depends." "Depends on what?" "On whether I'm on the top of it or underneath it." "Oh! Well, where is it?" "There!" said Pooh, pointing proudly to _The Floating Bear_. It wasn't what Christopher Robin expected, and the more he looked at it, the more he thought what a Brave and Clever Bear Pooh was, and the more Christopher Robin thought this, the more Pooh looked modestly down his nose and tried to pretend he wasn't. "But it's too small for two of us," said Christopher Robin sadly. "Three of us with Piglet." "That makes it smaller still. Oh, Pooh Bear, what shall we do?" And then this	legs got, until suddenly he woke up with an _Ow!_--and there he was, sitting in his chair with his feet in the water, and water all round him! He splashed to his door and looked out... "This is Serious," said Pooh. "I must have an Escape." So he took his largest pot of honey and escaped with it to a broad branch of his tree, well above the water, and then he climbed down again and escaped with another pot ... and when the whole Escape was finished, there was Pooh sitting on his branch, dangling his legs, and there, beside him, were ten pots of honey.... Two days later, there was Pooh, sitting on his branch, dangling his legs, and there, beside him, were four pots of honey.... Three days later, there was Pooh, sitting on his branch, dangling his legs, and there beside him, was one pot of honey. Four days later, there was Pooh ... And it was on the morning of the fourth day that Piglet's bottle came floating past him, and with one loud cry of "Honey!" Pooh plunged into the water, seized the bottle, and struggled back to his tree again. "Bother!" said Pooh, as he opened it. "All that wet for nothing. What's that bit of paper doing?" He took it out and looked at it. "It's a Missage," he said to himself, "that's what it is. And that letter is a 'P,' and so is that, and so is that, and 'P' means 'Pooh,' so it's a very important Missage to me, and I can't read it. I must find Christopher Robin or Owl or Piglet, one of those Clever Readers who can read things, and they will tell me what this missage means. Only I can't swim. Bother!" Then he had an idea, and I think that for a Bear of Very Little Brain, it was a good idea. He said to himself: "If a bottle can float, then a jar can float, and if a jar floats, I can sit on the top of it, if it's a very big jar." So he took his biggest jar, and corked it up. "All boats have to have a name," he said, "so I shall call mine _The Floating Bear_." And with these words he dropped his boat into the water and jumped in after it. For a little while Pooh and _The Floating Bear_ were uncertain as to which of them was meant to be on the top, but after trying one or two different positions, they settled down with _The Floating Bear_ underneath and Pooh triumphantly astride it, paddling vigorously with his feet. * * * * * Christopher Robin lived at the very top of the Forest. It rained, and it rained, and it rained, but the water couldn't come up to _his_ house. It was rather jolly to look down into the valleys and see the water all round him, but it rained so hard that he stayed indoors most of the time, and thought about things. Every morning he went out with his umbrella and put a stick in the place where the water came up to, and every next morning he went out and couldn't see his stick any more, so he put another stick in the place where the water came up to, and then he walked home again, and each morning he had a shorter way to walk than he had had the morning before. On the morning of the fifth day he saw the water all round him, and knew that for the first time in his life he was on a real island. Which was very exciting. It was on this morning that Owl came flying over the water to say "How do you do," to his friend Christopher Robin. "I say, Owl," said Christopher Robin, "isn't this fun? I'm on an island!" "The atmospheric conditions have been very unfavourable lately," said Owl. "The what?" "It has been raining," explained Owl. "Yes," said Christopher Robin. "It has." "The flood-level has reached an unprecedented height." "The who?" "There's a lot of water about," explained Owl. "Yes," said Christopher Robin, "there is." "However, the prospects are rapidly becoming more favourable. At any moment----" "Have you seen Pooh?" "No. At any moment----" "I hope he's all right," said Christopher Robin. "I've been wondering about him. I expect Piglet's with him. Do you think they're all right, Owl?" "I expect so. You see, at any moment----" "Do go and see, Owl. Because Pooh hasn't got very much brain, and he might do something silly, and I do love him so, Owl. Do you see, Owl?" "That's all right," said Owl. "I'll go. Back directly." And he flew off. In a little while he was back again.<\|quote\|>"Pooh isn't there,"</\|quote\|>he said. "Not there?" "Has _been_ there. He's been sitting on a branch of his tree outside his house with nine pots of honey. But he isn't there now." "Oh, Pooh!" cried Christopher Robin. "Where _are_ you?" "Here I am," said a growly voice behind him. "Pooh!" They rushed into each other's arms. "How did you get here, Pooh?" asked Christopher Robin, when he was ready to talk again. "On my boat," said Pooh proudly. "I had a Very Important Missage sent me in a bottle, and owing to having got some water in my eyes, I couldn't read it, so I brought it to you. On my boat." With these proud words he gave Christopher Robin the missage. "But it's from Piglet!" cried Christopher Robin when he had read it. "Isn't there anything about Pooh in it?" asked Bear, looking over his shoulder. Christopher Robin read the message aloud. "Oh, are those 'P's' piglets? I thought they were poohs." "We must rescue him at once! I thought he was with _you_, Pooh. Owl, could you rescue him on your back?" "I don't think so," said Owl, after grave thought. "It is doubtful if the necessary dorsal muscles----" "Then would you fly to him at _once_ and say that Rescue is Coming? And Pooh and I will think of a Rescue and come as quick as ever we can. Oh, don't _talk_, Owl, go on quick!" And, still thinking of something to say, Owl flew off. "Now then, Pooh," said Christopher Robin, "where's your boat?" "I ought to say," explained Pooh as they walked down to the shore of the island, "that it isn't just an ordinary sort of boat. Sometimes it's a Boat, and sometimes it's more of an Accident. It all depends." "Depends on what?" "On whether I'm on the top of it or underneath it." "Oh! Well, where is it?" "There!" said Pooh, pointing proudly to _The Floating Bear_. It wasn't what Christopher Robin expected, and the more he looked at it, the more he thought what a Brave and Clever Bear Pooh was, and the more Christopher Robin thought this, the more Pooh looked modestly down his nose and tried to pretend he wasn't. "But it's too small for two of us," said Christopher Robin sadly. "Three of us with Piglet." "That makes it smaller still. Oh, Pooh Bear, what shall we do?" And then this Bear, Pooh Bear, Winnie-the-Pooh, F.O.P. (Friend of Piglet's), R.C. (Rabbit's Companion), P.D. (Pole Discoverer), E.C. and T.F. (Eeyore's Comforter and Tail-finder)--in fact, Pooh himself--said something so clever that Christopher Robin could only look at him with mouth open and eyes staring, wondering if this was really the Bear of Very Little Brain whom he had known and loved so long. "We might go in your umbrella," said Pooh. "?" "We might go in your umbrella," said Pooh. "? ?" "We might go in your umbrella," said Pooh. "!!!!!!" For suddenly Christopher Robin saw that they might. He opened his umbrella and put it point downwards in the water. It floated but wobbled. Pooh got in. He was just beginning to say that it was all right now, when he found that it wasn't, so after a short drink which he didn't really want he waded back to Christopher Robin. Then they both got in together, and it wobbled no longer. "I shall call this boat _The Brain of Pooh_," said Christopher Robin, and _The Brain of Pooh_ set sail forthwith in a south-westerly direction, revolving gracefully. You can imagine Piglet's joy when at last the ship came in sight of him. In after-years he liked to think that he had been in Very Great Danger during the Terrible Flood, but the only danger he had really been in was in the last half-hour of his imprisonment, when Owl, who had just flown up, sat on a branch of his tree to comfort him, and told him a very long story about an aunt who had once laid a seagull's egg by mistake, and the story went on and on, rather like this sentence, until Piglet who was listening out of his window without much hope, went to sleep quietly and naturally, slipping slowly out of the window towards the water until he was only hanging on by his toes, at which moment luckily, a sudden loud squawk from Owl, which was really part of the story, being what his aunt said, woke the Piglet up and just gave him time to jerk himself back into safety and say, "How interesting, and did she?" when--well, you can imagine his joy when at last he saw the good ship, _Brain of Pooh_ (_Captain_, C. Robin; _1st Mate_, P. Bear) coming over the sea to rescue him. Christopher Robin and Pooh again.... And	took his biggest jar, and corked it up. "All boats have to have a name," he said, "so I shall call mine _The Floating Bear_." And with these words he dropped his boat into the water and jumped in after it. For a little while Pooh and _The Floating Bear_ were uncertain as to which of them was meant to be on the top, but after trying one or two different positions, they settled down with _The Floating Bear_ underneath and Pooh triumphantly astride it, paddling vigorously with his feet. * * * * * Christopher Robin lived at the very top of the Forest. It rained, and it rained, and it rained, but the water couldn't come up to _his_ house. It was rather jolly to look down into the valleys and see the water all round him, but it rained so hard that he stayed indoors most of the time, and thought about things. Every morning he went out with his umbrella and put a stick in the place where the water came up to, and every next morning he went out and couldn't see his stick any more, so he put another stick in the place where the water came up to, and then he walked home again, and each morning he had a shorter way to walk than he had had the morning before. On the morning of the fifth day he saw the water all round him, and knew that for the first time in his life he was on a real island. Which was very exciting. It was on this morning that Owl came flying over the water to say "How do you do," to his friend Christopher Robin. "I say, Owl," said Christopher Robin, "isn't this fun? I'm on an island!" "The atmospheric conditions have been very unfavourable lately," said Owl. "The what?" "It has been raining," explained Owl. "Yes," said Christopher Robin. "It has." "The flood-level has reached an unprecedented height." "The who?" "There's a lot of water about," explained Owl. "Yes," said Christopher Robin, "there is." "However, the prospects are rapidly becoming more favourable. At any moment----" "Have you seen Pooh?" "No. At any moment----" "I hope he's all right," said Christopher Robin. "I've been wondering about him. I expect Piglet's with him. Do you think they're all right, Owl?" "I expect so. You see, at any moment----" "Do go and see, Owl. Because Pooh hasn't got very much brain, and he might do something silly, and I do love him so, Owl. Do you see, Owl?" "That's all right," said Owl. "I'll go. Back directly." And he flew off. In a little while he was back again.<\|quote\|>"Pooh isn't there,"</\|quote\|>he said. "Not there?" "Has _been_ there. He's been sitting on a branch of his tree outside his house with nine pots of honey. But he isn't there now." "Oh, Pooh!" cried Christopher Robin. "Where _are_ you?" "Here I am," said a growly voice behind him. "Pooh!" They rushed into each other's arms. "How did you get here, Pooh?" asked Christopher Robin, when he was ready to talk again. "On my boat," said Pooh proudly. "I had a Very Important Missage sent me in a bottle, and owing to having got some water in my eyes, I couldn't read it, so I brought it to you. On my boat." With these proud words he gave Christopher Robin the missage. "But it's from Piglet!" cried Christopher Robin when he had read it. "Isn't there anything about Pooh in it?" asked Bear, looking over his shoulder. Christopher Robin read the message aloud. "Oh, are those 'P's' piglets? I thought they were poohs." "We must rescue him at once! I thought he was with _you_, Pooh. Owl, could you rescue him on your back?" "I don't think so," said Owl, after grave thought. "It is doubtful if the necessary dorsal muscles----" "Then would you fly to him at _once_ and say that Rescue is Coming? And Pooh and I will think of a Rescue and come as quick as ever we can. Oh, don't _talk_, Owl, go on quick!" And, still thinking of something to say, Owl flew off. "Now then, Pooh," said Christopher Robin, "where's your boat?" "I ought to say," explained Pooh as they walked down to the shore of the island, "that it isn't just an ordinary sort of boat. Sometimes it's a Boat, and sometimes it's more of an Accident. It all depends." "Depends on what?" "On whether I'm on the top of it or underneath it." "Oh! Well, where is it?" "There!" said Pooh, pointing proudly to _The Floating Bear_. It wasn't what Christopher Robin expected, and the more he looked at it, the more he thought what a Brave and Clever Bear Pooh was, and the more Christopher Robin thought this, the more Pooh looked modestly down his nose and tried to pretend he wasn't. "But it's too small for two of us," said Christopher Robin sadly. "Three of us with Piglet." "That makes it smaller still. Oh, Pooh Bear, what shall we do?" And then this Bear, Pooh Bear, Winnie-the-Pooh, F.O.P. (Friend of Piglet's), R.C. (Rabbit's Companion), P.D. (Pole Discoverer), E.C. and T.F. (Eeyore's Comforter and Tail-finder)--in fact, Pooh himself--said something so clever that Christopher Robin could only look at him with mouth open and eyes staring, wondering if this was really the Bear of Very Little Brain whom he had known and loved so long. "We might go in your umbrella," said Pooh. "?" "We might go in your umbrella," said Pooh. "? ?" "We might go in your umbrella," said Pooh. "!!!!!!" For suddenly Christopher Robin saw that they might. He opened his umbrella and put it point downwards in the water. It floated but wobbled. Pooh got in. He was just beginning to say that it was all right now, when he found that it wasn't, so after a short drink which he didn't really want he waded back to Christopher Robin. Then they both got in together, and it wobbled no longer. "I shall call this	Winnie The Pooh
asked the old lady, after a pause.	No speaker	of an hour, has he?"<\|quote\|>asked the old lady, after a pause.</\|quote\|>"An hour and twelve minutes,	Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?"<\|quote\|>asked the old lady, after a pause.</\|quote\|>"An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am," replied Mr. Giles, referring	regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her. "And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?"<\|quote\|>asked the old lady, after a pause.</\|quote\|>"An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am," replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon. "He is always slow," remarked the old lady. "Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a	thousand lights that played about the face, and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside peace and happiness. She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her. "And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?"<\|quote\|>asked the old lady, after a pause.</\|quote\|>"An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am," replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon. "He is always slow," remarked the old lady. "Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one. "He gets worse instead of better, I think," said the elder lady. "It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys," said the young lady,	womanhood; at that age, when, if ever angels be for God's good purposes enthroned in mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in such as hers. She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor its rough creatures her fit companions. The very intelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand lights that played about the face, and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside peace and happiness. She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her. "And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?"<\|quote\|>asked the old lady, after a pause.</\|quote\|>"An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am," replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon. "He is always slow," remarked the old lady. "Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one. "He gets worse instead of better, I think," said the elder lady. "It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys," said the young lady, smiling. Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a respectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate: out of which there jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door: and who, getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst into the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table together. "I never heard of such a thing!" exclaimed the fat gentleman. "My dear Mrs. Maylie bless my soul in the silence of the night, too I _never_ heard of such a thing!" With these expressions of condolence, the	ladies at a well-spread breakfast-table. Mr. Giles, dressed with scrupulous care in a full suit of black, was in attendance upon them. He had taken his station some half-way between the side-board and the breakfast-table; and, with his body drawn up to its full height, his head thrown back, and inclined the merest trifle on one side, his left leg advanced, and his right hand thrust into his waist-coat, while his left hung down by his side, grasping a waiter, looked like one who laboured under a very agreeable sense of his own merits and importance. Of the two ladies, one was well advanced in years; but the high-backed oaken chair in which she sat, was not more upright than she. Dressed with the utmost nicety and precision, in a quaint mixture of by-gone costume, with some slight concessions to the prevailing taste, which rather served to point the old style pleasantly than to impair its effect, she sat, in a stately manner, with her hands folded on the table before her. Her eyes (and age had dimmed but little of their brightness) were attentively upon her young companion. The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and spring-time of womanhood; at that age, when, if ever angels be for God's good purposes enthroned in mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in such as hers. She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor its rough creatures her fit companions. The very intelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand lights that played about the face, and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside peace and happiness. She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her. "And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?"<\|quote\|>asked the old lady, after a pause.</\|quote\|>"An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am," replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon. "He is always slow," remarked the old lady. "Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one. "He gets worse instead of better, I think," said the elder lady. "It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys," said the young lady, smiling. Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a respectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate: out of which there jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door: and who, getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst into the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table together. "I never heard of such a thing!" exclaimed the fat gentleman. "My dear Mrs. Maylie bless my soul in the silence of the night, too I _never_ heard of such a thing!" With these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman shook hands with both ladies, and drawing up a chair, inquired how they found themselves. "You ought to be dead; positively dead with the fright," said the fat gentleman. "Why didn't you send? Bless me, my man should have come in a minute; and so would I; and my assistant would have been delighted; or anybody, I'm sure, under such circumstances. Dear, dear! So unexpected! In the silence of the night, too!" The doctor seemed especially troubled by the fact of the robbery having been unexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the established custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact business at noon, and to make an appointment, by post, a day or two previous. "And you, Miss Rose," said the doctor, turning to the young lady, "I" "Oh! very much so, indeed," said Rose, interrupting him; "but there is a poor creature upstairs, whom aunt wishes you to see." "Ah! to be sure," replied the doctor, "so there is. That was your handiwork, Giles, I understand." Mr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting the tea-cups to rights, blushed very red, and said that he had had that honour. "Honour, eh?" said	miss; and Brittles held the light." "In a lantern, miss," cried Brittles, applying one hand to the side of his mouth, so that his voice might travel the better. The two women-servants ran upstairs to carry the intelligence that Mr. Giles had captured a robber; and the tinker busied himself in endeavouring to restore Oliver, lest he should die before he could be hanged. In the midst of all this noise and commotion, there was heard a sweet female voice, which quelled it in an instant. "Giles!" whispered the voice from the stair-head. "I'm here, miss," replied Mr. Giles. "Don't be frightened, miss; I ain't much injured. He didn't make a very desperate resistance, miss! I was soon too many for him." "Hush!" replied the young lady; "you frighten my aunt as much as the thieves did. Is the poor creature much hurt?" "Wounded desperate, miss," replied Giles, with indescribable complacency. "He looks as if he was a-going, miss," bawled Brittles, in the same manner as before. "Wouldn't you like to come and look at him, miss, in case he should?" "Hush, pray; there's a good man!" rejoined the lady. "Wait quietly only one instant, while I speak to aunt." With a footstep as soft and gentle as the voice, the speaker tripped away. She soon returned, with the direction that the wounded person was to be carried, carefully, upstairs to Mr. Giles's room; and that Brittles was to saddle the pony and betake himself instantly to Chertsey: from which place, he was to despatch, with all speed, a constable and doctor. "But won't you take one look at him, first, miss?" asked Mr. Giles, with as much pride as if Oliver were some bird of rare plumage, that he had skilfully brought down. "Not one little peep, miss?" "Not now, for the world," replied the young lady. "Poor fellow! Oh! treat him kindly, Giles for my sake!" The old servant looked up at the speaker, as she turned away, with a glance as proud and admiring as if she had been his own child. Then, bending over Oliver, he helped to carry him upstairs, with the care and solicitude of a woman. CHAPTER XXIX. HAS AN INTRODUCTORY ACCOUNT OF THE INMATES OF THE HOUSE, TO WHICH OLIVER RESORTED In a handsome room: though its furniture had rather the air of old-fashioned comfort, than of modern elegance: there sat two ladies at a well-spread breakfast-table. Mr. Giles, dressed with scrupulous care in a full suit of black, was in attendance upon them. He had taken his station some half-way between the side-board and the breakfast-table; and, with his body drawn up to its full height, his head thrown back, and inclined the merest trifle on one side, his left leg advanced, and his right hand thrust into his waist-coat, while his left hung down by his side, grasping a waiter, looked like one who laboured under a very agreeable sense of his own merits and importance. Of the two ladies, one was well advanced in years; but the high-backed oaken chair in which she sat, was not more upright than she. Dressed with the utmost nicety and precision, in a quaint mixture of by-gone costume, with some slight concessions to the prevailing taste, which rather served to point the old style pleasantly than to impair its effect, she sat, in a stately manner, with her hands folded on the table before her. Her eyes (and age had dimmed but little of their brightness) were attentively upon her young companion. The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and spring-time of womanhood; at that age, when, if ever angels be for God's good purposes enthroned in mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in such as hers. She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor its rough creatures her fit companions. The very intelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand lights that played about the face, and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside peace and happiness. She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her. "And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?"<\|quote\|>asked the old lady, after a pause.</\|quote\|>"An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am," replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon. "He is always slow," remarked the old lady. "Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one. "He gets worse instead of better, I think," said the elder lady. "It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys," said the young lady, smiling. Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a respectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate: out of which there jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door: and who, getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst into the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table together. "I never heard of such a thing!" exclaimed the fat gentleman. "My dear Mrs. Maylie bless my soul in the silence of the night, too I _never_ heard of such a thing!" With these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman shook hands with both ladies, and drawing up a chair, inquired how they found themselves. "You ought to be dead; positively dead with the fright," said the fat gentleman. "Why didn't you send? Bless me, my man should have come in a minute; and so would I; and my assistant would have been delighted; or anybody, I'm sure, under such circumstances. Dear, dear! So unexpected! In the silence of the night, too!" The doctor seemed especially troubled by the fact of the robbery having been unexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the established custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact business at noon, and to make an appointment, by post, a day or two previous. "And you, Miss Rose," said the doctor, turning to the young lady, "I" "Oh! very much so, indeed," said Rose, interrupting him; "but there is a poor creature upstairs, whom aunt wishes you to see." "Ah! to be sure," replied the doctor, "so there is. That was your handiwork, Giles, I understand." Mr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting the tea-cups to rights, blushed very red, and said that he had had that honour. "Honour, eh?" said the doctor; "well, I don't know; perhaps it's as honourable to hit a thief in a back kitchen, as to hit your man at twelve paces. Fancy that he fired in the air, and you've fought a duel, Giles." Mr. Giles, who thought this light treatment of the matter an unjust attempt at diminishing his glory, answered respectfully, that it was not for the like of him to judge about that; but he rather thought it was no joke to the opposite party. "Gad, that's true!" said the doctor. "Where is he? Show me the way. I'll look in again, as I come down, Mrs. Maylie. That's the little window that he got in at, eh? Well, I couldn't have believed it!" Talking all the way, he followed Mr. Giles upstairs; and while he is going upstairs, the reader may be informed, that Mr. Losberne, a surgeon in the neighbourhood, known through a circuit of ten miles round as "the doctor," had grown fat, more from good-humour than from good living: and was as kind and hearty, and withal as eccentric an old bachelor, as will be found in five times that space, by any explorer alive. The doctor was absent, much longer than either he or the ladies had anticipated. A large flat box was fetched out of the gig; and a bedroom bell was rung very often; and the servants ran up and down stairs perpetually; from which tokens it was justly concluded that something important was going on above. At length he returned; and in reply to an anxious inquiry after his patient; looked very mysterious, and closed the door, carefully. "This is a very extraordinary thing, Mrs. Maylie," said the doctor, standing with his back to the door, as if to keep it shut. "He is not in danger, I hope?" said the old lady. "Why, that would _not_ be an extraordinary thing, under the circumstances," replied the doctor; "though I don't think he is. Have you seen the thief?" "No," rejoined the old lady. "Nor heard anything about him?" "No." "I beg your pardon, ma'am," interposed Mr. Giles; "but I was going to tell you about him when Doctor Losberne came in." The fact was, that Mr. Giles had not, at first, been able to bring his mind to the avowal, that he had only shot a boy. Such commendations had been bestowed upon his	by-gone costume, with some slight concessions to the prevailing taste, which rather served to point the old style pleasantly than to impair its effect, she sat, in a stately manner, with her hands folded on the table before her. Her eyes (and age had dimmed but little of their brightness) were attentively upon her young companion. The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and spring-time of womanhood; at that age, when, if ever angels be for God's good purposes enthroned in mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in such as hers. She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor its rough creatures her fit companions. The very intelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand lights that played about the face, and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside peace and happiness. She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her. "And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?"<\|quote\|>asked the old lady, after a pause.</\|quote\|>"An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am," replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon. "He is always slow," remarked the old lady. "Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one. "He gets worse instead of better, I think," said the elder lady. "It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys," said the young lady, smiling. Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a respectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate: out of which there jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door: and who, getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst into the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table together. "I never heard of such a thing!" exclaimed the fat gentleman. "My dear Mrs. Maylie bless my soul in the silence of the night, too I _never_ heard of such a thing!" With these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman shook hands with both ladies, and drawing up a chair, inquired how they found themselves. "You ought to be dead; positively dead with the fright," said the fat gentleman. "Why didn't you send? Bless me, my man should have come in a minute; and so would I; and my assistant would have been delighted; or anybody, I'm sure, under such circumstances. Dear, dear! So unexpected! In the silence of the night, too!" The doctor seemed especially troubled by the fact of the robbery having been unexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the established custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact business at noon, and to make an appointment, by post, a day or two previous. "And you, Miss Rose," said the doctor, turning to the young lady, "I" "Oh! very much so, indeed," said Rose, interrupting him; "but there is a poor creature upstairs, whom aunt wishes you to see." "Ah! to be sure," replied the doctor, "so there is. That was your handiwork, Giles, I understand." Mr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting the tea-cups to rights, blushed very red, and said that he had had that honour. "Honour, eh?" said the doctor; "well, I don't know; perhaps it's as honourable to hit a thief in a back kitchen, as to hit your man at twelve paces. Fancy that he fired in the air, and you've fought a duel, Giles." Mr. Giles, who thought this light treatment of the matter an unjust attempt at diminishing his glory, answered respectfully, that it was not for the like of him to judge about that; but he rather thought it was no joke to the opposite party. "Gad, that's true!" said the doctor. "Where is he? Show me the way.	Oliver Twist
said the Eaglet.	No speaker	more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!"<\|quote\|>said the Eaglet.</\|quote\|>"I don't know the meaning	for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!"<\|quote\|>said the Eaglet.</\|quote\|>"I don't know the meaning of half those long words,	to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!"<\|quote\|>said the Eaglet.</\|quote\|>"I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone,	The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--' How are you getting on now, my dear?" it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!"<\|quote\|>said the Eaglet.</\|quote\|>"I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race." "What _is_ a Caucus-race?" said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. "Why,"	beg your pardon!" said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: "Did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the Mouse. "--I proceed. 'Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--'" "Found _what_?" said the Duck. "Found _it_," the Mouse replied rather crossly: "of course you know what 'it' means." "I know what 'it' means well enough, when _I_ find a thing," said the Duck: "it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?" The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--' How are you getting on now, my dear?" it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!"<\|quote\|>said the Eaglet.</\|quote\|>"I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race." "What _is_ a Caucus-race?" said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. "Why," said the Dodo, "the best way to explain it is to do it." (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.) First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (" "the exact shape doesn't matter," it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no "One, two, three, and away," but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was	quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, "I am older than you, and must know better;" and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, "Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! _I'll_ soon make you dry enough!" They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon. "Ahem!" said the Mouse with an important air, "are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! 'William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--'" "Ugh!" said the Lory, with a shiver. "I beg your pardon!" said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: "Did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the Mouse. "--I proceed. 'Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--'" "Found _what_?" said the Duck. "Found _it_," the Mouse replied rather crossly: "of course you know what 'it' means." "I know what 'it' means well enough, when _I_ find a thing," said the Duck: "it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?" The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--' How are you getting on now, my dear?" it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!"<\|quote\|>said the Eaglet.</\|quote\|>"I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race." "What _is_ a Caucus-race?" said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. "Why," said the Dodo, "the best way to explain it is to do it." (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.) First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (" "the exact shape doesn't matter," it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no "One, two, three, and away," but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out "The race is over!" and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, "But who has won?" This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, "_Everybody_ has won, and all must have prizes." "But who is to give the prizes?" quite a chorus of voices asked. "Why, _she_, of course," said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, "Prizes! Prizes!" Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece, all round. "But she must have a prize herself, you know," said the Mouse. "Of	to the end of his tail. "As if _I_ would talk on such a subject! Our family always _hated_ cats: nasty, low, vulgar things! Don't let me hear the name again!" "I won't indeed!" said Alice, in a great hurry to change the subject of conversation. "Are you--are you fond--of--of dogs?" The Mouse did not answer, so Alice went on eagerly: "There is such a nice little dog near our house I should like to show you! A little bright-eyed terrier, you know, with oh, such long curly brown hair! And it'll fetch things when you throw them, and it'll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts of things--I can't remember half of them--and it belongs to a farmer, you know, and he says it's so useful, it's worth a hundred pounds! He says it kills all the rats and--oh dear!" cried Alice in a sorrowful tone, "I'm afraid I've offended it again!" For the Mouse was swimming away from her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in the pool as it went. So she called softly after it, "Mouse dear! Do come back again, and we won't talk about cats or dogs either, if you don't like them!" When the Mouse heard this, it turned round and swam slowly back to her: its face was quite pale (with passion, Alice thought), and it said in a low trembling voice, "Let us get to the shore, and then I'll tell you my history, and you'll understand why it is I hate cats and dogs." It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore. CHAPTER III. A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank--the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable. The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, "I am older than you, and must know better;" and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, "Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! _I'll_ soon make you dry enough!" They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon. "Ahem!" said the Mouse with an important air, "are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! 'William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--'" "Ugh!" said the Lory, with a shiver. "I beg your pardon!" said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: "Did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the Mouse. "--I proceed. 'Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--'" "Found _what_?" said the Duck. "Found _it_," the Mouse replied rather crossly: "of course you know what 'it' means." "I know what 'it' means well enough, when _I_ find a thing," said the Duck: "it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?" The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--' How are you getting on now, my dear?" it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!"<\|quote\|>said the Eaglet.</\|quote\|>"I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race." "What _is_ a Caucus-race?" said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. "Why," said the Dodo, "the best way to explain it is to do it." (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.) First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (" "the exact shape doesn't matter," it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no "One, two, three, and away," but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out "The race is over!" and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, "But who has won?" This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, "_Everybody_ has won, and all must have prizes." "But who is to give the prizes?" quite a chorus of voices asked. "Why, _she_, of course," said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, "Prizes! Prizes!" Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece, all round. "But she must have a prize herself, you know," said the Mouse. "Of course," the Dodo replied very gravely. "What else have you got in your pocket?" he went on, turning to Alice. "Only a thimble," said Alice sadly. "Hand it over here," said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying "We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble;" and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. "You promised to tell me your history, you know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. "Mine is a long and a sad tale!" said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing. "It _is_ a long tail, certainly," said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_" cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily. "A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously	late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--'" "Ugh!" said the Lory, with a shiver. "I beg your pardon!" said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: "Did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the Mouse. "--I proceed. 'Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--'" "Found _what_?" said the Duck. "Found _it_," the Mouse replied rather crossly: "of course you know what 'it' means." "I know what 'it' means well enough, when _I_ find a thing," said the Duck: "it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?" The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--' How are you getting on now, my dear?" it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!"<\|quote\|>said the Eaglet.</\|quote\|>"I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race." "What _is_ a Caucus-race?" said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. "Why," said the Dodo, "the best way to explain it is to do it." (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.) First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (" "the exact shape doesn't matter," it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no "One, two, three, and away," but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out "The race is over!" and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, "But who has won?" This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
"Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair."	Katharine Hilbery	a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired.<\|quote\|>"Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair."</\|quote\|>Katharine began to describe her	on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired.<\|quote\|>"Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair."</\|quote\|>Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery	he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired.<\|quote\|>"Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair."</\|quote\|>Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with	to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired.<\|quote\|>"Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair."</\|quote\|>Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with a wonderful view over London, and a rook. "A wretched old bird in a corner, with half its feathers out," she said, with a tenderness in her voice that seemed to commiserate the sufferings of humanity while resting assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them, so that	in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her sources of information, and, indeed, her bag was stuffed with what she called "kind letters" from the pen of her sister-in-law. "Yes. Or to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired.<\|quote\|>"Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair."</\|quote\|>Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with a wonderful view over London, and a rook. "A wretched old bird in a corner, with half its feathers out," she said, with a tenderness in her voice that seemed to commiserate the sufferings of humanity while resting assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them, so that Mrs. Hilbery could not help exclaiming: "But, Katharine, you _are_ in love!" at which Katharine flushed, looked startled, as if she had said something that she ought not to have said, and shook her head. Hastily Mrs. Hilbery asked for further details of this extraordinary house, and interposed a few speculations about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane, which tided over the discomfort of the moment, and drew Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions. In truth, she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally	softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak. "The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him." Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her sources of information, and, indeed, her bag was stuffed with what she called "kind letters" from the pen of her sister-in-law. "Yes. Or to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired.<\|quote\|>"Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair."</\|quote\|>Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with a wonderful view over London, and a rook. "A wretched old bird in a corner, with half its feathers out," she said, with a tenderness in her voice that seemed to commiserate the sufferings of humanity while resting assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them, so that Mrs. Hilbery could not help exclaiming: "But, Katharine, you _are_ in love!" at which Katharine flushed, looked startled, as if she had said something that she ought not to have said, and shook her head. Hastily Mrs. Hilbery asked for further details of this extraordinary house, and interposed a few speculations about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane, which tided over the discomfort of the moment, and drew Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions. In truth, she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally benignant, the mother of her earliest childhood, whose silence seemed to answer questions that were never asked. Mrs. Hilbery listened without making any remark for a considerable time. She seemed to draw her conclusions rather by looking at her daughter than by listening to her, and, if cross-examined, she would probably have given a highly inaccurate version of Ralph Denham s life-history except that he was penniless, fatherless, and lived at Highgate all of which was much in his favor. But by means of these furtive glances she had assured herself that Katharine was in a state which gave her, alternately, the most exquisite pleasure and the most profound alarm. She could not help ejaculating at last: "It s all done in five minutes at a Registry Office nowadays, if you think the Church service a little florid which it is, though there are noble things in it." "But we don t want to be married," Katharine replied emphatically, and added, "Why, after all, isn t it perfectly possible to live together without being married?" Again Mrs. Hilbery looked discomposed, and, in her trouble, took up the sheets which were lying upon the table, and began turning them over this	effort to think down some unwelcome thought by means of another thought. Having absorbed the unwelcome thought, her mind went on with additional vigor, derived from the victory; on a sheet of paper lines of figures and symbols frequently and firmly written down marked the different stages of its progress. And yet it was broad daylight; there were sounds of knocking and sweeping, which proved that living people were at work on the other side of the door, and the door, which could be thrown open in a second, was her only protection against the world. But she had somehow risen to be mistress in her own kingdom, assuming her sovereignty unconsciously. Steps approached her unheard. It is true that they were steps that lingered, divagated, and mounted with the deliberation natural to one past sixty whose arms, moreover, are full of leaves and blossoms; but they came on steadily, and soon a tap of laurel boughs against the door arrested Katharine s pencil as it touched the page. She did not move, however, and sat blank-eyed as if waiting for the interruption to cease. Instead, the door opened. At first, she attached no meaning to the moving mass of green which seemed to enter the room independently of any human agency. Then she recognized parts of her mother s face and person behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "Thank God!" she repeated. "You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak. "The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him." Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her sources of information, and, indeed, her bag was stuffed with what she called "kind letters" from the pen of her sister-in-law. "Yes. Or to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired.<\|quote\|>"Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair."</\|quote\|>Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with a wonderful view over London, and a rook. "A wretched old bird in a corner, with half its feathers out," she said, with a tenderness in her voice that seemed to commiserate the sufferings of humanity while resting assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them, so that Mrs. Hilbery could not help exclaiming: "But, Katharine, you _are_ in love!" at which Katharine flushed, looked startled, as if she had said something that she ought not to have said, and shook her head. Hastily Mrs. Hilbery asked for further details of this extraordinary house, and interposed a few speculations about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane, which tided over the discomfort of the moment, and drew Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions. In truth, she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally benignant, the mother of her earliest childhood, whose silence seemed to answer questions that were never asked. Mrs. Hilbery listened without making any remark for a considerable time. She seemed to draw her conclusions rather by looking at her daughter than by listening to her, and, if cross-examined, she would probably have given a highly inaccurate version of Ralph Denham s life-history except that he was penniless, fatherless, and lived at Highgate all of which was much in his favor. But by means of these furtive glances she had assured herself that Katharine was in a state which gave her, alternately, the most exquisite pleasure and the most profound alarm. She could not help ejaculating at last: "It s all done in five minutes at a Registry Office nowadays, if you think the Church service a little florid which it is, though there are noble things in it." "But we don t want to be married," Katharine replied emphatically, and added, "Why, after all, isn t it perfectly possible to live together without being married?" Again Mrs. Hilbery looked discomposed, and, in her trouble, took up the sheets which were lying upon the table, and began turning them over this way and that, and muttering to herself as she glanced: "A plus B minus C equals _x y z_. It s so dreadfully ugly, Katharine. That s what I feel so dreadfully ugly." Katharine took the sheets from her mother s hand and began shuffling them absent-mindedly together, for her fixed gaze seemed to show that her thoughts were intent upon some other matter. "Well, I don t know about ugliness," she said at length. "But he doesn t ask it of you?" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Not that grave young man with the steady brown eyes?" "He doesn t ask anything we neither of us ask anything." "If I could help you, Katharine, by the memory of what I felt" "Yes, tell me what you felt." Mrs. Hilbery, her eyes growing blank, peered down the enormously long corridor of days at the far end of which the little figures of herself and her husband appeared fantastically attired, clasping hands upon a moonlit beach, with roses swinging in the dusk. "We were in a little boat going out to a ship at night," she began. "The sun had set and the moon was rising over our heads. There were lovely silver lights upon the waves and three green lights upon the steamer in the middle of the bay. Your father s head looked so grand against the mast. It was life, it was death. The great sea was round us. It was the voyage for ever and ever." The ancient fairy-tale fell roundly and harmoniously upon Katharine s ears. Yes, there was the enormous space of the sea; there were the three green lights upon the steamer; the cloaked figures climbed up on deck. And so, voyaging over the green and purple waters, past the cliffs and the sandy lagoons and through pools crowded with the masts of ships and the steeples of churches here they were. The river seemed to have brought them and deposited them here at this precise point. She looked admiringly at her mother, that ancient voyager. "Who knows," exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, continuing her reveries, "where we are bound for, or why, or who has sent us, or what we shall find who knows anything, except that love is our faith love" she crooned, and the soft sound beating through the dim words was heard by her daughter as the breaking of waves solemnly in order upon	else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak. "The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him." Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her sources of information, and, indeed, her bag was stuffed with what she called "kind letters" from the pen of her sister-in-law. "Yes. Or to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired.<\|quote\|>"Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair."</\|quote\|>Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with a wonderful view over London, and a rook. "A wretched old bird in a corner, with half its feathers out," she said, with a tenderness in her voice that seemed to commiserate the sufferings of humanity while resting assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them, so that Mrs. Hilbery could not help exclaiming: "But, Katharine, you _are_ in love!" at which Katharine flushed, looked startled, as if she had said something that she ought not to have said, and shook her head. Hastily Mrs. Hilbery asked for further details of this extraordinary house, and interposed a few speculations about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane, which tided over the discomfort of the moment, and drew Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions. In truth, she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally benignant, the mother of her earliest childhood, whose silence seemed to answer questions that were never asked. Mrs. Hilbery listened without making any remark for a considerable time. She seemed to draw her conclusions rather by looking at her daughter than by listening to her, and, if cross-examined, she would probably have given a highly inaccurate version of Ralph Denham s life-history except that he was penniless, fatherless, and lived at Highgate all of which was much in his favor. But by means of these furtive glances she had assured herself that Katharine was in a state which gave her, alternately, the most exquisite pleasure and the most profound alarm. She could not help ejaculating at last: "It s all done in five minutes at a Registry Office nowadays, if you think the Church service a little florid which it is, though there are noble things in it." "But we don t want to be married," Katharine replied emphatically, and added, "Why, after all, isn t it perfectly possible to live together without being married?" Again Mrs. Hilbery looked discomposed, and, in her trouble, took up the sheets which were lying upon the table, and began turning them over this way and that, and muttering to herself as she glanced: "A plus B minus C equals _x y z_. It s so dreadfully ugly, Katharine. That s what I feel so dreadfully ugly." Katharine took the sheets from her mother s hand and began shuffling them absent-mindedly together, for her fixed gaze seemed to show that her thoughts were intent upon some other matter. "Well, I don t know about ugliness," she said at length. "But he doesn t ask it of you?" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Not that grave young man with the steady brown eyes?" "He	Night And Day
"it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself."	Mr. James Harthouse	Harthouse." "Well," returned the other,<\|quote\|>"it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself."</\|quote\|>"Thank you," said Tom, shaking	"As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse." "Well," returned the other,<\|quote\|>"it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself."</\|quote\|>"Thank you," said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing	But I am very much obliged to you; you're a true friend." A true friend! "Whelp, whelp!" thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily; "what an Ass you are!" "And I take your offer as a great kindness," said Tom, grasping his hand. "As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse." "Well," returned the other,<\|quote\|>"it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself."</\|quote\|>"Thank you," said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing rosebuds. "I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse." "Now, you see, Tom," said Mr. Harthouse in conclusion, himself tossing over a rose or two, as a contribution to the island, which was always drifting to the wall as	Say what they are." "Mr. Harthouse," returned Tom, now actually crying; and his tears were better than his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made: "it's too late; the money is of no use to me at present. I should have had it before to be of use to me. But I am very much obliged to you; you're a true friend." A true friend! "Whelp, whelp!" thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily; "what an Ass you are!" "And I take your offer as a great kindness," said Tom, grasping his hand. "As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse." "Well," returned the other,<\|quote\|>"it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself."</\|quote\|>"Thank you," said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing rosebuds. "I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse." "Now, you see, Tom," said Mr. Harthouse in conclusion, himself tossing over a rose or two, as a contribution to the island, which was always drifting to the wall as if it wanted to become a part of the mainland: "every man is selfish in everything he does, and I am exactly like the rest of my fellow-creatures. I am desperately intent;" the languor of his desperation being quite tropical; "on your softening towards your sister which you ought to	banker." "For God's sake," replied Tom, suddenly, "don't talk about bankers!" And very white he looked, in contrast with the roses. Very white. Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly well-bred man, accustomed to the best society, was not to be surprised he could as soon have been affected but he raised his eyelids a little more, as if they were lifted by a feeble touch of wonder. Albeit it was as much against the precepts of his school to wonder, as it was against the doctrines of the Gradgrind College. "What is the present need, Tom? Three figures? Out with them. Say what they are." "Mr. Harthouse," returned Tom, now actually crying; and his tears were better than his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made: "it's too late; the money is of no use to me at present. I should have had it before to be of use to me. But I am very much obliged to you; you're a true friend." A true friend! "Whelp, whelp!" thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily; "what an Ass you are!" "And I take your offer as a great kindness," said Tom, grasping his hand. "As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse." "Well," returned the other,<\|quote\|>"it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself."</\|quote\|>"Thank you," said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing rosebuds. "I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse." "Now, you see, Tom," said Mr. Harthouse in conclusion, himself tossing over a rose or two, as a contribution to the island, which was always drifting to the wall as if it wanted to become a part of the mainland: "every man is selfish in everything he does, and I am exactly like the rest of my fellow-creatures. I am desperately intent;" the languor of his desperation being quite tropical; "on your softening towards your sister which you ought to do; and on your being a more loving and agreeable sort of brother which you ought to be." "I will be, Mr. Harthouse." "No time like the present, Tom. Begin at once." "Certainly I will. And my sister Loo shall say so." "Having made which bargain, Tom," said Harthouse, clapping him on the shoulder again, with an air which left him at liberty to infer as he did, poor fool that this condition was imposed upon him in mere careless good nature to lessen his sense of obligation, "we will tear ourselves asunder until dinner-time." When Tom appeared before dinner,	now, after what I have told you already; you know she didn't marry old Bounderby for her own sake, or for his sake, but for my sake. Then why doesn't she get what I want, out of him, for my sake? She is not obliged to say what she is going to do with it; she is sharp enough; she could manage to coax it out of him, if she chose. Then why doesn't she choose, when I tell her of what consequence it is? But no. There she sits in his company like a stone, instead of making herself agreeable and getting it easily. I don't know what you may call this, but I call it unnatural conduct." There was a piece of ornamental water immediately below the parapet, on the other side, into which Mr. James Harthouse had a very strong inclination to pitch Mr. Thomas Gradgrind junior, as the injured men of Coketown threatened to pitch their property into the Atlantic. But he preserved his easy attitude; and nothing more solid went over the stone balustrades than the accumulated rosebuds now floating about, a little surface-island. "My dear Tom," said Harthouse, "let me try to be your banker." "For God's sake," replied Tom, suddenly, "don't talk about bankers!" And very white he looked, in contrast with the roses. Very white. Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly well-bred man, accustomed to the best society, was not to be surprised he could as soon have been affected but he raised his eyelids a little more, as if they were lifted by a feeble touch of wonder. Albeit it was as much against the precepts of his school to wonder, as it was against the doctrines of the Gradgrind College. "What is the present need, Tom? Three figures? Out with them. Say what they are." "Mr. Harthouse," returned Tom, now actually crying; and his tears were better than his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made: "it's too late; the money is of no use to me at present. I should have had it before to be of use to me. But I am very much obliged to you; you're a true friend." A true friend! "Whelp, whelp!" thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily; "what an Ass you are!" "And I take your offer as a great kindness," said Tom, grasping his hand. "As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse." "Well," returned the other,<\|quote\|>"it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself."</\|quote\|>"Thank you," said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing rosebuds. "I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse." "Now, you see, Tom," said Mr. Harthouse in conclusion, himself tossing over a rose or two, as a contribution to the island, which was always drifting to the wall as if it wanted to become a part of the mainland: "every man is selfish in everything he does, and I am exactly like the rest of my fellow-creatures. I am desperately intent;" the languor of his desperation being quite tropical; "on your softening towards your sister which you ought to do; and on your being a more loving and agreeable sort of brother which you ought to be." "I will be, Mr. Harthouse." "No time like the present, Tom. Begin at once." "Certainly I will. And my sister Loo shall say so." "Having made which bargain, Tom," said Harthouse, clapping him on the shoulder again, with an air which left him at liberty to infer as he did, poor fool that this condition was imposed upon him in mere careless good nature to lessen his sense of obligation, "we will tear ourselves asunder until dinner-time." When Tom appeared before dinner, though his mind seemed heavy enough, his body was on the alert; and he appeared before Mr. Bounderby came in. "I didn't mean to be cross, Loo," he said, giving her his hand, and kissing her. "I know you are fond of me, and you know I am fond of you." After this, there was a smile upon Louisa's face that day, for some one else. Alas, for some one else! "So much the less is the whelp the only creature that she cares for," thought James Harthouse, reversing the reflection of his first day's knowledge of her pretty face. "So much the less, so much the less." CHAPTER VIII EXPLOSION THE next morning was too bright a morning for sleep, and James Harthouse rose early, and sat in the pleasant bay window of his dressing-room, smoking the rare tobacco that had had so wholesome an influence on his young friend. Reposing in the sunlight, with the fragrance of his eastern pipe about him, and the dreamy smoke vanishing into the air, so rich and soft with summer odours, he reckoned up his advantages as an idle winner might count his gains. He was not at all bored for the	again, and invited him with a confidential nod to a walk in the garden. "Tom, my fine fellow, I want to have a word with you." They had stopped among a disorder of roses it was part of Mr. Bounderby's humility to keep Nickits's roses on a reduced scale and Tom sat down on a terrace-parapet, plucking buds and picking them to pieces; while his powerful Familiar stood over him, with a foot upon the parapet, and his figure easily resting on the arm supported by that knee. They were just visible from her window. Perhaps she saw them. "Tom, what's the matter?" "Oh! Mr. Harthouse," said Tom with a groan, "I am hard up, and bothered out of my life." "My good fellow, so am I." "You!" returned Tom. "You are the picture of independence. Mr. Harthouse, I am in a horrible mess. You have no idea what a state I have got myself into what a state my sister might have got me out of, if she would only have done it." He took to biting the rosebuds now, and tearing them away from his teeth with a hand that trembled like an infirm old man's. After one exceedingly observant look at him, his companion relapsed into his lightest air. "Tom, you are inconsiderate: you expect too much of your sister. You have had money of her, you dog, you know you have." "Well, Mr. Harthouse, I know I have. How else was I to get it? Here's old Bounderby always boasting that at my age he lived upon twopence a month, or something of that sort. Here's my father drawing what he calls a line, and tying me down to it from a baby, neck and heels. Here's my mother who never has anything of her own, except her complaints. What _is_ a fellow to do for money, and where _am_ I to look for it, if not to my sister?" He was almost crying, and scattered the buds about by dozens. Mr. Harthouse took him persuasively by the coat. "But, my dear Tom, if your sister has not got it" "Not got it, Mr. Harthouse? I don't say she has got it. I may have wanted more than she was likely to have got. But then she ought to get it. She could get it. It's of no use pretending to make a secret of matters now, after what I have told you already; you know she didn't marry old Bounderby for her own sake, or for his sake, but for my sake. Then why doesn't she get what I want, out of him, for my sake? She is not obliged to say what she is going to do with it; she is sharp enough; she could manage to coax it out of him, if she chose. Then why doesn't she choose, when I tell her of what consequence it is? But no. There she sits in his company like a stone, instead of making herself agreeable and getting it easily. I don't know what you may call this, but I call it unnatural conduct." There was a piece of ornamental water immediately below the parapet, on the other side, into which Mr. James Harthouse had a very strong inclination to pitch Mr. Thomas Gradgrind junior, as the injured men of Coketown threatened to pitch their property into the Atlantic. But he preserved his easy attitude; and nothing more solid went over the stone balustrades than the accumulated rosebuds now floating about, a little surface-island. "My dear Tom," said Harthouse, "let me try to be your banker." "For God's sake," replied Tom, suddenly, "don't talk about bankers!" And very white he looked, in contrast with the roses. Very white. Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly well-bred man, accustomed to the best society, was not to be surprised he could as soon have been affected but he raised his eyelids a little more, as if they were lifted by a feeble touch of wonder. Albeit it was as much against the precepts of his school to wonder, as it was against the doctrines of the Gradgrind College. "What is the present need, Tom? Three figures? Out with them. Say what they are." "Mr. Harthouse," returned Tom, now actually crying; and his tears were better than his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made: "it's too late; the money is of no use to me at present. I should have had it before to be of use to me. But I am very much obliged to you; you're a true friend." A true friend! "Whelp, whelp!" thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily; "what an Ass you are!" "And I take your offer as a great kindness," said Tom, grasping his hand. "As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse." "Well," returned the other,<\|quote\|>"it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself."</\|quote\|>"Thank you," said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing rosebuds. "I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse." "Now, you see, Tom," said Mr. Harthouse in conclusion, himself tossing over a rose or two, as a contribution to the island, which was always drifting to the wall as if it wanted to become a part of the mainland: "every man is selfish in everything he does, and I am exactly like the rest of my fellow-creatures. I am desperately intent;" the languor of his desperation being quite tropical; "on your softening towards your sister which you ought to do; and on your being a more loving and agreeable sort of brother which you ought to be." "I will be, Mr. Harthouse." "No time like the present, Tom. Begin at once." "Certainly I will. And my sister Loo shall say so." "Having made which bargain, Tom," said Harthouse, clapping him on the shoulder again, with an air which left him at liberty to infer as he did, poor fool that this condition was imposed upon him in mere careless good nature to lessen his sense of obligation, "we will tear ourselves asunder until dinner-time." When Tom appeared before dinner, though his mind seemed heavy enough, his body was on the alert; and he appeared before Mr. Bounderby came in. "I didn't mean to be cross, Loo," he said, giving her his hand, and kissing her. "I know you are fond of me, and you know I am fond of you." After this, there was a smile upon Louisa's face that day, for some one else. Alas, for some one else! "So much the less is the whelp the only creature that she cares for," thought James Harthouse, reversing the reflection of his first day's knowledge of her pretty face. "So much the less, so much the less." CHAPTER VIII EXPLOSION THE next morning was too bright a morning for sleep, and James Harthouse rose early, and sat in the pleasant bay window of his dressing-room, smoking the rare tobacco that had had so wholesome an influence on his young friend. Reposing in the sunlight, with the fragrance of his eastern pipe about him, and the dreamy smoke vanishing into the air, so rich and soft with summer odours, he reckoned up his advantages as an idle winner might count his gains. He was not at all bored for the time, and could give his mind to it. He had established a confidence with her, from which her husband was excluded. He had established a confidence with her, that absolutely turned upon her indifference towards her husband, and the absence, now and at all times, of any congeniality between them. He had artfully, but plainly, assured her that he knew her heart in its last most delicate recesses; he had come so near to her through its tenderest sentiment; he had associated himself with that feeling; and the barrier behind which she lived, had melted away. All very odd, and very satisfactory! And yet he had not, even now, any earnest wickedness of purpose in him. Publicly and privately, it were much better for the age in which he lived, that he and the legion of whom he was one were designedly bad, than indifferent and purposeless. It is the drifting icebergs setting with any current anywhere, that wreck the ships. When the Devil goeth about like a roaring lion, he goeth about in a shape by which few but savages and hunters are attracted. But, when he is trimmed, smoothed, and varnished, according to the mode; when he is aweary of vice, and aweary of virtue, used up as to brimstone, and used up as to bliss; then, whether he take to the serving out of red tape, or to the kindling of red fire, he is the very Devil. So James Harthouse reclined in the window, indolently smoking, and reckoning up the steps he had taken on the road by which he happened to be travelling. The end to which it led was before him, pretty plainly; but he troubled himself with no calculations about it. What will be, will be. As he had rather a long ride to take that day for there was a public occasion "to do" at some distance, which afforded a tolerable opportunity of going in for the Gradgrind men he dressed early and went down to breakfast. He was anxious to see if she had relapsed since the previous evening. No. He resumed where he had left off. There was a look of interest for him again. He got through the day as much (or as little) to his own satisfaction, as was to be expected under the fatiguing circumstances; and came riding back at six o'clock. There was a sweep of	inclination to pitch Mr. Thomas Gradgrind junior, as the injured men of Coketown threatened to pitch their property into the Atlantic. But he preserved his easy attitude; and nothing more solid went over the stone balustrades than the accumulated rosebuds now floating about, a little surface-island. "My dear Tom," said Harthouse, "let me try to be your banker." "For God's sake," replied Tom, suddenly, "don't talk about bankers!" And very white he looked, in contrast with the roses. Very white. Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly well-bred man, accustomed to the best society, was not to be surprised he could as soon have been affected but he raised his eyelids a little more, as if they were lifted by a feeble touch of wonder. Albeit it was as much against the precepts of his school to wonder, as it was against the doctrines of the Gradgrind College. "What is the present need, Tom? Three figures? Out with them. Say what they are." "Mr. Harthouse," returned Tom, now actually crying; and his tears were better than his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made: "it's too late; the money is of no use to me at present. I should have had it before to be of use to me. But I am very much obliged to you; you're a true friend." A true friend! "Whelp, whelp!" thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily; "what an Ass you are!" "And I take your offer as a great kindness," said Tom, grasping his hand. "As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse." "Well," returned the other,<\|quote\|>"it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself."</\|quote\|>"Thank you," said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing rosebuds. "I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse." "Now, you see, Tom," said Mr. Harthouse in conclusion, himself tossing over a rose or two, as a contribution to the island, which was always drifting to the wall as if it wanted to become a part of the mainland: "every man is selfish in everything he does, and I am exactly like the rest of my fellow-creatures. I am desperately intent;" the languor of his desperation being quite tropical; "on your softening towards your sister which you ought to do; and on your being a more loving and agreeable sort of brother which you ought to be." "I will be, Mr. Harthouse." "No time like the present, Tom. Begin at once." "Certainly I will. And my sister Loo shall say so." "Having made which bargain, Tom," said Harthouse, clapping him on the shoulder again, with an air which left him at liberty to infer as he did, poor fool that this condition was imposed upon him in mere careless good nature to lessen his sense of obligation, "we will tear ourselves asunder until dinner-time." When Tom appeared before dinner, though his mind seemed heavy enough, his body was on the alert; and he appeared before Mr. Bounderby came in. "I didn't mean to be cross, Loo," he said, giving her his hand, and kissing her. "I know you are fond of me, and you know I am fond of you." After this, there was a smile upon Louisa's face that day, for some one else. Alas, for some one else! "So much the less is the whelp the only creature that she cares for," thought James Harthouse, reversing the reflection of his first day's knowledge of her pretty face. "So much the less, so much the less." CHAPTER VIII EXPLOSION THE next morning was too bright a morning for sleep, and James Harthouse rose early, and sat in the pleasant bay window of his dressing-room, smoking the rare tobacco that had had so wholesome an influence on his young	Hard Times
"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"	Emma	in consternation, and hastily said,<\|quote\|>"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"</\|quote\|>"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but	round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,<\|quote\|>"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"</\|quote\|>"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--" "I must say	I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure." Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,<\|quote\|>"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"</\|quote\|>"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--" "I must say that I have." Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening	matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before--and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to--if Mr. Knightley should really--if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure." Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,<\|quote\|>"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"</\|quote\|>"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--" "I must say that I have." Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched--she admitted--she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having some hope of a return? It darted through her,	me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had been the person; and now--it _is_ possible--" She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak. "I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse," she resumed, "that you should feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing--that if--strange as it may appear--. But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful things had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before--and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to--if Mr. Knightley should really--if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure." Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,<\|quote\|>"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"</\|quote\|>"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--" "I must say that I have." Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched--she admitted--she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having some hope of a return? It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself! Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed her before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been her conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the world. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in	I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely natural:--and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.--The impression of it is strong on my memory." "Oh, dear," cried Harriet, "now I recollect what you mean; but I was thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the gipsies--it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No!" (with some elevation) "I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance--of Mr. Knightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon earth." "Good God!" cried Emma, "this has been a most unfortunate--most deplorable mistake!--What is to be done?" "You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had been the person; and now--it _is_ possible--" She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak. "I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse," she resumed, "that you should feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing--that if--strange as it may appear--. But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful things had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before--and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to--if Mr. Knightley should really--if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure." Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,<\|quote\|>"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"</\|quote\|>"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--" "I must say that I have." Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched--she admitted--she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having some hope of a return? It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself! Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed her before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been her conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the world. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of all these demerits--some concern for her own appearance, and a strong sense of justice by Harriet--(there would be no need of _compassion_ to the girl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley--but justice required that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even apparent kindness.--For her own advantage indeed, it was fit that the utmost extent of Harriet's hopes should be enquired into; and Harriet had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so voluntarily formed and maintained--or to deserve to be slighted by the person, whose counsels had never led her right.--Rousing from reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet again, and, in a more inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as to the subject which had first introduced it, the wonderful story of Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.--Neither of them thought but of Mr. Knightley and themselves. Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge, and such a friend as Miss Woodhouse,	"Him!--never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?" turning away distressed. "Harriet!" cried Emma, after a moment's pause--" "What do you mean?--Good Heaven! what do you mean?--Mistake you!--Am I to suppose then?--" She could not speak another word.--Her voice was lost; and she sat down, waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer. Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma's. "I should not have thought it possible," she began, "that you could have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him--but considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should not have thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look at him in the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you should have been so mistaken, is amazing!--I am sure, but for believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I should have considered it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);--I should not have dared to give way to--I should not have thought it possible--But if _you_, who had been always acquainted with him--" "Harriet!" cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely--" "Let us understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of--Mr. Knightley?" "To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else--and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible." "Not quite," returned Emma, with forced calmness, "for all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of." "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!" "My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely natural:--and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.--The impression of it is strong on my memory." "Oh, dear," cried Harriet, "now I recollect what you mean; but I was thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the gipsies--it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No!" (with some elevation) "I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance--of Mr. Knightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon earth." "Good God!" cried Emma, "this has been a most unfortunate--most deplorable mistake!--What is to be done?" "You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had been the person; and now--it _is_ possible--" She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak. "I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse," she resumed, "that you should feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing--that if--strange as it may appear--. But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful things had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before--and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to--if Mr. Knightley should really--if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure." Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,<\|quote\|>"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"</\|quote\|>"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--" "I must say that I have." Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched--she admitted--she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having some hope of a return? It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself! Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed her before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been her conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the world. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of all these demerits--some concern for her own appearance, and a strong sense of justice by Harriet--(there would be no need of _compassion_ to the girl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley--but justice required that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even apparent kindness.--For her own advantage indeed, it was fit that the utmost extent of Harriet's hopes should be enquired into; and Harriet had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so voluntarily formed and maintained--or to deserve to be slighted by the person, whose counsels had never led her right.--Rousing from reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet again, and, in a more inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as to the subject which had first introduced it, the wonderful story of Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.--Neither of them thought but of Mr. Knightley and themselves. Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge, and such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to give the history of her hopes with great, though trembling delight.--Emma's tremblings as she asked, and as she listened, were better concealed than Harriet's, but they were not less. Her voice was not unsteady; but her mind was in all the perturbation that such a development of self, such a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion of sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.--She listened with much inward suffering, but with great outward patience, to Harriet's detail.--Methodical, or well arranged, or very well delivered, it could not be expected to be; but it contained, when separated from all the feebleness and tautology of the narration, a substance to sink her spirit--especially with the corroborating circumstances, which her own memory brought in favour of Mr. Knightley's most improved opinion of Harriet. Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since those two decisive dances.--Emma knew that he had, on that occasion, found her much superior to his expectation. From that evening, or at least from the time of Miss Woodhouse's encouraging her to think of him, Harriet had begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more than he had been used to do, and of his having indeed quite a different manner towards her; a manner of kindness and sweetness!--Latterly she had been more and more aware of it. When they had been all walking together, he had so often come and walked by her, and talked so very delightfully!--He seemed to want to be acquainted with her. Emma knew it to have been very much the case. She had often observed the change, to almost the same extent.--Harriet repeated expressions of approbation and praise from him--and Emma felt them to be in the closest agreement with what she had known of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for being without art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous, feelings.--She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he had dwelt on them to her more than once.--Much that lived in Harriet's memory, many little particulars of the notice she had received from him, a look, a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a compliment implied, a preference inferred, had been unnoticed, because unsuspected, by Emma. Circumstances that might swell to half an hour's relation, and contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had passed	At first, if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);--I should not have dared to give way to--I should not have thought it possible--But if _you_, who had been always acquainted with him--" "Harriet!" cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely--" "Let us understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of--Mr. Knightley?" "To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else--and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible." "Not quite," returned Emma, with forced calmness, "for all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of." "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!" "My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely natural:--and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.--The impression of it is strong on my memory." "Oh, dear," cried Harriet, "now I recollect what you mean; but I was thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the gipsies--it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No!" (with some elevation) "I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance--of Mr. Knightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon earth." "Good God!" cried Emma, "this has been a most unfortunate--most deplorable mistake!--What is to be done?" "You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had been the person; and now--it _is_ possible--" She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak. "I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse," she resumed, "that you should feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing--that if--strange as it may appear--. But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful things had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before--and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to--if Mr. Knightley should really--if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure." Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,<\|quote\|>"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"</\|quote\|>"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--" "I must say that I have." Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched--she admitted--she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having some hope of a return? It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself! Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed her before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been her conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the world. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of all these demerits--some concern for her own appearance, and a strong sense of justice by Harriet--(there would be no need of _compassion_ to the girl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley--but justice required that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even apparent kindness.--For her own advantage indeed, it was fit that the utmost extent of Harriet's hopes should be enquired into; and Harriet had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so voluntarily formed and maintained--or to deserve to be slighted by the person, whose counsels had never led her right.--Rousing from reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet again, and, in a more inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as to the subject which had first introduced it, the wonderful story of Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.--Neither of them thought but of Mr. Knightley and themselves. Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge, and such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to give the history of her hopes with great, though trembling delight.--Emma's tremblings as she asked, and as she listened, were better concealed than Harriet's, but they were not less. Her voice was not unsteady; but her mind was in all the perturbation that such a development of self, such a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion of sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.--She listened with much inward suffering, but with great outward patience, to Harriet's detail.--Methodical, or well arranged, or very well delivered, it could not be expected to be; but it contained, when separated from all the feebleness and tautology of the narration, a substance to sink her spirit--especially with the corroborating circumstances, which her own memory brought in favour of Mr. Knightley's most improved opinion of Harriet. Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since those two decisive dances.--Emma knew that he had, on that occasion, found her much	Emma
"It all comes,"	Winnie-the-pooh	is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck."<\|quote\|>"It all comes,"</\|quote\|>said Pooh crossly, "of not	Pooh. "You're hurting!" "The fact is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck."<\|quote\|>"It all comes,"</\|quote\|>said Pooh crossly, "of not having front doors big enough."	at him. "Hallo, are you stuck?" he asked. "N-no," said Pooh carelessly. "Just resting and thinking and humming to myself." "Here, give us a paw." Pooh Bear stretched out a paw, and Rabbit pulled and pulled and pulled.... "_Ow!_" cried Pooh. "You're hurting!" "The fact is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck."<\|quote\|>"It all comes,"</\|quote\|>said Pooh crossly, "of not having front doors big enough." "It all comes," said Rabbit sternly, "of eating too much. I thought at the time," said Rabbit, "only I didn't like to say anything," said Rabbit, "that one of us was eating too much," said Rabbit, "and I knew if	said Pooh. "I shall have to go on." "I can't do either!" said Pooh. "Oh, help _and_ bother!" Now by this time Rabbit wanted to go for a walk too, and finding the front door full, he went out by the back door, and came round to Pooh, and looked at him. "Hallo, are you stuck?" he asked. "N-no," said Pooh carelessly. "Just resting and thinking and humming to myself." "Here, give us a paw." Pooh Bear stretched out a paw, and Rabbit pulled and pulled and pulled.... "_Ow!_" cried Pooh. "You're hurting!" "The fact is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck."<\|quote\|>"It all comes,"</\|quote\|>said Pooh crossly, "of not having front doors big enough." "It all comes," said Rabbit sternly, "of eating too much. I thought at the time," said Rabbit, "only I didn't like to say anything," said Rabbit, "that one of us was eating too much," said Rabbit, "and I knew if wasn't _me_," he said. "Well, well, I shall go and fetch Christopher Robin." Christopher Robin lived at the other end of the Forest, and when he came back with Rabbit, and saw the front half of Pooh, he said, "Silly old Bear," in such a loving voice that everybody felt	have any more." "_Is_ there any more?" asked Pooh quickly. Rabbit took the covers off the dishes, and said, "No, there wasn't." "I thought not," said Pooh, nodding to himself. "Well, good-bye. I must be going on." So he started to climb out of the hole. He pulled with his front paws, and pushed with his back paws, and in a little while his nose was out in the open again ... and then his ears ... and then his front paws ... and then his shoulders ... and then---- "Oh, help!" said Pooh. "I'd better go back." "Oh, bother!" said Pooh. "I shall have to go on." "I can't do either!" said Pooh. "Oh, help _and_ bother!" Now by this time Rabbit wanted to go for a walk too, and finding the front door full, he went out by the back door, and came round to Pooh, and looked at him. "Hallo, are you stuck?" he asked. "N-no," said Pooh carelessly. "Just resting and thinking and humming to myself." "Here, give us a paw." Pooh Bear stretched out a paw, and Rabbit pulled and pulled and pulled.... "_Ow!_" cried Pooh. "You're hurting!" "The fact is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck."<\|quote\|>"It all comes,"</\|quote\|>said Pooh crossly, "of not having front doors big enough." "It all comes," said Rabbit sternly, "of eating too much. I thought at the time," said Rabbit, "only I didn't like to say anything," said Rabbit, "that one of us was eating too much," said Rabbit, "and I knew if wasn't _me_," he said. "Well, well, I shall go and fetch Christopher Robin." Christopher Robin lived at the other end of the Forest, and when he came back with Rabbit, and saw the front half of Pooh, he said, "Silly old Bear," in such a loving voice that everybody felt quite hopeful again. "I was just beginning to think," said Bear, sniffing slightly, "that Rabbit might never be able to use his front door again. And I should _hate_ that," he said. "So should I," said Rabbit. "Use his front door again?" said Christopher Robin. "Of course he'll use his front door again." "Good," said Rabbit. "If we can't pull you out, Pooh, we might push you back." Rabbit scratched his whiskers thoughtfully, and pointed out that, when once Pooh was pushed back, he was back, and of course nobody was more glad to see Pooh than _he_ was, still	Glad to see you." "Who did you think it was?" "Well, I wasn't sure. You know how it is in the Forest. One can't have _anybody_ coming into one's house. One has to be _careful_. What about a mouthful of something?" Pooh always liked a little something at eleven o'clock in the morning, and he was very glad to see Rabbit getting out the plates and mugs; and when Rabbit said, "Honey or condensed milk with your bread?" he was so excited that he said, "Both," and then, so as not to seem greedy, he added, "But don't bother about the bread, please." And for a long time after that he said nothing ... until at last, humming to himself in a rather sticky voice, he got up, shook Rabbit lovingly by the paw, and said that he must be going on. "Must you?" said Rabbit politely. "Well," said Pooh, "I could stay a little longer if it--if you----" and he tried very hard to look in the direction of the larder. "As a matter of fact," said Rabbit, "I was going out myself directly." "Oh, well, then, I'll be going on. Good-bye." "Well, good-bye, if you're sure you won't have any more." "_Is_ there any more?" asked Pooh quickly. Rabbit took the covers off the dishes, and said, "No, there wasn't." "I thought not," said Pooh, nodding to himself. "Well, good-bye. I must be going on." So he started to climb out of the hole. He pulled with his front paws, and pushed with his back paws, and in a little while his nose was out in the open again ... and then his ears ... and then his front paws ... and then his shoulders ... and then---- "Oh, help!" said Pooh. "I'd better go back." "Oh, bother!" said Pooh. "I shall have to go on." "I can't do either!" said Pooh. "Oh, help _and_ bother!" Now by this time Rabbit wanted to go for a walk too, and finding the front door full, he went out by the back door, and came round to Pooh, and looked at him. "Hallo, are you stuck?" he asked. "N-no," said Pooh carelessly. "Just resting and thinking and humming to myself." "Here, give us a paw." Pooh Bear stretched out a paw, and Rabbit pulled and pulled and pulled.... "_Ow!_" cried Pooh. "You're hurting!" "The fact is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck."<\|quote\|>"It all comes,"</\|quote\|>said Pooh crossly, "of not having front doors big enough." "It all comes," said Rabbit sternly, "of eating too much. I thought at the time," said Rabbit, "only I didn't like to say anything," said Rabbit, "that one of us was eating too much," said Rabbit, "and I knew if wasn't _me_," he said. "Well, well, I shall go and fetch Christopher Robin." Christopher Robin lived at the other end of the Forest, and when he came back with Rabbit, and saw the front half of Pooh, he said, "Silly old Bear," in such a loving voice that everybody felt quite hopeful again. "I was just beginning to think," said Bear, sniffing slightly, "that Rabbit might never be able to use his front door again. And I should _hate_ that," he said. "So should I," said Rabbit. "Use his front door again?" said Christopher Robin. "Of course he'll use his front door again." "Good," said Rabbit. "If we can't pull you out, Pooh, we might push you back." Rabbit scratched his whiskers thoughtfully, and pointed out that, when once Pooh was pushed back, he was back, and of course nobody was more glad to see Pooh than _he_ was, still there it was, some lived in trees and some lived underground, and---- "You mean I'd _never_ get out?" said Pooh. "I mean," said Rabbit, "that having got _so_ far, it seems a pity to waste it." Christopher Robin nodded. "Then there's only one thing to be done," he said. "We shall have to wait for you to get thin again." "How long does getting thin take?" asked Pooh anxiously. "About a week, I should think." "But I can't stay here for a _week_!" "You can _stay_ here all right, silly old Bear. It's getting you out which is so difficult." "We'll read to you," said Rabbit cheerfully. "And I hope it won't snow," he added. "And I say, old fellow, you're taking up a good deal of room in my house--_do_ you mind if I use your back legs as a towel-horse? Because, I mean, there they are--doing nothing--and it would be very convenient just to hang the towels on them." "A week!" said Pooh gloomily. "_What about meals?_" "I'm afraid no meals," said Christopher Robin, "because of getting thin quicker. But we _will_ read to you." Bear began to sigh, and then found he couldn't because he was so	glass: _Tra-la-la, tra-la-la_, as he stretched up as high as he could go, and then _Tra-la-la, tra-la--oh, help!--la_, as he tried to reach his toes. After breakfast he had said it over and over to himself until he had learnt it off by heart, and now he was humming it right through, properly. It went like this: "_Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,_ _Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,_ _Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum._ _Tiddle-iddle, tiddle-iddle,_ _Tiddle-iddle, tiddle-iddle,_ _Rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um._" Well, he was humming this hum to himself, and walking along gaily, wondering what everybody else was doing, and what it felt like, being somebody else, when suddenly he came to a sandy bank, and in the bank was a large hole. "Aha!" said Pooh. (_Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum._) "If I know anything about anything, that hole means Rabbit," he said, "and Rabbit means Company," he said, "and Company means Food and Listening-to-Me-Humming and such like. _Rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um._" So he bent down, put his head into the hole, and called out: "Is anybody at home?" There was a sudden scuffling noise from inside the hole, and then silence. "What I said was, 'Is anybody at home?'" called out Pooh very loudly. "No!" said a voice; and then added, "You needn't shout so loud. I heard you quite well the first time." "Bother!" said Pooh. "Isn't there anybody here at all?" "Nobody." Winnie-the-Pooh took his head out of the hole, and thought for a little, and he thought to himself, "There must be somebody there, because somebody must have _said_ 'Nobody.'" So he put his head back in the hole, and said: "Hallo, Rabbit, isn't that you?" "No," said Rabbit, in a different sort of voice this time. "But isn't that Rabbit's voice?" "I don't _think_ so," said Rabbit. "It isn't _meant_ to be." "Oh!" said Pooh. He took his head out of the hole, and had another think, and then he put it back, and said: "Well, could you very kindly tell me where Rabbit is?" "He has gone to see his friend Pooh Bear, who is a great friend of his." "But this _is_ Me!" said Bear, very much surprised. "What sort of Me?" "Pooh Bear." "Are you sure?" said Rabbit, still more surprised. "Quite, quite sure," said Pooh. "Oh, well, then, come in." So Pooh pushed and pushed and pushed his way through the hole, and at last he got in. "You were quite right," said Rabbit, looking at him all over. "It _is_ you. Glad to see you." "Who did you think it was?" "Well, I wasn't sure. You know how it is in the Forest. One can't have _anybody_ coming into one's house. One has to be _careful_. What about a mouthful of something?" Pooh always liked a little something at eleven o'clock in the morning, and he was very glad to see Rabbit getting out the plates and mugs; and when Rabbit said, "Honey or condensed milk with your bread?" he was so excited that he said, "Both," and then, so as not to seem greedy, he added, "But don't bother about the bread, please." And for a long time after that he said nothing ... until at last, humming to himself in a rather sticky voice, he got up, shook Rabbit lovingly by the paw, and said that he must be going on. "Must you?" said Rabbit politely. "Well," said Pooh, "I could stay a little longer if it--if you----" and he tried very hard to look in the direction of the larder. "As a matter of fact," said Rabbit, "I was going out myself directly." "Oh, well, then, I'll be going on. Good-bye." "Well, good-bye, if you're sure you won't have any more." "_Is_ there any more?" asked Pooh quickly. Rabbit took the covers off the dishes, and said, "No, there wasn't." "I thought not," said Pooh, nodding to himself. "Well, good-bye. I must be going on." So he started to climb out of the hole. He pulled with his front paws, and pushed with his back paws, and in a little while his nose was out in the open again ... and then his ears ... and then his front paws ... and then his shoulders ... and then---- "Oh, help!" said Pooh. "I'd better go back." "Oh, bother!" said Pooh. "I shall have to go on." "I can't do either!" said Pooh. "Oh, help _and_ bother!" Now by this time Rabbit wanted to go for a walk too, and finding the front door full, he went out by the back door, and came round to Pooh, and looked at him. "Hallo, are you stuck?" he asked. "N-no," said Pooh carelessly. "Just resting and thinking and humming to myself." "Here, give us a paw." Pooh Bear stretched out a paw, and Rabbit pulled and pulled and pulled.... "_Ow!_" cried Pooh. "You're hurting!" "The fact is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck."<\|quote\|>"It all comes,"</\|quote\|>said Pooh crossly, "of not having front doors big enough." "It all comes," said Rabbit sternly, "of eating too much. I thought at the time," said Rabbit, "only I didn't like to say anything," said Rabbit, "that one of us was eating too much," said Rabbit, "and I knew if wasn't _me_," he said. "Well, well, I shall go and fetch Christopher Robin." Christopher Robin lived at the other end of the Forest, and when he came back with Rabbit, and saw the front half of Pooh, he said, "Silly old Bear," in such a loving voice that everybody felt quite hopeful again. "I was just beginning to think," said Bear, sniffing slightly, "that Rabbit might never be able to use his front door again. And I should _hate_ that," he said. "So should I," said Rabbit. "Use his front door again?" said Christopher Robin. "Of course he'll use his front door again." "Good," said Rabbit. "If we can't pull you out, Pooh, we might push you back." Rabbit scratched his whiskers thoughtfully, and pointed out that, when once Pooh was pushed back, he was back, and of course nobody was more glad to see Pooh than _he_ was, still there it was, some lived in trees and some lived underground, and---- "You mean I'd _never_ get out?" said Pooh. "I mean," said Rabbit, "that having got _so_ far, it seems a pity to waste it." Christopher Robin nodded. "Then there's only one thing to be done," he said. "We shall have to wait for you to get thin again." "How long does getting thin take?" asked Pooh anxiously. "About a week, I should think." "But I can't stay here for a _week_!" "You can _stay_ here all right, silly old Bear. It's getting you out which is so difficult." "We'll read to you," said Rabbit cheerfully. "And I hope it won't snow," he added. "And I say, old fellow, you're taking up a good deal of room in my house--_do_ you mind if I use your back legs as a towel-horse? Because, I mean, there they are--doing nothing--and it would be very convenient just to hang the towels on them." "A week!" said Pooh gloomily. "_What about meals?_" "I'm afraid no meals," said Christopher Robin, "because of getting thin quicker. But we _will_ read to you." Bear began to sigh, and then found he couldn't because he was so tightly stuck; and a tear rolled down his eye, as he said: "Then would you read a Sustaining Book, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness?" So for a week Christopher Robin read that sort of book at the North end of Pooh, and Rabbit hung his washing on the South end ... and in between Bear felt himself getting slenderer and slenderer. And at the end of the week Christopher Robin said, "_Now!_" So he took hold of Pooh's front paws and Rabbit took hold of Christopher Robin, and all Rabbit's friends and relations took hold of Rabbit, and they all pulled together.... And for a long time Pooh only said "_Ow!_" ... And "_Oh!_" ... And then, all of a sudden, he said "_Pop!_" just as if a cork were coming out of a bottle. And Christopher Robin and Rabbit and all Rabbit's friends and relations went head-over-heels backwards ... and on the top of them came Winnie-the-Pooh--free! So, with a nod of thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But, Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!" CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers. "I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a circle, thinking of something else, and when Piglet	plates and mugs; and when Rabbit said, "Honey or condensed milk with your bread?" he was so excited that he said, "Both," and then, so as not to seem greedy, he added, "But don't bother about the bread, please." And for a long time after that he said nothing ... until at last, humming to himself in a rather sticky voice, he got up, shook Rabbit lovingly by the paw, and said that he must be going on. "Must you?" said Rabbit politely. "Well," said Pooh, "I could stay a little longer if it--if you----" and he tried very hard to look in the direction of the larder. "As a matter of fact," said Rabbit, "I was going out myself directly." "Oh, well, then, I'll be going on. Good-bye." "Well, good-bye, if you're sure you won't have any more." "_Is_ there any more?" asked Pooh quickly. Rabbit took the covers off the dishes, and said, "No, there wasn't." "I thought not," said Pooh, nodding to himself. "Well, good-bye. I must be going on." So he started to climb out of the hole. He pulled with his front paws, and pushed with his back paws, and in a little while his nose was out in the open again ... and then his ears ... and then his front paws ... and then his shoulders ... and then---- "Oh, help!" said Pooh. "I'd better go back." "Oh, bother!" said Pooh. "I shall have to go on." "I can't do either!" said Pooh. "Oh, help _and_ bother!" Now by this time Rabbit wanted to go for a walk too, and finding the front door full, he went out by the back door, and came round to Pooh, and looked at him. "Hallo, are you stuck?" he asked. "N-no," said Pooh carelessly. "Just resting and thinking and humming to myself." "Here, give us a paw." Pooh Bear stretched out a paw, and Rabbit pulled and pulled and pulled.... "_Ow!_" cried Pooh. "You're hurting!" "The fact is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck."<\|quote\|>"It all comes,"</\|quote\|>said Pooh crossly, "of not having front doors big enough." "It all comes," said Rabbit sternly, "of eating too much. I thought at the time," said Rabbit, "only I didn't like to say anything," said Rabbit, "that one of us was eating too much," said Rabbit, "and I knew if wasn't _me_," he said. "Well, well, I shall go and fetch Christopher Robin." Christopher Robin lived at the other end of the Forest, and when he came back with Rabbit, and saw the front half of Pooh, he said, "Silly old Bear," in such a loving voice that everybody felt quite hopeful again. "I was just beginning to think," said Bear, sniffing slightly, "that Rabbit might never be able to use his front door again. And I should _hate_ that," he said. "So should I," said Rabbit. "Use his front door again?" said Christopher Robin. "Of course he'll use his front door again." "Good," said Rabbit. "If we can't pull you out, Pooh, we might push you back." Rabbit scratched his whiskers thoughtfully, and pointed out that, when once Pooh was pushed back, he was back, and of course nobody was more glad to see Pooh than _he_ was, still there it was, some lived in trees and some lived underground, and---- "You mean I'd _never_ get out?" said Pooh. "I mean," said Rabbit, "that having got _so_ far, it seems a pity to waste it." Christopher Robin nodded. "Then there's only one thing to be done," he said. "We shall have to wait for you to get thin again." "How long does getting thin take?" asked Pooh anxiously. "About a week, I should think." "But I can't stay here for a _week_!" "You can _stay_ here all right, silly old Bear. It's getting you out which is so difficult." "We'll read to you," said Rabbit cheerfully. "And I hope it won't snow," he added. "And I say, old fellow, you're taking up a good deal of room in my house--_do_ you mind if I use your back legs as a towel-horse? Because, I mean, there they are--doing nothing--and it would be very convenient just to hang the towels on them." "A week!" said Pooh gloomily. "_What about meals?_" "I'm afraid no meals," said Christopher Robin, "because of getting thin quicker. But we _will_ read to you." Bear began to sigh, and then found he couldn't because he was so tightly stuck; and a tear rolled down his eye, as he said: "Then would you read a Sustaining Book, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness?" So for a week Christopher Robin read that sort of book at the North end of Pooh, and Rabbit hung his washing on the South end ... and in between Bear felt	Winnie The Pooh
said Mrs. Sparsit.	No speaker	of homage. "Thank you, Bitzer,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit.</\|quote\|>"Thank _you_, ma'am," returned the	his forehead as a form of homage. "Thank you, Bitzer,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit.</\|quote\|>"Thank _you_, ma'am," returned the light porter. He was a	little table, with its tripod of legs in an attitude, which she insinuated after office-hours, into the company of the stern, leathern-topped, long board-table that bestrode the middle of the room. The light porter placed the tea-tray on it, knuckling his forehead as a form of homage. "Thank you, Bitzer,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit.</\|quote\|>"Thank _you_, ma'am," returned the light porter. He was a very light porter indeed; as light as in the days when he blinkingly defined a horse, for girl number twenty. "All is shut up, Bitzer?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "All is shut up, ma'am." "And what," said Mrs. Sparsit, pouring out	money. It was generally considered, indeed, that she had been due some time, and ought to have fallen long ago; but she had kept her life, and her situation, with an ill-conditioned tenacity that occasioned much offence and disappointment. Mrs. Sparsit's tea was just set for her on a pert little table, with its tripod of legs in an attitude, which she insinuated after office-hours, into the company of the stern, leathern-topped, long board-table that bestrode the middle of the room. The light porter placed the tea-tray on it, knuckling his forehead as a form of homage. "Thank you, Bitzer,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit.</\|quote\|>"Thank _you_, ma'am," returned the light porter. He was a very light porter indeed; as light as in the days when he blinkingly defined a horse, for girl number twenty. "All is shut up, Bitzer?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "All is shut up, ma'am." "And what," said Mrs. Sparsit, pouring out her tea, "is the news of the day? Anything?" "Well, ma'am, I can't say that I have heard anything particular. Our people are a bad lot, ma'am; but that is no news, unfortunately." "What are the restless wretches doing now?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "Merely going on in the old way,	official chimney-pieces; and over that respectable tradition never to be separated from a place of business claiming to be wealthy a row of fire-buckets vessels calculated to be of no physical utility on any occasion, but observed to exercise a fine moral influence, almost equal to bullion, on most beholders. A deaf serving-woman and the light porter completed Mrs. Sparsit's empire. The deaf serving-woman was rumoured to be wealthy; and a saying had for years gone about among the lower orders of Coketown, that she would be murdered some night when the Bank was shut, for the sake of her money. It was generally considered, indeed, that she had been due some time, and ought to have fallen long ago; but she had kept her life, and her situation, with an ill-conditioned tenacity that occasioned much offence and disappointment. Mrs. Sparsit's tea was just set for her on a pert little table, with its tripod of legs in an attitude, which she insinuated after office-hours, into the company of the stern, leathern-topped, long board-table that bestrode the middle of the room. The light porter placed the tea-tray on it, knuckling his forehead as a form of homage. "Thank you, Bitzer,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit.</\|quote\|>"Thank _you_, ma'am," returned the light porter. He was a very light porter indeed; as light as in the days when he blinkingly defined a horse, for girl number twenty. "All is shut up, Bitzer?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "All is shut up, ma'am." "And what," said Mrs. Sparsit, pouring out her tea, "is the news of the day? Anything?" "Well, ma'am, I can't say that I have heard anything particular. Our people are a bad lot, ma'am; but that is no news, unfortunately." "What are the restless wretches doing now?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "Merely going on in the old way, ma'am. Uniting, and leaguing, and engaging to stand by one another." "It is much to be regretted," said Mrs. Sparsit, making her nose more Roman and her eyebrows more Coriolanian in the strength of her severity, "that the united masters allow of any such class-combinations." "Yes, ma'am," said Bitzer. "Being united themselves, they ought one and all to set their faces against employing any man who is united with any other man," said Mrs. Sparsit. "They have done that, ma'am," returned Bitzer; "but it rather fell through, ma'am." "I do not pretend to understand these things," said Mrs. Sparsit, with	sort, the Bank Fairy. The townspeople who, in their passing and repassing, saw her there, regarded her as the Bank Dragon keeping watch over the treasures of the mine. What those treasures were, Mrs. Sparsit knew as little as they did. Gold and silver coin, precious paper, secrets that if divulged would bring vague destruction upon vague persons (generally, however, people whom she disliked), were the chief items in her ideal catalogue thereof. For the rest, she knew that after office-hours, she reigned supreme over all the office furniture, and over a locked-up iron room with three locks, against the door of which strong chamber the light porter laid his head every night, on a truckle bed, that disappeared at cockcrow. Further, she was lady paramount over certain vaults in the basement, sharply spiked off from communication with the predatory world; and over the relics of the current day's work, consisting of blots of ink, worn-out pens, fragments of wafers, and scraps of paper torn so small, that nothing interesting could ever be deciphered on them when Mrs. Sparsit tried. Lastly, she was guardian over a little armoury of cutlasses and carbines, arrayed in vengeful order above one of the official chimney-pieces; and over that respectable tradition never to be separated from a place of business claiming to be wealthy a row of fire-buckets vessels calculated to be of no physical utility on any occasion, but observed to exercise a fine moral influence, almost equal to bullion, on most beholders. A deaf serving-woman and the light porter completed Mrs. Sparsit's empire. The deaf serving-woman was rumoured to be wealthy; and a saying had for years gone about among the lower orders of Coketown, that she would be murdered some night when the Bank was shut, for the sake of her money. It was generally considered, indeed, that she had been due some time, and ought to have fallen long ago; but she had kept her life, and her situation, with an ill-conditioned tenacity that occasioned much offence and disappointment. Mrs. Sparsit's tea was just set for her on a pert little table, with its tripod of legs in an attitude, which she insinuated after office-hours, into the company of the stern, leathern-topped, long board-table that bestrode the middle of the room. The light porter placed the tea-tray on it, knuckling his forehead as a form of homage. "Thank you, Bitzer,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit.</\|quote\|>"Thank _you_, ma'am," returned the light porter. He was a very light porter indeed; as light as in the days when he blinkingly defined a horse, for girl number twenty. "All is shut up, Bitzer?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "All is shut up, ma'am." "And what," said Mrs. Sparsit, pouring out her tea, "is the news of the day? Anything?" "Well, ma'am, I can't say that I have heard anything particular. Our people are a bad lot, ma'am; but that is no news, unfortunately." "What are the restless wretches doing now?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "Merely going on in the old way, ma'am. Uniting, and leaguing, and engaging to stand by one another." "It is much to be regretted," said Mrs. Sparsit, making her nose more Roman and her eyebrows more Coriolanian in the strength of her severity, "that the united masters allow of any such class-combinations." "Yes, ma'am," said Bitzer. "Being united themselves, they ought one and all to set their faces against employing any man who is united with any other man," said Mrs. Sparsit. "They have done that, ma'am," returned Bitzer; "but it rather fell through, ma'am." "I do not pretend to understand these things," said Mrs. Sparsit, with dignity, "my lot having been signally cast in a widely different sphere; and Mr. Sparsit, as a Powler, being also quite out of the pale of any such dissensions. I only know that these people must be conquered, and that it's high time it was done, once for all." "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, with a demonstration of great respect for Mrs. Sparsit's oracular authority. "You couldn't put it clearer, I am sure, ma'am." As this was his usual hour for having a little confidential chat with Mrs. Sparsit, and as he had already caught her eye and seen that she was going to ask him something, he made a pretence of arranging the rulers, inkstands, and so forth, while that lady went on with her tea, glancing through the open window, down into the street. "Has it been a busy day, Bitzer?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "Not a very busy day, my lady. About an average day." He now and then slided into my lady, instead of ma'am, as an involuntary acknowledgment of Mrs. Sparsit's personal dignity and claims to reverence. "The clerks," said Mrs. Sparsit, carefully brushing an imperceptible crumb of bread and butter from her left-hand mitten, "are trustworthy,	sunny day, making the passenger more sleepy and more hot as he passed the humming walls of the mills. Sun-blinds, and sprinklings of water, a little cooled the main streets and the shops; but the mills, and the courts and alleys, baked at a fierce heat. Down upon the river that was black and thick with dye, some Coketown boys who were at large a rare sight there rowed a crazy boat, which made a spumous track upon the water as it jogged along, while every dip of an oar stirred up vile smells. But the sun itself, however beneficent, generally, was less kind to Coketown than hard frost, and rarely looked intently into any of its closer regions without engendering more death than life. So does the eye of Heaven itself become an evil eye, when incapable or sordid hands are interposed between it and the things it looks upon to bless. Mrs. Sparsit sat in her afternoon apartment at the Bank, on the shadier side of the frying street. Office-hours were over: and at that period of the day, in warm weather, she usually embellished with her genteel presence, a managerial board-room over the public office. Her own private sitting-room was a story higher, at the window of which post of observation she was ready, every morning, to greet Mr. Bounderby, as he came across the road, with the sympathizing recognition appropriate to a Victim. He had been married now a year; and Mrs. Sparsit had never released him from her determined pity a moment. The Bank offered no violence to the wholesome monotony of the town. It was another red brick house, with black outside shutters, green inside blinds, a black street-door up two white steps, a brazen door-plate, and a brazen door-handle full stop. It was a size larger than Mr. Bounderby's house, as other houses were from a size to half-a-dozen sizes smaller; in all other particulars, it was strictly according to pattern. Mrs. Sparsit was conscious that by coming in the evening-tide among the desks and writing implements, she shed a feminine, not to say also aristocratic, grace upon the office. Seated, with her needlework or netting apparatus, at the window, she had a self-laudatory sense of correcting, by her ladylike deportment, the rude business aspect of the place. With this impression of her interesting character upon her, Mrs. Sparsit considered herself, in some sort, the Bank Fairy. The townspeople who, in their passing and repassing, saw her there, regarded her as the Bank Dragon keeping watch over the treasures of the mine. What those treasures were, Mrs. Sparsit knew as little as they did. Gold and silver coin, precious paper, secrets that if divulged would bring vague destruction upon vague persons (generally, however, people whom she disliked), were the chief items in her ideal catalogue thereof. For the rest, she knew that after office-hours, she reigned supreme over all the office furniture, and over a locked-up iron room with three locks, against the door of which strong chamber the light porter laid his head every night, on a truckle bed, that disappeared at cockcrow. Further, she was lady paramount over certain vaults in the basement, sharply spiked off from communication with the predatory world; and over the relics of the current day's work, consisting of blots of ink, worn-out pens, fragments of wafers, and scraps of paper torn so small, that nothing interesting could ever be deciphered on them when Mrs. Sparsit tried. Lastly, she was guardian over a little armoury of cutlasses and carbines, arrayed in vengeful order above one of the official chimney-pieces; and over that respectable tradition never to be separated from a place of business claiming to be wealthy a row of fire-buckets vessels calculated to be of no physical utility on any occasion, but observed to exercise a fine moral influence, almost equal to bullion, on most beholders. A deaf serving-woman and the light porter completed Mrs. Sparsit's empire. The deaf serving-woman was rumoured to be wealthy; and a saying had for years gone about among the lower orders of Coketown, that she would be murdered some night when the Bank was shut, for the sake of her money. It was generally considered, indeed, that she had been due some time, and ought to have fallen long ago; but she had kept her life, and her situation, with an ill-conditioned tenacity that occasioned much offence and disappointment. Mrs. Sparsit's tea was just set for her on a pert little table, with its tripod of legs in an attitude, which she insinuated after office-hours, into the company of the stern, leathern-topped, long board-table that bestrode the middle of the room. The light porter placed the tea-tray on it, knuckling his forehead as a form of homage. "Thank you, Bitzer,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit.</\|quote\|>"Thank _you_, ma'am," returned the light porter. He was a very light porter indeed; as light as in the days when he blinkingly defined a horse, for girl number twenty. "All is shut up, Bitzer?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "All is shut up, ma'am." "And what," said Mrs. Sparsit, pouring out her tea, "is the news of the day? Anything?" "Well, ma'am, I can't say that I have heard anything particular. Our people are a bad lot, ma'am; but that is no news, unfortunately." "What are the restless wretches doing now?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "Merely going on in the old way, ma'am. Uniting, and leaguing, and engaging to stand by one another." "It is much to be regretted," said Mrs. Sparsit, making her nose more Roman and her eyebrows more Coriolanian in the strength of her severity, "that the united masters allow of any such class-combinations." "Yes, ma'am," said Bitzer. "Being united themselves, they ought one and all to set their faces against employing any man who is united with any other man," said Mrs. Sparsit. "They have done that, ma'am," returned Bitzer; "but it rather fell through, ma'am." "I do not pretend to understand these things," said Mrs. Sparsit, with dignity, "my lot having been signally cast in a widely different sphere; and Mr. Sparsit, as a Powler, being also quite out of the pale of any such dissensions. I only know that these people must be conquered, and that it's high time it was done, once for all." "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, with a demonstration of great respect for Mrs. Sparsit's oracular authority. "You couldn't put it clearer, I am sure, ma'am." As this was his usual hour for having a little confidential chat with Mrs. Sparsit, and as he had already caught her eye and seen that she was going to ask him something, he made a pretence of arranging the rulers, inkstands, and so forth, while that lady went on with her tea, glancing through the open window, down into the street. "Has it been a busy day, Bitzer?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "Not a very busy day, my lady. About an average day." He now and then slided into my lady, instead of ma'am, as an involuntary acknowledgment of Mrs. Sparsit's personal dignity and claims to reverence. "The clerks," said Mrs. Sparsit, carefully brushing an imperceptible crumb of bread and butter from her left-hand mitten, "are trustworthy, punctual, and industrious, of course?" "Yes, ma'am, pretty fair, ma'am. With the usual exception." He held the respectable office of general spy and informer in the establishment, for which volunteer service he received a present at Christmas, over and above his weekly wage. He had grown into an extremely clear-headed, cautious, prudent young man, who was safe to rise in the world. His mind was so exactly regulated, that he had no affections or passions. All his proceedings were the result of the nicest and coldest calculation; and it was not without cause that Mrs. Sparsit habitually observed of him, that he was a young man of the steadiest principle she had ever known. Having satisfied himself, on his father's death, that his mother had a right of settlement in Coketown, this excellent young economist had asserted that right for her with such a steadfast adherence to the principle of the case, that she had been shut up in the workhouse ever since. It must be admitted that he allowed her half a pound of tea a year, which was weak in him: first, because all gifts have an inevitable tendency to pauperise the recipient, and secondly, because his only reasonable transaction in that commodity would have been to buy it for as little as he could possibly give, and sell it for as much as he could possibly get; it having been clearly ascertained by philosophers that in this is comprised the whole duty of man not a part of man's duty, but the whole. "Pretty fair, ma'am. With the usual exception, ma'am," repeated Bitzer. "Ah h!" said Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head over her tea-cup, and taking a long gulp. "Mr. Thomas, ma'am, I doubt Mr. Thomas very much, ma'am, I don't like his ways at all." "Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit, in a very impressive manner, "do you recollect my having said anything to you respecting names?" "I beg your pardon, ma'am. It's quite true that you did object to names being used, and they're always best avoided." "Please to remember that I have a charge here," said Mrs. Sparsit, with her air of state. "I hold a trust here, Bitzer, under Mr. Bounderby. However improbable both Mr. Bounderby and myself might have deemed it years ago, that he would ever become my patron, making me an annual compliment, I cannot but regard him in that light. From	sitting-room was a story higher, at the window of which post of observation she was ready, every morning, to greet Mr. Bounderby, as he came across the road, with the sympathizing recognition appropriate to a Victim. He had been married now a year; and Mrs. Sparsit had never released him from her determined pity a moment. The Bank offered no violence to the wholesome monotony of the town. It was another red brick house, with black outside shutters, green inside blinds, a black street-door up two white steps, a brazen door-plate, and a brazen door-handle full stop. It was a size larger than Mr. Bounderby's house, as other houses were from a size to half-a-dozen sizes smaller; in all other particulars, it was strictly according to pattern. Mrs. Sparsit was conscious that by coming in the evening-tide among the desks and writing implements, she shed a feminine, not to say also aristocratic, grace upon the office. Seated, with her needlework or netting apparatus, at the window, she had a self-laudatory sense of correcting, by her ladylike deportment, the rude business aspect of the place. With this impression of her interesting character upon her, Mrs. Sparsit considered herself, in some sort, the Bank Fairy. The townspeople who, in their passing and repassing, saw her there, regarded her as the Bank Dragon keeping watch over the treasures of the mine. What those treasures were, Mrs. Sparsit knew as little as they did. Gold and silver coin, precious paper, secrets that if divulged would bring vague destruction upon vague persons (generally, however, people whom she disliked), were the chief items in her ideal catalogue thereof. For the rest, she knew that after office-hours, she reigned supreme over all the office furniture, and over a locked-up iron room with three locks, against the door of which strong chamber the light porter laid his head every night, on a truckle bed, that disappeared at cockcrow. Further, she was lady paramount over certain vaults in the basement, sharply spiked off from communication with the predatory world; and over the relics of the current day's work, consisting of blots of ink, worn-out pens, fragments of wafers, and scraps of paper torn so small, that nothing interesting could ever be deciphered on them when Mrs. Sparsit tried. Lastly, she was guardian over a little armoury of cutlasses and carbines, arrayed in vengeful order above one of the official chimney-pieces; and over that respectable tradition never to be separated from a place of business claiming to be wealthy a row of fire-buckets vessels calculated to be of no physical utility on any occasion, but observed to exercise a fine moral influence, almost equal to bullion, on most beholders. A deaf serving-woman and the light porter completed Mrs. Sparsit's empire. The deaf serving-woman was rumoured to be wealthy; and a saying had for years gone about among the lower orders of Coketown, that she would be murdered some night when the Bank was shut, for the sake of her money. It was generally considered, indeed, that she had been due some time, and ought to have fallen long ago; but she had kept her life, and her situation, with an ill-conditioned tenacity that occasioned much offence and disappointment. Mrs. Sparsit's tea was just set for her on a pert little table, with its tripod of legs in an attitude, which she insinuated after office-hours, into the company of the stern, leathern-topped, long board-table that bestrode the middle of the room. The light porter placed the tea-tray on it, knuckling his forehead as a form of homage. "Thank you, Bitzer,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit.</\|quote\|>"Thank _you_, ma'am," returned the light porter. He was a very light porter indeed; as light as in the days when he blinkingly defined a horse, for girl number twenty. "All is shut up, Bitzer?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "All is shut up, ma'am." "And what," said Mrs. Sparsit, pouring out her tea, "is the news of the day? Anything?" "Well, ma'am, I can't say that I have heard anything particular. Our people are a bad lot, ma'am; but that is no news, unfortunately." "What are the restless wretches doing now?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "Merely going on in the old way, ma'am. Uniting, and leaguing, and engaging to stand by one another." "It is much to be regretted," said Mrs. Sparsit, making her nose more Roman and her eyebrows more Coriolanian in the strength of her severity, "that the united masters allow of any such class-combinations." "Yes, ma'am," said Bitzer. "Being united themselves, they ought one and all to set their faces against employing any man who is united with any other man," said Mrs. Sparsit. "They have done that, ma'am," returned Bitzer; "but it rather fell through, ma'am." "I do not pretend to understand these things," said Mrs. Sparsit, with dignity, "my lot having been signally cast in a widely different sphere; and Mr. Sparsit, as a Powler, being also quite out of the pale of any such dissensions. I only know that these people must be conquered, and that it's high time it was done, once for all." "Yes, ma'am,"	Hard Times
"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"	Anne Shirley	to help me get tea."<\|quote\|>"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"</\|quote\|>pleaded Anne. "No; you don't	until I call you down to help me get tea."<\|quote\|>"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"</\|quote\|>pleaded Anne. "No; you don't want your room cluttered up	up to your room and learn it." "Oh, I know it pretty nearly all now--all but just the last line." "Well, never mind, do as I tell you. Go to your room and finish learning it well, and stay there until I call you down to help me get tea."<\|quote\|>"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"</\|quote\|>pleaded Anne. "No; you don't want your room cluttered up with flowers. You should have left them on the tree in the first place." "I did feel a little that way, too," said Anne. "I kind of felt I shouldn't shorten their lovely lives by picking them--I wouldn't want to	among the flowers." "Yesterday you wanted to be a sea gull," sniffed Marilla. "I think you are very fickle minded. I told you to learn that prayer and not talk. But it seems impossible for you to stop talking if you've got anybody that will listen to you. So go up to your room and learn it." "Oh, I know it pretty nearly all now--all but just the last line." "Well, never mind, do as I tell you. Go to your room and finish learning it well, and stay there until I call you down to help me get tea."<\|quote\|>"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"</\|quote\|>pleaded Anne. "No; you don't want your room cluttered up with flowers. You should have left them on the tree in the first place." "I did feel a little that way, too," said Anne. "I kind of felt I shouldn't shorten their lovely lives by picking them--I wouldn't want to be picked if I were an apple blossom. But the temptation was _irresistible_. What do you do when you meet with an irresistible temptation?" "Anne, did you hear me tell you to go to your room?" Anne sighed, retreated to the east gable, and sat down in a chair by	But don't let Mrs. Barry hear you talking about your Katie Maurices and your Violettas or she'll think you tell stories." "Oh, I won't. I couldn't talk of them to everybody--their memories are too sacred for that. But I thought I'd like to have you know about them. Oh, look, here's a big bee just tumbled out of an apple blossom. Just think what a lovely place to live--in an apple blossom! Fancy going to sleep in it when the wind was rocking it. If I wasn't a human girl I think I'd like to be a bee and live among the flowers." "Yesterday you wanted to be a sea gull," sniffed Marilla. "I think you are very fickle minded. I told you to learn that prayer and not talk. But it seems impossible for you to stop talking if you've got anybody that will listen to you. So go up to your room and learn it." "Oh, I know it pretty nearly all now--all but just the last line." "Well, never mind, do as I tell you. Go to your room and finish learning it well, and stay there until I call you down to help me get tea."<\|quote\|>"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"</\|quote\|>pleaded Anne. "No; you don't want your room cluttered up with flowers. You should have left them on the tree in the first place." "I did feel a little that way, too," said Anne. "I kind of felt I shouldn't shorten their lovely lives by picking them--I wouldn't want to be picked if I were an apple blossom. But the temptation was _irresistible_. What do you do when you meet with an irresistible temptation?" "Anne, did you hear me tell you to go to your room?" Anne sighed, retreated to the east gable, and sat down in a chair by the window. "There--I know this prayer. I learned that last sentence coming upstairs. Now I'm going to imagine things into this room so that they'll always stay imagined. The floor is covered with a white velvet carpet with pink roses all over it and there are pink silk curtains at the windows. The walls are hung with gold and silver brocade tapestry. The furniture is mahogany. I never saw any mahogany, but it does sound _so_ luxurious. This is a couch all heaped with gorgeous silken cushions, pink and blue and crimson and gold, and I am reclining gracefully on	it dreadfully, too, I know she did, for she was crying when she kissed me good-bye through the bookcase door. There was no bookcase at Mrs. Hammond's. But just up the river a little way from the house there was a long green little valley, and the loveliest echo lived there. It echoed back every word you said, even if you didn't talk a bit loud. So I imagined that it was a little girl called Violetta and we were great friends and I loved her almost as well as I loved Katie Maurice--not quite, but almost, you know. The night before I went to the asylum I said good-bye to Violetta, and oh, her good-bye came back to me in such sad, sad tones. I had become so attached to her that I hadn't the heart to imagine a bosom friend at the asylum, even if there had been any scope for imagination there." "I think it's just as well there wasn't," said Marilla drily. "I don't approve of such goings-on. You seem to half believe your own imaginations. It will be well for you to have a real live friend to put such nonsense out of your head. But don't let Mrs. Barry hear you talking about your Katie Maurices and your Violettas or she'll think you tell stories." "Oh, I won't. I couldn't talk of them to everybody--their memories are too sacred for that. But I thought I'd like to have you know about them. Oh, look, here's a big bee just tumbled out of an apple blossom. Just think what a lovely place to live--in an apple blossom! Fancy going to sleep in it when the wind was rocking it. If I wasn't a human girl I think I'd like to be a bee and live among the flowers." "Yesterday you wanted to be a sea gull," sniffed Marilla. "I think you are very fickle minded. I told you to learn that prayer and not talk. But it seems impossible for you to stop talking if you've got anybody that will listen to you. So go up to your room and learn it." "Oh, I know it pretty nearly all now--all but just the last line." "Well, never mind, do as I tell you. Go to your room and finish learning it well, and stay there until I call you down to help me get tea."<\|quote\|>"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"</\|quote\|>pleaded Anne. "No; you don't want your room cluttered up with flowers. You should have left them on the tree in the first place." "I did feel a little that way, too," said Anne. "I kind of felt I shouldn't shorten their lovely lives by picking them--I wouldn't want to be picked if I were an apple blossom. But the temptation was _irresistible_. What do you do when you meet with an irresistible temptation?" "Anne, did you hear me tell you to go to your room?" Anne sighed, retreated to the east gable, and sat down in a chair by the window. "There--I know this prayer. I learned that last sentence coming upstairs. Now I'm going to imagine things into this room so that they'll always stay imagined. The floor is covered with a white velvet carpet with pink roses all over it and there are pink silk curtains at the windows. The walls are hung with gold and silver brocade tapestry. The furniture is mahogany. I never saw any mahogany, but it does sound _so_ luxurious. This is a couch all heaped with gorgeous silken cushions, pink and blue and crimson and gold, and I am reclining gracefully on it. I can see my reflection in that splendid big mirror hanging on the wall. I am tall and regal, clad in a gown of trailing white lace, with a pearl cross on my breast and pearls in my hair. My hair is of midnight darkness and my skin is a clear ivory pallor. My name is the Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald. No, it isn't--I can't make _that_ seem real." She danced up to the little looking-glass and peered into it. Her pointed freckled face and solemn gray eyes peered back at her. "You're only Anne of Green Gables," she said earnestly, "and I see you, just as you are looking now, whenever I try to imagine I'm the Lady Cordelia. But it's a million times nicer to be Anne of Green Gables than Anne of nowhere in particular, isn't it?" She bent forward, kissed her reflection affectionately, and betook herself to the open window. "Dear Snow Queen, good afternoon. And good afternoon dear birches down in the hollow. And good afternoon, dear gray house up on the hill. I wonder if Diana is to be my bosom friend. I hope she will, and I shall love her very much. But	she comes home. She's visiting her aunt over at Carmody just now. You'll have to be careful how you behave yourself, though. Mrs. Barry is a very particular woman. She won't let Diana play with any little girl who isn't nice and good." Anne looked at Marilla through the apple blossoms, her eyes aglow with interest. "What is Diana like? Her hair isn't red, is it? Oh, I hope not. It's bad enough to have red hair myself, but I positively couldn't endure it in a bosom friend." "Diana is a very pretty little girl. She has black eyes and hair and rosy cheeks. And she is good and smart, which is better than being pretty." Marilla was as fond of morals as the Duchess in Wonderland, and was firmly convinced that one should be tacked on to every remark made to a child who was being brought up. But Anne waved the moral inconsequently aside and seized only on the delightful possibilities before it. "Oh, I'm so glad she's pretty. Next to being beautiful oneself--and that's impossible in my case--it would be best to have a beautiful bosom friend. When I lived with Mrs. Thomas she had a bookcase in her sitting room with glass doors. There weren't any books in it; Mrs. Thomas kept her best china and her preserves there--when she had any preserves to keep. One of the doors was broken. Mr. Thomas smashed it one night when he was slightly intoxicated. But the other was whole and I used to pretend that my reflection in it was another little girl who lived in it. I called her Katie Maurice, and we were very intimate. I used to talk to her by the hour, especially on Sunday, and tell her everything. Katie was the comfort and consolation of my life. We used to pretend that the bookcase was enchanted and that if I only knew the spell I could open the door and step right into the room where Katie Maurice lived, instead of into Mrs. Thomas' shelves of preserves and china. And then Katie Maurice would have taken me by the hand and led me out into a wonderful place, all flowers and sunshine and fairies, and we would have lived there happy for ever after. When I went to live with Mrs. Hammond it just broke my heart to leave Katie Maurice. She felt it dreadfully, too, I know she did, for she was crying when she kissed me good-bye through the bookcase door. There was no bookcase at Mrs. Hammond's. But just up the river a little way from the house there was a long green little valley, and the loveliest echo lived there. It echoed back every word you said, even if you didn't talk a bit loud. So I imagined that it was a little girl called Violetta and we were great friends and I loved her almost as well as I loved Katie Maurice--not quite, but almost, you know. The night before I went to the asylum I said good-bye to Violetta, and oh, her good-bye came back to me in such sad, sad tones. I had become so attached to her that I hadn't the heart to imagine a bosom friend at the asylum, even if there had been any scope for imagination there." "I think it's just as well there wasn't," said Marilla drily. "I don't approve of such goings-on. You seem to half believe your own imaginations. It will be well for you to have a real live friend to put such nonsense out of your head. But don't let Mrs. Barry hear you talking about your Katie Maurices and your Violettas or she'll think you tell stories." "Oh, I won't. I couldn't talk of them to everybody--their memories are too sacred for that. But I thought I'd like to have you know about them. Oh, look, here's a big bee just tumbled out of an apple blossom. Just think what a lovely place to live--in an apple blossom! Fancy going to sleep in it when the wind was rocking it. If I wasn't a human girl I think I'd like to be a bee and live among the flowers." "Yesterday you wanted to be a sea gull," sniffed Marilla. "I think you are very fickle minded. I told you to learn that prayer and not talk. But it seems impossible for you to stop talking if you've got anybody that will listen to you. So go up to your room and learn it." "Oh, I know it pretty nearly all now--all but just the last line." "Well, never mind, do as I tell you. Go to your room and finish learning it well, and stay there until I call you down to help me get tea."<\|quote\|>"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"</\|quote\|>pleaded Anne. "No; you don't want your room cluttered up with flowers. You should have left them on the tree in the first place." "I did feel a little that way, too," said Anne. "I kind of felt I shouldn't shorten their lovely lives by picking them--I wouldn't want to be picked if I were an apple blossom. But the temptation was _irresistible_. What do you do when you meet with an irresistible temptation?" "Anne, did you hear me tell you to go to your room?" Anne sighed, retreated to the east gable, and sat down in a chair by the window. "There--I know this prayer. I learned that last sentence coming upstairs. Now I'm going to imagine things into this room so that they'll always stay imagined. The floor is covered with a white velvet carpet with pink roses all over it and there are pink silk curtains at the windows. The walls are hung with gold and silver brocade tapestry. The furniture is mahogany. I never saw any mahogany, but it does sound _so_ luxurious. This is a couch all heaped with gorgeous silken cushions, pink and blue and crimson and gold, and I am reclining gracefully on it. I can see my reflection in that splendid big mirror hanging on the wall. I am tall and regal, clad in a gown of trailing white lace, with a pearl cross on my breast and pearls in my hair. My hair is of midnight darkness and my skin is a clear ivory pallor. My name is the Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald. No, it isn't--I can't make _that_ seem real." She danced up to the little looking-glass and peered into it. Her pointed freckled face and solemn gray eyes peered back at her. "You're only Anne of Green Gables," she said earnestly, "and I see you, just as you are looking now, whenever I try to imagine I'm the Lady Cordelia. But it's a million times nicer to be Anne of Green Gables than Anne of nowhere in particular, isn't it?" She bent forward, kissed her reflection affectionately, and betook herself to the open window. "Dear Snow Queen, good afternoon. And good afternoon dear birches down in the hollow. And good afternoon, dear gray house up on the hill. I wonder if Diana is to be my bosom friend. I hope she will, and I shall love her very much. But I must never quite forget Katie Maurice and Violetta. They would feel so hurt if I did and I'd hate to hurt anybody's feelings, even a little bookcase girl's or a little echo girl's. I must be careful to remember them and send them a kiss every day." Anne blew a couple of airy kisses from her fingertips past the cherry blossoms and then, with her chin in her hands, drifted luxuriously out on a sea of daydreams. CHAPTER IX. Mrs. Rachel Lynde Is Properly Horrified \|ANNE had been a fortnight at Green Gables before Mrs. Lynde arrived to inspect her. Mrs. Rachel, to do her justice, was not to blame for this. A severe and unseasonable attack of grippe had confined that good lady to her house ever since the occasion of her last visit to Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel was not often sick and had a well-defined contempt for people who were; but grippe, she asserted, was like no other illness on earth and could only be interpreted as one of the special visitations of Providence. As soon as her doctor allowed her to put her foot out-of-doors she hurried up to Green Gables, bursting with curiosity to see Matthew and Marilla's orphan, concerning whom all sorts of stories and suppositions had gone abroad in Avonlea. Anne had made good use of every waking moment of that fortnight. Already she was acquainted with every tree and shrub about the place. She had discovered that a lane opened out below the apple orchard and ran up through a belt of woodland; and she had explored it to its furthest end in all its delicious vagaries of brook and bridge, fir coppice and wild cherry arch, corners thick with fern, and branching byways of maple and mountain ash. She had made friends with the spring down in the hollow--that wonderful deep, clear icy-cold spring; it was set about with smooth red sandstones and rimmed in by great palm-like clumps of water fern; and beyond it was a log bridge over the brook. That bridge led Anne's dancing feet up over a wooded hill beyond, where perpetual twilight reigned under the straight, thick-growing firs and spruces; the only flowers there were myriads of delicate "June bells," those shyest and sweetest of woodland blooms, and a few pale, aerial starflowers, like the spirits of last year's blossoms. Gossamers glimmered like threads of	was crying when she kissed me good-bye through the bookcase door. There was no bookcase at Mrs. Hammond's. But just up the river a little way from the house there was a long green little valley, and the loveliest echo lived there. It echoed back every word you said, even if you didn't talk a bit loud. So I imagined that it was a little girl called Violetta and we were great friends and I loved her almost as well as I loved Katie Maurice--not quite, but almost, you know. The night before I went to the asylum I said good-bye to Violetta, and oh, her good-bye came back to me in such sad, sad tones. I had become so attached to her that I hadn't the heart to imagine a bosom friend at the asylum, even if there had been any scope for imagination there." "I think it's just as well there wasn't," said Marilla drily. "I don't approve of such goings-on. You seem to half believe your own imaginations. It will be well for you to have a real live friend to put such nonsense out of your head. But don't let Mrs. Barry hear you talking about your Katie Maurices and your Violettas or she'll think you tell stories." "Oh, I won't. I couldn't talk of them to everybody--their memories are too sacred for that. But I thought I'd like to have you know about them. Oh, look, here's a big bee just tumbled out of an apple blossom. Just think what a lovely place to live--in an apple blossom! Fancy going to sleep in it when the wind was rocking it. If I wasn't a human girl I think I'd like to be a bee and live among the flowers." "Yesterday you wanted to be a sea gull," sniffed Marilla. "I think you are very fickle minded. I told you to learn that prayer and not talk. But it seems impossible for you to stop talking if you've got anybody that will listen to you. So go up to your room and learn it." "Oh, I know it pretty nearly all now--all but just the last line." "Well, never mind, do as I tell you. Go to your room and finish learning it well, and stay there until I call you down to help me get tea."<\|quote\|>"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"</\|quote\|>pleaded Anne. "No; you don't want your room cluttered up with flowers. You should have left them on the tree in the first place." "I did feel a little that way, too," said Anne. "I kind of felt I shouldn't shorten their lovely lives by picking them--I wouldn't want to be picked if I were an apple blossom. But the temptation was _irresistible_. What do you do when you meet with an irresistible temptation?" "Anne, did you hear me tell you to go to your room?" Anne sighed, retreated to the east gable, and sat down in a chair by the window. "There--I know this prayer. I learned that last sentence coming upstairs. Now I'm going to imagine things into this room so that they'll always stay imagined. The floor is covered with a white velvet carpet with pink roses all over it and there are pink silk curtains at the windows. The walls are hung with gold and silver brocade tapestry. The furniture is mahogany. I never saw any mahogany, but it does sound _so_ luxurious. This is a couch all heaped with gorgeous silken cushions, pink and blue and crimson and gold, and I am reclining gracefully on it. I can see my reflection in that splendid big mirror hanging on the wall. I am tall and regal, clad in a gown of trailing white lace, with a pearl cross on my breast and pearls in my hair. My hair is of midnight darkness and my skin is a clear ivory pallor. My name is the Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald. No, it isn't--I can't make _that_ seem real." She danced up to the little looking-glass and peered into it. Her pointed freckled face and solemn gray eyes peered back at her. "You're only Anne of Green Gables," she said earnestly, "and I see you, just as you are looking now, whenever I try to imagine I'm the Lady Cordelia. But it's a million times	Anne Of Green Gables
Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.	No speaker	than you want to know."<\|quote\|>Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.</\|quote\|>"Let us go and sit	just as you know less than you want to know."<\|quote\|>Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.</\|quote\|>"Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord	Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of life to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know."<\|quote\|>Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.</\|quote\|>"Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be	tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling. "Yes," continued Lord Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of life to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know."<\|quote\|>Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.</\|quote\|>"Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming." "What can it matter?" cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden. "It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray." "Why?" "Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having." "I don t feel	than I am to-day. This is going to be my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands." Lord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his hand upon his shoulder. "You are quite right to do that," he murmured. "Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul." The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling. "Yes," continued Lord Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of life to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know."<\|quote\|>Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.</\|quote\|>"Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming." "What can it matter?" cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden. "It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray." "Why?" "Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having." "I don t feel that, Lord Henry." "No, you don t feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don t frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts of the world,	"My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can t think of anything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And I have caught the effect I wanted the half-parted lips and the bright look in the eyes. I don t know what Harry has been saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose he has been paying you compliments. You mustn t believe a word that he says." "He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the reason that I don t believe anything he has told me." "You know you believe it all," said Lord Henry, looking at him with his dreamy languorous eyes. "I will go out to the garden with you. It is horribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced to drink, something with strawberries in it." "Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I will join you later on. Don t keep Dorian too long. I have never been in better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands." Lord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his hand upon his shoulder. "You are quite right to do that," he murmured. "Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul." The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling. "Yes," continued Lord Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of life to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know."<\|quote\|>Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.</\|quote\|>"Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming." "What can it matter?" cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden. "It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray." "Why?" "Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having." "I don t feel that, Lord Henry." "No, you don t feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don t frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won t smile.... People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.... Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against	to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don t speak. Let me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think." For nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips and eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh influences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have come really from himself. The few words that Basil s friend had said to him words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in them had touched some secret chord that had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses. Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words? Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood. He understood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-coloured to him. It seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known it? With his subtle smile, Lord Henry watched him. He knew the precise psychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely interested. He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he wondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through a similar experience. He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How fascinating the lad was! Hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had the true refinement and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate comes only from strength. He was unconscious of the silence. "Basil, I am tired of standing," cried Dorian Gray suddenly. "I must go out and sit in the garden. The air is stifling here." "My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can t think of anything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And I have caught the effect I wanted the half-parted lips and the bright look in the eyes. I don t know what Harry has been saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose he has been paying you compliments. You mustn t believe a word that he says." "He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the reason that I don t believe anything he has told me." "You know you believe it all," said Lord Henry, looking at him with his dreamy languorous eyes. "I will go out to the garden with you. It is horribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced to drink, something with strawberries in it." "Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I will join you later on. Don t keep Dorian too long. I have never been in better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands." Lord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his hand upon his shoulder. "You are quite right to do that," he murmured. "Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul." The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling. "Yes," continued Lord Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of life to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know."<\|quote\|>Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.</\|quote\|>"Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming." "What can it matter?" cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden. "It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray." "Why?" "Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having." "I don t feel that, Lord Henry." "No, you don t feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don t frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won t smile.... People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.... Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly.... Ah! realize your youth while you have it. Don t squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure, or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar. These are the sickly aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing.... A new Hedonism that is what our century wants. You might be its visible symbol. With your personality there is nothing you could not do. The world belongs to you for a season.... The moment I met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are, of what you really might be. There was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will last such a little time. The common hill-flowers wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!" Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the oval stellated globe of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which we cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to	is stifling here." "My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can t think of anything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And I have caught the effect I wanted the half-parted lips and the bright look in the eyes. I don t know what Harry has been saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose he has been paying you compliments. You mustn t believe a word that he says." "He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the reason that I don t believe anything he has told me." "You know you believe it all," said Lord Henry, looking at him with his dreamy languorous eyes. "I will go out to the garden with you. It is horribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced to drink, something with strawberries in it." "Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I will join you later on. Don t keep Dorian too long. I have never been in better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands." Lord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his hand upon his shoulder. "You are quite right to do that," he murmured. "Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul." The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling. "Yes," continued Lord Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of life to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know."<\|quote\|>Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.</\|quote\|>"Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming." "What can it matter?" cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden. "It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray." "Why?" "Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having." "I don t feel that, Lord Henry." "No, you don t feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don t frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won t smile.... People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
Aunt Celia continued firmly.	No speaker	"I went to Seton Street,"<\|quote\|>Aunt Celia continued firmly.</\|quote\|>"A very low place lodging-houses,	tune, as if to interrupt. "I went to Seton Street,"<\|quote\|>Aunt Celia continued firmly.</\|quote\|>"A very low place lodging-houses, you know, with canaries in	I suspected something directly. I went to his room, and there was an envelope on the mantelpiece, and a letter with an address in Seton Street, off the Kennington Road." Mrs. Hilbery fidgeted rather restlessly, and hummed fragments of her tune, as if to interrupt. "I went to Seton Street,"<\|quote\|>Aunt Celia continued firmly.</\|quote\|>"A very low place lodging-houses, you know, with canaries in the window. Number seven just like all the others. I rang, I knocked; no one came. I went down the area. I am certain I saw some one inside children a cradle. But no reply no reply." She sighed, and	I knew he was engaged at the poor men s college. He lectures there Roman law, you know, or it may be Greek. The landlady said Mr. Alardyce only slept there about once a fortnight now. He looked so ill, she said. She had seen him with a young person. I suspected something directly. I went to his room, and there was an envelope on the mantelpiece, and a letter with an address in Seton Street, off the Kennington Road." Mrs. Hilbery fidgeted rather restlessly, and hummed fragments of her tune, as if to interrupt. "I went to Seton Street,"<\|quote\|>Aunt Celia continued firmly.</\|quote\|>"A very low place lodging-houses, you know, with canaries in the window. Number seven just like all the others. I rang, I knocked; no one came. I went down the area. I am certain I saw some one inside children a cradle. But no reply no reply." She sighed, and looked straight in front of her with a glazed expression in her half-veiled blue eyes. "I stood in the street," she resumed, "in case I could catch a sight of one of them. It seemed a very long time. There were rough men singing in the public-house round the corner.	William s son! I can t believe my ears!" Feeling that the burden of proof was laid upon her, Mrs. Milvain now proceeded with her story. She was elderly and fragile, but her childlessness seemed always to impose these painful duties on her, and to revere the family, and to keep it in repair, had now become the chief object of her life. She told her story in a low, spasmodic, and somewhat broken voice. "I have suspected for some time that he was not happy. There were new lines on his face. So I went to his rooms, when I knew he was engaged at the poor men s college. He lectures there Roman law, you know, or it may be Greek. The landlady said Mr. Alardyce only slept there about once a fortnight now. He looked so ill, she said. She had seen him with a young person. I suspected something directly. I went to his room, and there was an envelope on the mantelpiece, and a letter with an address in Seton Street, off the Kennington Road." Mrs. Hilbery fidgeted rather restlessly, and hummed fragments of her tune, as if to interrupt. "I went to Seton Street,"<\|quote\|>Aunt Celia continued firmly.</\|quote\|>"A very low place lodging-houses, you know, with canaries in the window. Number seven just like all the others. I rang, I knocked; no one came. I went down the area. I am certain I saw some one inside children a cradle. But no reply no reply." She sighed, and looked straight in front of her with a glazed expression in her half-veiled blue eyes. "I stood in the street," she resumed, "in case I could catch a sight of one of them. It seemed a very long time. There were rough men singing in the public-house round the corner. At last the door opened, and some one it must have been the woman herself came right past me. There was only the pillar-box between us." "And what did she look like?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded. "One could see how the poor boy had been deluded," was all that Mrs. Milvain vouchsafed by way of description. "Poor thing!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Poor Cyril!" Mrs. Milvain said, laying a slight emphasis upon Cyril. "But they ve got nothing to live upon," Mrs. Hilbery continued. "If he d come to us like a man," she went on, "and said, I ve been a	has discovered that Cyril is married. He has a wife and children." "No, he is _not_ married," Mrs. Milvain interposed, in low tones, addressing herself to Mrs. Hilbery. "He has two children, and another on the way." Mrs. Hilbery looked from one to the other in bewilderment. "We thought it better to wait until it was proved before we told you," Katharine added. "But I met Cyril only a fortnight ago at the National Gallery!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "I don t believe a word of it," and she tossed her head with a smile on her lips at Mrs. Milvain, as though she could quite understand her mistake, which was a very natural mistake, in the case of a childless woman, whose husband was something very dull in the Board of Trade. "I didn t _wish_ to believe it, Maggie," said Mrs. Milvain. "For a long time I _couldn t_ believe it. But now I ve seen, and I _have_ to believe it." "Katharine," Mrs. Hilbery demanded, "does your father know of this?" Katharine nodded. "Cyril married!" Mrs. Hilbery repeated. "And never telling us a word, though we ve had him in our house since he was a child noble William s son! I can t believe my ears!" Feeling that the burden of proof was laid upon her, Mrs. Milvain now proceeded with her story. She was elderly and fragile, but her childlessness seemed always to impose these painful duties on her, and to revere the family, and to keep it in repair, had now become the chief object of her life. She told her story in a low, spasmodic, and somewhat broken voice. "I have suspected for some time that he was not happy. There were new lines on his face. So I went to his rooms, when I knew he was engaged at the poor men s college. He lectures there Roman law, you know, or it may be Greek. The landlady said Mr. Alardyce only slept there about once a fortnight now. He looked so ill, she said. She had seen him with a young person. I suspected something directly. I went to his room, and there was an envelope on the mantelpiece, and a letter with an address in Seton Street, off the Kennington Road." Mrs. Hilbery fidgeted rather restlessly, and hummed fragments of her tune, as if to interrupt. "I went to Seton Street,"<\|quote\|>Aunt Celia continued firmly.</\|quote\|>"A very low place lodging-houses, you know, with canaries in the window. Number seven just like all the others. I rang, I knocked; no one came. I went down the area. I am certain I saw some one inside children a cradle. But no reply no reply." She sighed, and looked straight in front of her with a glazed expression in her half-veiled blue eyes. "I stood in the street," she resumed, "in case I could catch a sight of one of them. It seemed a very long time. There were rough men singing in the public-house round the corner. At last the door opened, and some one it must have been the woman herself came right past me. There was only the pillar-box between us." "And what did she look like?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded. "One could see how the poor boy had been deluded," was all that Mrs. Milvain vouchsafed by way of description. "Poor thing!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Poor Cyril!" Mrs. Milvain said, laying a slight emphasis upon Cyril. "But they ve got nothing to live upon," Mrs. Hilbery continued. "If he d come to us like a man," she went on, "and said, I ve been a fool, one would have pitied him; one would have tried to help him. There s nothing so disgraceful after all But he s been going about all these years, pretending, letting one take it for granted, that he was single. And the poor deserted little wife" "She is _not_ his wife," Aunt Celia interrupted. "I ve never heard anything so detestable!" Mrs. Hilbery wound up, striking her fist on the arm of her chair. As she realized the facts she became thoroughly disgusted, although, perhaps, she was more hurt by the concealment of the sin than by the sin itself. She looked splendidly roused and indignant; and Katharine felt an immense relief and pride in her mother. It was plain that her indignation was very genuine, and that her mind was as perfectly focused upon the facts as any one could wish more so, by a long way, than Aunt Celia s mind, which seemed to be timidly circling, with a morbid pleasure, in these unpleasant shades. She and her mother together would take the situation in hand, visit Cyril, and see the whole thing through. "We must realize Cyril s point of view first," she said, speaking directly to	a very sweet voice, trolled out a famous lyric of her father s which had been set to an absurdly and charmingly sentimental air by some early Victorian composer. "It s the vitality of them!" she concluded, striking her fist against the table. "That s what we haven t got! We re virtuous, we re earnest, we go to meetings, we pay the poor their wages, but we don t live as they lived. As often as not, my father wasn t in bed three nights out of the seven, but always fresh as paint in the morning. I hear him now, come singing up the stairs to the nursery, and tossing the loaf for breakfast on his sword-stick, and then off we went for a day s pleasuring Richmond, Hampton Court, the Surrey Hills. Why shouldn t we go, Katharine? It s going to be a fine day." At this moment, just as Mrs. Hilbery was examining the weather from the window, there was a knock at the door. A slight, elderly lady came in, and was saluted by Katharine, with very evident dismay, as "Aunt Celia!" She was dismayed because she guessed why Aunt Celia had come. It was certainly in order to discuss the case of Cyril and the woman who was not his wife, and owing to her procrastination Mrs. Hilbery was quite unprepared. Who could be more unprepared? Here she was, suggesting that all three of them should go on a jaunt to Blackfriars to inspect the site of Shakespeare s theater, for the weather was hardly settled enough for the country. To this proposal Mrs. Milvain listened with a patient smile, which indicated that for many years she had accepted such eccentricities in her sister-in-law with bland philosophy. Katharine took up her position at some distance, standing with her foot on the fender, as though by so doing she could get a better view of the matter. But, in spite of her aunt s presence, how unreal the whole question of Cyril and his morality appeared! The difficulty, it now seemed, was not to break the news gently to Mrs. Hilbery, but to make her understand it. How was one to lasso her mind, and tether it to this minute, unimportant spot? A matter-of-fact statement seemed best. "I think Aunt Celia has come to talk about Cyril, mother," she said rather brutally. "Aunt Celia has discovered that Cyril is married. He has a wife and children." "No, he is _not_ married," Mrs. Milvain interposed, in low tones, addressing herself to Mrs. Hilbery. "He has two children, and another on the way." Mrs. Hilbery looked from one to the other in bewilderment. "We thought it better to wait until it was proved before we told you," Katharine added. "But I met Cyril only a fortnight ago at the National Gallery!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "I don t believe a word of it," and she tossed her head with a smile on her lips at Mrs. Milvain, as though she could quite understand her mistake, which was a very natural mistake, in the case of a childless woman, whose husband was something very dull in the Board of Trade. "I didn t _wish_ to believe it, Maggie," said Mrs. Milvain. "For a long time I _couldn t_ believe it. But now I ve seen, and I _have_ to believe it." "Katharine," Mrs. Hilbery demanded, "does your father know of this?" Katharine nodded. "Cyril married!" Mrs. Hilbery repeated. "And never telling us a word, though we ve had him in our house since he was a child noble William s son! I can t believe my ears!" Feeling that the burden of proof was laid upon her, Mrs. Milvain now proceeded with her story. She was elderly and fragile, but her childlessness seemed always to impose these painful duties on her, and to revere the family, and to keep it in repair, had now become the chief object of her life. She told her story in a low, spasmodic, and somewhat broken voice. "I have suspected for some time that he was not happy. There were new lines on his face. So I went to his rooms, when I knew he was engaged at the poor men s college. He lectures there Roman law, you know, or it may be Greek. The landlady said Mr. Alardyce only slept there about once a fortnight now. He looked so ill, she said. She had seen him with a young person. I suspected something directly. I went to his room, and there was an envelope on the mantelpiece, and a letter with an address in Seton Street, off the Kennington Road." Mrs. Hilbery fidgeted rather restlessly, and hummed fragments of her tune, as if to interrupt. "I went to Seton Street,"<\|quote\|>Aunt Celia continued firmly.</\|quote\|>"A very low place lodging-houses, you know, with canaries in the window. Number seven just like all the others. I rang, I knocked; no one came. I went down the area. I am certain I saw some one inside children a cradle. But no reply no reply." She sighed, and looked straight in front of her with a glazed expression in her half-veiled blue eyes. "I stood in the street," she resumed, "in case I could catch a sight of one of them. It seemed a very long time. There were rough men singing in the public-house round the corner. At last the door opened, and some one it must have been the woman herself came right past me. There was only the pillar-box between us." "And what did she look like?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded. "One could see how the poor boy had been deluded," was all that Mrs. Milvain vouchsafed by way of description. "Poor thing!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Poor Cyril!" Mrs. Milvain said, laying a slight emphasis upon Cyril. "But they ve got nothing to live upon," Mrs. Hilbery continued. "If he d come to us like a man," she went on, "and said, I ve been a fool, one would have pitied him; one would have tried to help him. There s nothing so disgraceful after all But he s been going about all these years, pretending, letting one take it for granted, that he was single. And the poor deserted little wife" "She is _not_ his wife," Aunt Celia interrupted. "I ve never heard anything so detestable!" Mrs. Hilbery wound up, striking her fist on the arm of her chair. As she realized the facts she became thoroughly disgusted, although, perhaps, she was more hurt by the concealment of the sin than by the sin itself. She looked splendidly roused and indignant; and Katharine felt an immense relief and pride in her mother. It was plain that her indignation was very genuine, and that her mind was as perfectly focused upon the facts as any one could wish more so, by a long way, than Aunt Celia s mind, which seemed to be timidly circling, with a morbid pleasure, in these unpleasant shades. She and her mother together would take the situation in hand, visit Cyril, and see the whole thing through. "We must realize Cyril s point of view first," she said, speaking directly to her mother, as if to a contemporary, but before the words were out of her mouth, there was more confusion outside, and Cousin Caroline, Mrs. Hilbery s maiden cousin, entered the room. Although she was by birth an Alardyce, and Aunt Celia a Hilbery, the complexities of the family relationship were such that each was at once first and second cousin to the other, and thus aunt and cousin to the culprit Cyril, so that his misbehavior was almost as much Cousin Caroline s affair as Aunt Celia s. Cousin Caroline was a lady of very imposing height and circumference, but in spite of her size and her handsome trappings, there was something exposed and unsheltered in her expression, as if for many summers her thin red skin and hooked nose and reduplication of chins, so much resembling the profile of a cockatoo, had been bared to the weather; she was, indeed, a single lady; but she had, it was the habit to say, "made a life for herself," and was thus entitled to be heard with respect. "This unhappy business," she began, out of breath as she was. "If the train had not gone out of the station just as I arrived, I should have been with you before. Celia has doubtless told you. You will agree with me, Maggie. He must be made to marry her at once for the sake of the children" "But does he refuse to marry her?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired, with a return of her bewilderment. "He has written an absurd perverted letter, all quotations," Cousin Caroline puffed. "He thinks he s doing a very fine thing, where we only see the folly of it.... The girl s every bit as infatuated as he is for which I blame him." "She entangled him," Aunt Celia intervened, with a very curious smoothness of intonation, which seemed to convey a vision of threads weaving and interweaving a close, white mesh round their victim. "It s no use going into the rights and wrongs of the affair now, Celia," said Cousin Caroline with some acerbity, for she believed herself the only practical one of the family, and regretted that, owing to the slowness of the kitchen clock, Mrs. Milvain had already confused poor dear Maggie with her own incomplete version of the facts. "The mischief s done, and very ugly mischief too. Are we to allow the	for the country. To this proposal Mrs. Milvain listened with a patient smile, which indicated that for many years she had accepted such eccentricities in her sister-in-law with bland philosophy. Katharine took up her position at some distance, standing with her foot on the fender, as though by so doing she could get a better view of the matter. But, in spite of her aunt s presence, how unreal the whole question of Cyril and his morality appeared! The difficulty, it now seemed, was not to break the news gently to Mrs. Hilbery, but to make her understand it. How was one to lasso her mind, and tether it to this minute, unimportant spot? A matter-of-fact statement seemed best. "I think Aunt Celia has come to talk about Cyril, mother," she said rather brutally. "Aunt Celia has discovered that Cyril is married. He has a wife and children." "No, he is _not_ married," Mrs. Milvain interposed, in low tones, addressing herself to Mrs. Hilbery. "He has two children, and another on the way." Mrs. Hilbery looked from one to the other in bewilderment. "We thought it better to wait until it was proved before we told you," Katharine added. "But I met Cyril only a fortnight ago at the National Gallery!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "I don t believe a word of it," and she tossed her head with a smile on her lips at Mrs. Milvain, as though she could quite understand her mistake, which was a very natural mistake, in the case of a childless woman, whose husband was something very dull in the Board of Trade. "I didn t _wish_ to believe it, Maggie," said Mrs. Milvain. "For a long time I _couldn t_ believe it. But now I ve seen, and I _have_ to believe it." "Katharine," Mrs. Hilbery demanded, "does your father know of this?" Katharine nodded. "Cyril married!" Mrs. Hilbery repeated. "And never telling us a word, though we ve had him in our house since he was a child noble William s son! I can t believe my ears!" Feeling that the burden of proof was laid upon her, Mrs. Milvain now proceeded with her story. She was elderly and fragile, but her childlessness seemed always to impose these painful duties on her, and to revere the family, and to keep it in repair, had now become the chief object of her life. She told her story in a low, spasmodic, and somewhat broken voice. "I have suspected for some time that he was not happy. There were new lines on his face. So I went to his rooms, when I knew he was engaged at the poor men s college. He lectures there Roman law, you know, or it may be Greek. The landlady said Mr. Alardyce only slept there about once a fortnight now. He looked so ill, she said. She had seen him with a young person. I suspected something directly. I went to his room, and there was an envelope on the mantelpiece, and a letter with an address in Seton Street, off the Kennington Road." Mrs. Hilbery fidgeted rather restlessly, and hummed fragments of her tune, as if to interrupt. "I went to Seton Street,"<\|quote\|>Aunt Celia continued firmly.</\|quote\|>"A very low place lodging-houses, you know, with canaries in the window. Number seven just like all the others. I rang, I knocked; no one came. I went down the area. I am certain I saw some one inside children a cradle. But no reply no reply." She sighed, and looked straight in front of her with a glazed expression in her half-veiled blue eyes. "I stood in the street," she resumed, "in case I could catch a sight of one of them. It seemed a very long time. There were rough men singing in the public-house round the corner. At last the door opened, and some one it must have been the woman herself came right past me. There was only the pillar-box between us." "And what did she look like?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded. "One could see how the poor boy had been deluded," was all that Mrs. Milvain vouchsafed by way of description. "Poor thing!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Poor Cyril!" Mrs. Milvain said, laying a slight emphasis upon Cyril. "But they ve got nothing to live upon," Mrs. Hilbery continued. "If he d come to us like a man," she went on, "and said, I ve been a fool, one would have pitied him; one would have tried to help him. There s nothing so disgraceful after all But he s been going about all these years, pretending, letting one take it for granted, that he was single. And the poor deserted little wife" "She is _not_ his wife," Aunt Celia interrupted. "I ve never heard anything so detestable!" Mrs. Hilbery wound up, striking her fist on the arm of her chair. As she realized the facts she became thoroughly disgusted, although, perhaps, she was more hurt by the concealment of the sin than by the sin itself. She looked splendidly roused and indignant; and Katharine felt an immense relief and pride in her mother. It was plain that her indignation was very genuine, and that her mind was as perfectly focused upon the facts as any one could wish more so, by a long way, than Aunt Celia s mind, which seemed to be timidly circling, with a morbid pleasure, in these unpleasant shades. She and her mother together would take the situation in hand, visit Cyril, and see the whole thing through. "We must realize Cyril s point of view first," she said, speaking directly to her mother, as if to a contemporary, but before the words were out of her mouth, there was more confusion outside, and Cousin Caroline, Mrs. Hilbery s maiden cousin, entered the room. Although she was by birth an Alardyce, and Aunt Celia a Hilbery, the complexities of the family relationship were such that each was at once first and second cousin to the other, and	Night And Day
The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that several of the fellows at the club had shady reputations, but surely to be the son of a thief or a supposed thief was not like being the criminal himself. At the Banner he took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him.	No speaker	"My Gawd, not you, Kit!"<\|quote\|>The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that several of the fellows at the club had shady reputations, but surely to be the son of a thief or a supposed thief was not like being the criminal himself. At the Banner he took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him.</\|quote\|>"Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it	her head and almost screamed, "My Gawd, not you, Kit!"<\|quote\|>The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that several of the fellows at the club had shady reputations, but surely to be the son of a thief or a supposed thief was not like being the criminal himself. At the Banner he took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him.</\|quote\|>"Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it two, Jack,'" he said with	Kit's side and mingled her tears with her daughter's. But Kit did not raise her head. "Dey ain't nothin' lef' but you now, Kit;" but the girl did not speak, she only shook with hard sobs. Then her mother raised her head and almost screamed, "My Gawd, not you, Kit!"<\|quote\|>The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that several of the fellows at the club had shady reputations, but surely to be the son of a thief or a supposed thief was not like being the criminal himself. At the Banner he took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him.</\|quote\|>"Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it two, Jack,'" he said with easy familiarity. "Well, what 's the matter, old man? You 're looking glum." "I feel glum." "The divine Hattie has n't been cutting any capers, has she? The dear old girl has n't been getting hysterical at her age? Let	He did not speak to Kit nor look at his mother. He felt like a cur, because he knew deep down in his heart that he had only been waiting for some excuse to take this step. As he slammed the door behind him, his mother flung herself down by Kit's side and mingled her tears with her daughter's. But Kit did not raise her head. "Dey ain't nothin' lef' but you now, Kit;" but the girl did not speak, she only shook with hard sobs. Then her mother raised her head and almost screamed, "My Gawd, not you, Kit!"<\|quote\|>The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that several of the fellows at the club had shady reputations, but surely to be the son of a thief or a supposed thief was not like being the criminal himself. At the Banner he took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him.</\|quote\|>"Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it two, Jack,'" he said with easy familiarity. "Well, what 's the matter, old man? You 're looking glum." "I feel glum." "The divine Hattie has n't been cutting any capers, has she? The dear old girl has n't been getting hysterical at her age? Let us hope not." Joe glared at him. Why in the devil should this fellow be so sadly gay when he was weighted down with sorrow and shame and disgust? "Come, come now, Hamilton, if you 're sore because I invited myself to take a drink with you, I 'll withdraw	him. "Don't you daih to cuss ag'in or befo' Gawd dey 'll be somep'n fu' one o' dis fambly to be rottin' in jail fu'!" The boy was cowed by his mother's manner. He was gathering his few belongings in a bundle. "I ain't goin' to cuss," he said sullenly, "I 'm goin' out o' your way." "Oh, go on," she said, "go on. It 's been a long time sence you been my son. You on yo' way to hell, an' you is been fu' lo dese many days." Joe got out of the house as soon as possible. He did not speak to Kit nor look at his mother. He felt like a cur, because he knew deep down in his heart that he had only been waiting for some excuse to take this step. As he slammed the door behind him, his mother flung herself down by Kit's side and mingled her tears with her daughter's. But Kit did not raise her head. "Dey ain't nothin' lef' but you now, Kit;" but the girl did not speak, she only shook with hard sobs. Then her mother raised her head and almost screamed, "My Gawd, not you, Kit!"<\|quote\|>The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that several of the fellows at the club had shady reputations, but surely to be the son of a thief or a supposed thief was not like being the criminal himself. At the Banner he took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him.</\|quote\|>"Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it two, Jack,'" he said with easy familiarity. "Well, what 's the matter, old man? You 're looking glum." "I feel glum." "The divine Hattie has n't been cutting any capers, has she? The dear old girl has n't been getting hysterical at her age? Let us hope not." Joe glared at him. Why in the devil should this fellow be so sadly gay when he was weighted down with sorrow and shame and disgust? "Come, come now, Hamilton, if you 're sore because I invited myself to take a drink with you, I 'll withdraw the order. I know the heroic thing to say is that I 'll pay for the drinks myself, but I can't screw my courage up to the point of doing so unnatural a thing." Young Hamilton hastened to protest. "Oh, I know you fellows now well enough to know how many drinks to pay for. It ain't that." "Well, then, out with it. What is it? Have n't been up to anything, have you?" The desire came to Joe to tell this man the whole truth, just what was the matter, and so to relieve his heart. On the impulse	to put me out on de wo'd of a stranger?" "I 'm kin' o' sorry, but everybody in the house heard what Mis' Brown said, an' it 'll soon be all over town, an' that 'ud ruin the reputation of my house." "I reckon all dat kin be 'splained." "Yes, but I don't know that anybody kin 'splain your daughter allus being with Mr. Thomas, who ain't even divo'ced from his wife." She flashed a vindictive glance at the girl, who turned deadly pale and dropped her head in her hands. "You daih to say dat, Mis' Jones, you dat fust interduced my gal to dat man and got huh to go out wid him? I reckon you 'd bettah go now." And Mrs. Jones looked at Fannie's face and obeyed. As soon as the woman's back was turned, Joe burst out, "There, there! see what you 've done with your damned foolishness." Fannie turned on him like a tigress. "Don't you cuss hyeah befo' me; I ain't nevah brung you up to it, an' I won't stan' it. Go to dem whaih you larned it, an whaih de wo'ds soun' sweet." The boy started to speak, but she checked him. "Don't you daih to cuss ag'in or befo' Gawd dey 'll be somep'n fu' one o' dis fambly to be rottin' in jail fu'!" The boy was cowed by his mother's manner. He was gathering his few belongings in a bundle. "I ain't goin' to cuss," he said sullenly, "I 'm goin' out o' your way." "Oh, go on," she said, "go on. It 's been a long time sence you been my son. You on yo' way to hell, an' you is been fu' lo dese many days." Joe got out of the house as soon as possible. He did not speak to Kit nor look at his mother. He felt like a cur, because he knew deep down in his heart that he had only been waiting for some excuse to take this step. As he slammed the door behind him, his mother flung herself down by Kit's side and mingled her tears with her daughter's. But Kit did not raise her head. "Dey ain't nothin' lef' but you now, Kit;" but the girl did not speak, she only shook with hard sobs. Then her mother raised her head and almost screamed, "My Gawd, not you, Kit!"<\|quote\|>The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that several of the fellows at the club had shady reputations, but surely to be the son of a thief or a supposed thief was not like being the criminal himself. At the Banner he took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him.</\|quote\|>"Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it two, Jack,'" he said with easy familiarity. "Well, what 's the matter, old man? You 're looking glum." "I feel glum." "The divine Hattie has n't been cutting any capers, has she? The dear old girl has n't been getting hysterical at her age? Let us hope not." Joe glared at him. Why in the devil should this fellow be so sadly gay when he was weighted down with sorrow and shame and disgust? "Come, come now, Hamilton, if you 're sore because I invited myself to take a drink with you, I 'll withdraw the order. I know the heroic thing to say is that I 'll pay for the drinks myself, but I can't screw my courage up to the point of doing so unnatural a thing." Young Hamilton hastened to protest. "Oh, I know you fellows now well enough to know how many drinks to pay for. It ain't that." "Well, then, out with it. What is it? Have n't been up to anything, have you?" The desire came to Joe to tell this man the whole truth, just what was the matter, and so to relieve his heart. On the impulse he did. If he had expected much from Sadness he was disappointed, for not a muscle of the man's face changed during the entire recital. When it was over, he looked at his companion critically through a wreath of smoke. Then he said: "For a fellow who has had for a full year the advantage of the education of the New York clubs, you are strangely young. Let me see, you are nineteen or twenty now--yes. Well, that perhaps accounts for it. It 's a pity you were n't born older. It 's a pity most men are n't. They would n't have to take so much time and lose so many good things learning. Now, Mr. Hamilton, let me tell you, and you will pardon me for it, that you are a fool. Your case is n't half as bad as that of nine-tenths of the fellows that hang around here. Now, for instance, my father was hung." Joe started and gave a gasp of horror. "Oh, yes, but it was done with a very good rope and by the best citizens of Texas, so it seems that I really ought to be very grateful to them for the	it. I 'm ashamed o' you, Kitty, fu' wantin' me to." The girl began to cry, while her brother walked the floor angrily. "You 'll see what 'll happen," he cried; "you 'll see." Fannie looked at her son, and she seemed to see him more clearly than she had ever seen him before,--his foppery, his meanness, his cowardice. "Well," she answered with a sigh, "it can't be no wuss den what 's already happened." "You 'll see, you 'll see," the boy reiterated. Minty Brown allowed no wind of thought to cool the fire of her determination. She left Hattie Sterling's soon after Joe, and he was still walking the floor and uttering dire forebodings when she rang the bell below and asked for the Hamiltons. Mrs. Jones ushered her into her fearfully upholstered parlour, and then puffed up stairs to tell her lodgers that there was a friend there from the South who wanted to see them. "Tell huh," said Mrs. Hamilton, "dat dey ain't no one hyeah wants to see huh." "No, no," Kitty broke in. "Heish," said her mother; "I 'm goin' to boss you a little while yit." "Why, I don't understan' you, Mis' Hamilton," puffed Mrs. Jones. "She 's a nice-lookin' lady, an' she said she knowed you at home." "All you got to do is to tell dat ooman jes' what I say." Minty Brown downstairs had heard the little colloquy, and, perceiving that something was amiss, had come to the stairs to listen. Now her voice, striving hard to be condescending and sweet, but growing harsh with anger, floated up from below: "Oh, nevah min', lady, I ain't anxious to see 'em. I jest called out o' pity, but I reckon dey 'shamed to see me 'cause de ol' man 's in penitentiary an' dey was run out o' town." Mrs. Jones gasped, and then turned and went hastily downstairs. Kit burst out crying afresh, and Joe walked the floor muttering beneath his breath, while the mother sat grimly watching the outcome. Finally they heard Mrs. Jones' step once more on the stairs. She came in without knocking, and her manner was distinctly unpleasant. "Mis' Hamilton," she said, "I 've had a talk with the lady downstairs, an' she 's tol' me everything. I 'd be glad if you 'd let me have my rooms as soon as possible." "So you goin' to put me out on de wo'd of a stranger?" "I 'm kin' o' sorry, but everybody in the house heard what Mis' Brown said, an' it 'll soon be all over town, an' that 'ud ruin the reputation of my house." "I reckon all dat kin be 'splained." "Yes, but I don't know that anybody kin 'splain your daughter allus being with Mr. Thomas, who ain't even divo'ced from his wife." She flashed a vindictive glance at the girl, who turned deadly pale and dropped her head in her hands. "You daih to say dat, Mis' Jones, you dat fust interduced my gal to dat man and got huh to go out wid him? I reckon you 'd bettah go now." And Mrs. Jones looked at Fannie's face and obeyed. As soon as the woman's back was turned, Joe burst out, "There, there! see what you 've done with your damned foolishness." Fannie turned on him like a tigress. "Don't you cuss hyeah befo' me; I ain't nevah brung you up to it, an' I won't stan' it. Go to dem whaih you larned it, an whaih de wo'ds soun' sweet." The boy started to speak, but she checked him. "Don't you daih to cuss ag'in or befo' Gawd dey 'll be somep'n fu' one o' dis fambly to be rottin' in jail fu'!" The boy was cowed by his mother's manner. He was gathering his few belongings in a bundle. "I ain't goin' to cuss," he said sullenly, "I 'm goin' out o' your way." "Oh, go on," she said, "go on. It 's been a long time sence you been my son. You on yo' way to hell, an' you is been fu' lo dese many days." Joe got out of the house as soon as possible. He did not speak to Kit nor look at his mother. He felt like a cur, because he knew deep down in his heart that he had only been waiting for some excuse to take this step. As he slammed the door behind him, his mother flung herself down by Kit's side and mingled her tears with her daughter's. But Kit did not raise her head. "Dey ain't nothin' lef' but you now, Kit;" but the girl did not speak, she only shook with hard sobs. Then her mother raised her head and almost screamed, "My Gawd, not you, Kit!"<\|quote\|>The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that several of the fellows at the club had shady reputations, but surely to be the son of a thief or a supposed thief was not like being the criminal himself. At the Banner he took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him.</\|quote\|>"Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it two, Jack,'" he said with easy familiarity. "Well, what 's the matter, old man? You 're looking glum." "I feel glum." "The divine Hattie has n't been cutting any capers, has she? The dear old girl has n't been getting hysterical at her age? Let us hope not." Joe glared at him. Why in the devil should this fellow be so sadly gay when he was weighted down with sorrow and shame and disgust? "Come, come now, Hamilton, if you 're sore because I invited myself to take a drink with you, I 'll withdraw the order. I know the heroic thing to say is that I 'll pay for the drinks myself, but I can't screw my courage up to the point of doing so unnatural a thing." Young Hamilton hastened to protest. "Oh, I know you fellows now well enough to know how many drinks to pay for. It ain't that." "Well, then, out with it. What is it? Have n't been up to anything, have you?" The desire came to Joe to tell this man the whole truth, just what was the matter, and so to relieve his heart. On the impulse he did. If he had expected much from Sadness he was disappointed, for not a muscle of the man's face changed during the entire recital. When it was over, he looked at his companion critically through a wreath of smoke. Then he said: "For a fellow who has had for a full year the advantage of the education of the New York clubs, you are strangely young. Let me see, you are nineteen or twenty now--yes. Well, that perhaps accounts for it. It 's a pity you were n't born older. It 's a pity most men are n't. They would n't have to take so much time and lose so many good things learning. Now, Mr. Hamilton, let me tell you, and you will pardon me for it, that you are a fool. Your case is n't half as bad as that of nine-tenths of the fellows that hang around here. Now, for instance, my father was hung." Joe started and gave a gasp of horror. "Oh, yes, but it was done with a very good rope and by the best citizens of Texas, so it seems that I really ought to be very grateful to them for the distinction they conferred upon my family, but I am not. I am ungratefully sad. A man must be very high or very low to take the sensible view of life that keeps him from being sad. I must confess that I have aspired to the depths without ever being fully able to reach them." "Now look around a bit. See that little girl over there? That 's Viola. Two years ago she wrenched up an iron stool from the floor of a lunch-room, and killed another woman with it. She 's nineteen,--just about your age, by the way. Well, she had friends with a certain amount of pull. She got out of it, and no one thinks the worse of Viola. You see, Hamilton, in this life we are all suffering from fever, and no one edges away from the other because he finds him a little warm. It 's dangerous when you 're not used to it; but once you go through the parching process, you become inoculated against further contagion. Now, there 's Barney over there, as decent a fellow as I know; but he has been indicted twice for pocket-picking. A half-dozen fellows whom you meet here every night have killed their man. Others have done worse things for which you respect them less. Poor Wallace, who is just coming in, and who looks like a jaunty ragpicker, came here about six months ago with about two thousand dollars, the proceeds from the sale of a house his father had left him. He 'll sleep in one of the club chairs to-night, and not from choice. He spent his two thousand learning. But, after all, it was a good investment. It was like buying an annuity. He begins to know already how to live on others as they have lived on him. The plucked bird's beak is sharpened for other's feathers. From now on Wallace will live, eat, drink, and sleep at the expense of others, and will forget to mourn his lost money. He will go on this way until, broken and useless, the poor-house or the potter's field gets him. Oh, it 's a fine, rich life, my lad. I know you 'll like it. I said you would the first time I saw you. It has plenty of stir in it, and a man never gets lonesome. Only the rich are lonesome. It 's	anybody kin 'splain your daughter allus being with Mr. Thomas, who ain't even divo'ced from his wife." She flashed a vindictive glance at the girl, who turned deadly pale and dropped her head in her hands. "You daih to say dat, Mis' Jones, you dat fust interduced my gal to dat man and got huh to go out wid him? I reckon you 'd bettah go now." And Mrs. Jones looked at Fannie's face and obeyed. As soon as the woman's back was turned, Joe burst out, "There, there! see what you 've done with your damned foolishness." Fannie turned on him like a tigress. "Don't you cuss hyeah befo' me; I ain't nevah brung you up to it, an' I won't stan' it. Go to dem whaih you larned it, an whaih de wo'ds soun' sweet." The boy started to speak, but she checked him. "Don't you daih to cuss ag'in or befo' Gawd dey 'll be somep'n fu' one o' dis fambly to be rottin' in jail fu'!" The boy was cowed by his mother's manner. He was gathering his few belongings in a bundle. "I ain't goin' to cuss," he said sullenly, "I 'm goin' out o' your way." "Oh, go on," she said, "go on. It 's been a long time sence you been my son. You on yo' way to hell, an' you is been fu' lo dese many days." Joe got out of the house as soon as possible. He did not speak to Kit nor look at his mother. He felt like a cur, because he knew deep down in his heart that he had only been waiting for some excuse to take this step. As he slammed the door behind him, his mother flung herself down by Kit's side and mingled her tears with her daughter's. But Kit did not raise her head. "Dey ain't nothin' lef' but you now, Kit;" but the girl did not speak, she only shook with hard sobs. Then her mother raised her head and almost screamed, "My Gawd, not you, Kit!"<\|quote\|>The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that several of the fellows at the club had shady reputations, but surely to be the son of a thief or a supposed thief was not like being the criminal himself. At the Banner he took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him.</\|quote\|>"Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it two, Jack,'" he said with easy familiarity. "Well, what 's the matter, old man? You 're looking glum." "I feel glum." "The divine Hattie has n't been cutting any capers, has she? The dear old girl has n't been getting hysterical at her age? Let us hope not." Joe glared at him. Why in the devil should this fellow be so sadly gay when he was weighted down with sorrow and shame and disgust? "Come, come now, Hamilton, if you 're sore because I invited myself to take a drink with you, I 'll withdraw the order. I know the heroic thing to say is that I 'll pay for the drinks myself, but I can't screw my courage up to the point of doing so unnatural a thing." Young Hamilton hastened to protest. "Oh, I know you fellows now well enough to know how many drinks to pay for. It ain't that." "Well, then, out with it. What is it? Have n't been up to anything, have you?" The desire came to Joe to tell this man the whole truth, just what was the matter, and so to relieve his heart. On the impulse he did. If he had expected much from Sadness he was disappointed, for not a muscle of the man's face changed during the entire recital. When it was over, he looked at his companion critically through a wreath of smoke. Then he said: "For a fellow who has had for a full year the advantage of the education of the New York clubs, you are strangely young. Let me see, you are nineteen or twenty now--yes. Well, that perhaps accounts for it. It 's a pity you were n't born older. It 's a pity most men are n't. They would n't have to take so much time and lose so many good things learning. Now, Mr. Hamilton, let me	The Sport Of The Gods
"And ever since that,"	The Hatter	"How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice.<\|quote\|>"And ever since that,"</\|quote\|>the Hatter went on in	time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice.<\|quote\|>"And ever since that,"</\|quote\|>the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't	"_Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_--" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. "Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse," said the Hatter, "when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, 'He's murdering the time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice.<\|quote\|>"And ever since that,"</\|quote\|>the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's	you're at!' "You know the song, perhaps?" "I've heard something like it," said Alice. "It goes on, you know," the Hatter continued, "in this way:--" 'Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--'" Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep "_Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_--" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. "Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse," said the Hatter, "when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, 'He's murdering the time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice.<\|quote\|>"And ever since that,"</\|quote\|>the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." "Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice. "Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the	whisper.) "That would be grand, certainly," said Alice thoughtfully: "but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know." "Not at first, perhaps," said the Hatter: "but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked." "Is that the way _you_ manage?" Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. "Not I!" he replied. "We quarrelled last March--just before _he_ went mad, you know--" (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) "--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing" 'Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at!' "You know the song, perhaps?" "I've heard something like it," said Alice. "It goes on, you know," the Hatter continued, "in this way:--" 'Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--'" Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep "_Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_--" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. "Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse," said the Hatter, "when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, 'He's murdering the time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice.<\|quote\|>"And ever since that,"</\|quote\|>the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." "Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice. "Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." "I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. "Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be	turning to Alice again. "No, I give it up," Alice replied: "what's the answer?" "I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter. "Nor I," said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers." "If you knew Time as well as I do," said the Hatter, "you wouldn't talk about wasting _it_. It's _him_." "I don't know what you mean," said Alice. "Of course you don't!" the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. "I dare say you never even spoke to Time!" "Perhaps not," Alice cautiously replied: "but I know I have to beat time when I learn music." "Ah! that accounts for it," said the Hatter. "He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!" (" "I only wish it was," the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) "That would be grand, certainly," said Alice thoughtfully: "but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know." "Not at first, perhaps," said the Hatter: "but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked." "Is that the way _you_ manage?" Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. "Not I!" he replied. "We quarrelled last March--just before _he_ went mad, you know--" (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) "--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing" 'Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at!' "You know the song, perhaps?" "I've heard something like it," said Alice. "It goes on, you know," the Hatter continued, "in this way:--" 'Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--'" Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep "_Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_--" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. "Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse," said the Hatter, "when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, 'He's murdering the time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice.<\|quote\|>"And ever since that,"</\|quote\|>the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." "Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice. "Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." "I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. "Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone, "so I can't take more." "You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she	I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!" "You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!" "It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. "What day of the month is it?" he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!" he added looking angrily at the March Hare. "It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied. "Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well," the Hatter grumbled: "you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife." The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, "It was the _best_ butter, you know." Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. "What a funny watch!" she remarked. "It tells the day of the month, and doesn't tell what o'clock it is!" "Why should it?" muttered the Hatter. "Does _your_ watch tell you what year it is?" "Of course not," Alice replied very readily: "but that's because it stays the same year for such a long time together." "Which is just the case with _mine_," said the Hatter. Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter's remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. "I don't quite understand you," she said, as politely as she could. "The Dormouse is asleep again," said the Hatter, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose. The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its eyes, "Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself." "Have you guessed the riddle yet?" the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. "No, I give it up," Alice replied: "what's the answer?" "I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter. "Nor I," said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers." "If you knew Time as well as I do," said the Hatter, "you wouldn't talk about wasting _it_. It's _him_." "I don't know what you mean," said Alice. "Of course you don't!" the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. "I dare say you never even spoke to Time!" "Perhaps not," Alice cautiously replied: "but I know I have to beat time when I learn music." "Ah! that accounts for it," said the Hatter. "He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!" (" "I only wish it was," the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) "That would be grand, certainly," said Alice thoughtfully: "but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know." "Not at first, perhaps," said the Hatter: "but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked." "Is that the way _you_ manage?" Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. "Not I!" he replied. "We quarrelled last March--just before _he_ went mad, you know--" (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) "--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing" 'Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at!' "You know the song, perhaps?" "I've heard something like it," said Alice. "It goes on, you know," the Hatter continued, "in this way:--" 'Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--'" Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep "_Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_--" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. "Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse," said the Hatter, "when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, 'He's murdering the time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice.<\|quote\|>"And ever since that,"</\|quote\|>the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." "Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice. "Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." "I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. "Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone, "so I can't take more." "You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?" The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, "If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself." "No, please go on!" Alice said very humbly; "I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be _one_." "One, indeed!" said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. "And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--" "What did they draw?" said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. "Treacle," said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. "I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter: "let's all move one place on." He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?" "You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?" "But they were _in_ the well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. "Of course they were," said the Dormouse; "--well in." This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. "They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--" "Why with an M?" said Alice. "Why not?" said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on:	it was," the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) "That would be grand, certainly," said Alice thoughtfully: "but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know." "Not at first, perhaps," said the Hatter: "but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked." "Is that the way _you_ manage?" Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. "Not I!" he replied. "We quarrelled last March--just before _he_ went mad, you know--" (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) "--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing" 'Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at!' "You know the song, perhaps?" "I've heard something like it," said Alice. "It goes on, you know," the Hatter continued, "in this way:--" 'Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--'" Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep "_Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_--" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. "Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse," said the Hatter, "when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, 'He's murdering the time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice.<\|quote\|>"And ever since that,"</\|quote\|>the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." "Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice. "Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." "I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. "Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone, "so I can't take more." "You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?" The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! sh!" and the Dormouse	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
"It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!"	Bill Sikes	enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes.<\|quote\|>"It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!"</\|quote\|>said the robber, poising a	is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes.<\|quote\|>"It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!"</\|quote\|>said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn	work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes.<\|quote\|>"It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!"</\|quote\|>said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead. "I've thought of it all," said the Jew with energy. "I've I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with	up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill." "I know he is," rejoined Fagin. "He's been in good training these last few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes.<\|quote\|>"It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!"</\|quote\|>said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead. "I've thought of it all," said the Jew with energy. "I've I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about better!" The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy. "Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you	"Now, Fagin," said Nancy with a laugh. "Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!" "Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!" said the Jew, patting her on the neck. "It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!" "What about him?" demanded Sikes. "He's the boy for you, my dear," replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully. "He!" exclaimed Sikes. "Have him, Bill!" said Nancy. "I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill." "I know he is," rejoined Fagin. "He's been in good training these last few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes.<\|quote\|>"It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!"</\|quote\|>said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead. "I've thought of it all," said the Jew with energy. "I've I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about better!" The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy. "Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you mean." "Perhaps I do, my dear," said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. "Mine, if you like, Bill." "And wot," said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, "wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?" "Because they're of no use to me, my dear," replied the Jew, with some confusion, "not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I	"Go on, Fagin. I know what he's going to say, Bill; he needn't mind me." The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some surprise. "Why, you don't mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?" he asked at length. "You've known her long enough to trust her, or the Devil's in it. She ain't one to blab. Are you Nancy?" "_I_ should think not!" replied the young lady: drawing her chair up to the table, and putting her elbows upon it. "No, no, my dear, I know you're not," said the Jew; "but" and again the old man paused. "But wot?" inquired Sikes. "I didn't know whether she mightn't p'r'aps be out of sorts, you know, my dear, as she was the other night," replied the Jew. At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into sundry exclamations of "Keep the game a-going!" "Never say die!" and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise. "Now, Fagin," said Nancy with a laugh. "Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!" "Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!" said the Jew, patting her on the neck. "It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!" "What about him?" demanded Sikes. "He's the boy for you, my dear," replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully. "He!" exclaimed Sikes. "Have him, Bill!" said Nancy. "I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill." "I know he is," rejoined Fagin. "He's been in good training these last few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes.<\|quote\|>"It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!"</\|quote\|>said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead. "I've thought of it all," said the Jew with energy. "I've I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about better!" The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy. "Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you mean." "Perhaps I do, my dear," said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. "Mine, if you like, Bill." "And wot," said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, "wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?" "Because they're of no use to me, my dear," replied the Jew, with some confusion, "not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides," said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, "he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides." "When is it to be done?" asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity. "Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?" "I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow," rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, "if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy." "Good," said the Jew; "there's no moon." "No," rejoined Sikes. "It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?" asked the Jew. Sikes nodded. "And about" "Oh, ah, it's all planned," rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. "Never mind particulars. You'd better	shutters. The crib's barred up at night like a jail; but there's one part we can crack, safe and softly." "Which is that, Bill?" asked the Jew eagerly. "Why," whispered Sikes, "as you cross the lawn" "Yes?" said the Jew, bending his head forward, with his eyes almost starting out of it. "Umph!" cried Sikes, stopping short, as the girl, scarcely moving her head, looked suddenly round, and pointed for an instant to the Jew's face. "Never mind which part it is. You can't do it without me, I know; but it's best to be on the safe side when one deals with you." "As you like, my dear, as you like" replied the Jew. "Is there no help wanted, but yours and Toby's?" "None," said Sikes. "Cept a centre-bit and a boy. The first we've both got; the second you must find us." "A boy!" exclaimed the Jew. "Oh! then it's a panel, eh?" "Never mind wot it is!" replied Sikes. "I want a boy, and he musn't be a big 'un. Lord!" said Mr. Sikes, reflectively, "if I'd only got that young boy of Ned, the chimbley-sweeper's! He kept him small on purpose, and let him out by the job. But the father gets lagged; and then the Juvenile Delinquent Society comes, and takes the boy away from a trade where he was earning money, teaches him to read and write, and in time makes a 'prentice of him. And so they go on," said Mr. Sikes, his wrath rising with the recollection of his wrongs, "so they go on; and, if they'd got money enough (which it's a Providence they haven't,) we shouldn't have half a dozen boys left in the whole trade, in a year or two." "No more we should," acquiesced the Jew, who had been considering during this speech, and had only caught the last sentence. "Bill!" "What now?" inquired Sikes. The Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, who was still gazing at the fire; and intimated, by a sign, that he would have her told to leave the room. Sikes shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought the precaution unnecessary; but complied, nevertheless, by requesting Miss Nancy to fetch him a jug of beer. "You don't want any beer," said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining her seat very composedly. "I tell you I do!" replied Sikes. "Nonsense," rejoined the girl coolly, "Go on, Fagin. I know what he's going to say, Bill; he needn't mind me." The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some surprise. "Why, you don't mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?" he asked at length. "You've known her long enough to trust her, or the Devil's in it. She ain't one to blab. Are you Nancy?" "_I_ should think not!" replied the young lady: drawing her chair up to the table, and putting her elbows upon it. "No, no, my dear, I know you're not," said the Jew; "but" and again the old man paused. "But wot?" inquired Sikes. "I didn't know whether she mightn't p'r'aps be out of sorts, you know, my dear, as she was the other night," replied the Jew. At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into sundry exclamations of "Keep the game a-going!" "Never say die!" and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise. "Now, Fagin," said Nancy with a laugh. "Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!" "Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!" said the Jew, patting her on the neck. "It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!" "What about him?" demanded Sikes. "He's the boy for you, my dear," replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully. "He!" exclaimed Sikes. "Have him, Bill!" said Nancy. "I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill." "I know he is," rejoined Fagin. "He's been in good training these last few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes.<\|quote\|>"It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!"</\|quote\|>said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead. "I've thought of it all," said the Jew with energy. "I've I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about better!" The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy. "Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you mean." "Perhaps I do, my dear," said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. "Mine, if you like, Bill." "And wot," said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, "wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?" "Because they're of no use to me, my dear," replied the Jew, with some confusion, "not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides," said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, "he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides." "When is it to be done?" asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity. "Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?" "I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow," rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, "if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy." "Good," said the Jew; "there's no moon." "No," rejoined Sikes. "It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?" asked the Jew. Sikes nodded. "And about" "Oh, ah, it's all planned," rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. "Never mind particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do." After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit. These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell. "Good-night, Nancy," said the Jew, muffling himself up as before. "Good-night." Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as Toby Crackit himself could be. The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the prostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped downstairs. "Always the way!" muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward. "The worst of these women is, that a very little thing serves to call up some	any beer," said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining her seat very composedly. "I tell you I do!" replied Sikes. "Nonsense," rejoined the girl coolly, "Go on, Fagin. I know what he's going to say, Bill; he needn't mind me." The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some surprise. "Why, you don't mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?" he asked at length. "You've known her long enough to trust her, or the Devil's in it. She ain't one to blab. Are you Nancy?" "_I_ should think not!" replied the young lady: drawing her chair up to the table, and putting her elbows upon it. "No, no, my dear, I know you're not," said the Jew; "but" and again the old man paused. "But wot?" inquired Sikes. "I didn't know whether she mightn't p'r'aps be out of sorts, you know, my dear, as she was the other night," replied the Jew. At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into sundry exclamations of "Keep the game a-going!" "Never say die!" and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise. "Now, Fagin," said Nancy with a laugh. "Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!" "Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!" said the Jew, patting her on the neck. "It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!" "What about him?" demanded Sikes. "He's the boy for you, my dear," replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully. "He!" exclaimed Sikes. "Have him, Bill!" said Nancy. "I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill." "I know he is," rejoined Fagin. "He's been in good training these last few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes.<\|quote\|>"It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!"</\|quote\|>said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead. "I've thought of it all," said the Jew with energy. "I've I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about better!" The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy. "Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you mean." "Perhaps I do, my dear," said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. "Mine, if you like, Bill." "And wot," said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, "wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?" "Because they're of no use to me, my dear," replied the Jew, with some confusion, "not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides," said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, "he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides." "When is it to be done?" asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity. "Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?" "I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow," rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, "if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy." "Good," said the Jew; "there's no moon." "No," rejoined Sikes. "It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?" asked the Jew. Sikes nodded. "And about" "Oh, ah, it's all planned," rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. "Never mind particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do." After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more	Oliver Twist
Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.	No speaker	ask me what I thought!"<\|quote\|>Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.</\|quote\|>"I do ask you." "Well,	thought--" "You thought?" "Ah, don't ask me what I thought!"<\|quote\|>Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.</\|quote\|>"I do ask you." "Well, then: there were things in	sank down on the sofa again, crouching among the festive ripples of her dress like a stricken masquerader; and the young man stood by the fireplace and continued to gaze at her without moving. "Good God," he groaned. "When I thought--" "You thought?" "Ah, don't ask me what I thought!"<\|quote\|>Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.</\|quote\|>"I do ask you." "Well, then: there were things in that letter you asked me to read--" "My husband's letter?" "Yes." "I had nothing to fear from that letter: absolutely nothing! All I feared was to bring notoriety, scandal, on the family--on you and May." "Good God," he groaned again,	scandal? And because my family was going to be your family--for May's sake and for yours--I did what you told me, what you proved to me that I ought to do. Ah," she broke out with a sudden laugh, "I've made no secret of having done it for you!" She sank down on the sofa again, crouching among the festive ripples of her dress like a stricken masquerader; and the young man stood by the fireplace and continued to gaze at her without moving. "Good God," he groaned. "When I thought--" "You thought?" "Ah, don't ask me what I thought!"<\|quote\|>Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.</\|quote\|>"I do ask you." "Well, then: there were things in that letter you asked me to read--" "My husband's letter?" "Yes." "I had nothing to fear from that letter: absolutely nothing! All I feared was to bring notoriety, scandal, on the family--on you and May." "Good God," he groaned again, bowing his face in his hands. The silence that followed lay on them with the weight of things final and irrevocable. It seemed to Archer to be crushing him down like his own grave-stone; in all the wide future he saw nothing that would ever lift that load from his	of us?" She looked at him with unfeigned astonishment. "And you say that--when it's you who've made it impossible?" He stared at her, groping in a blackness through which a single arrow of light tore its blinding way. "I'VE made it impossible--?" "You, you, YOU!" she cried, her lip trembling like a child's on the verge of tears. "Isn't it you who made me give up divorcing--give it up because you showed me how selfish and wicked it was, how one must sacrifice one's self to preserve the dignity of marriage ... and to spare one's family the publicity, the scandal? And because my family was going to be your family--for May's sake and for yours--I did what you told me, what you proved to me that I ought to do. Ah," she broke out with a sudden laugh, "I've made no secret of having done it for you!" She sank down on the sofa again, crouching among the festive ripples of her dress like a stricken masquerader; and the young man stood by the fireplace and continued to gaze at her without moving. "Good God," he groaned. "When I thought--" "You thought?" "Ah, don't ask me what I thought!"<\|quote\|>Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.</\|quote\|>"I do ask you." "Well, then: there were things in that letter you asked me to read--" "My husband's letter?" "Yes." "I had nothing to fear from that letter: absolutely nothing! All I feared was to bring notoriety, scandal, on the family--on you and May." "Good God," he groaned again, bowing his face in his hands. The silence that followed lay on them with the weight of things final and irrevocable. It seemed to Archer to be crushing him down like his own grave-stone; in all the wide future he saw nothing that would ever lift that load from his heart. He did not move from his place, or raise his head from his hands; his hidden eyeballs went on staring into utter darkness. "At least I loved you--" he brought out. On the other side of the hearth, from the sofa-corner where he supposed that she still crouched, he heard a faint stifled crying like a child's. He started up and came to her side. "Ellen! What madness! Why are you crying? Nothing's done that can't be undone. I'm still free, and you're going to be." He had her in his arms, her face like a wet flower at	lonely. Why not come with me?" Archer felt that at any cost he must keep her beside him, must make her give him the rest of her evening. Ignoring her question, he continued to lean against the chimney-piece, his eyes fixed on the hand in which she held her gloves and fan, as if watching to see if he had the power to make her drop them. "May guessed the truth," he said. "There is another woman--but not the one she thinks." Ellen Olenska made no answer, and did not move. After a moment he sat down beside her, and, taking her hand, softly unclasped it, so that the gloves and fan fell on the sofa between them. She started up, and freeing herself from him moved away to the other side of the hearth. "Ah, don't make love to me! Too many people have done that," she said, frowning. Archer, changing colour, stood up also: it was the bitterest rebuke she could have given him. "I have never made love to you," he said, "and I never shall. But you are the woman I would have married if it had been possible for either of us." "Possible for either of us?" She looked at him with unfeigned astonishment. "And you say that--when it's you who've made it impossible?" He stared at her, groping in a blackness through which a single arrow of light tore its blinding way. "I'VE made it impossible--?" "You, you, YOU!" she cried, her lip trembling like a child's on the verge of tears. "Isn't it you who made me give up divorcing--give it up because you showed me how selfish and wicked it was, how one must sacrifice one's self to preserve the dignity of marriage ... and to spare one's family the publicity, the scandal? And because my family was going to be your family--for May's sake and for yours--I did what you told me, what you proved to me that I ought to do. Ah," she broke out with a sudden laugh, "I've made no secret of having done it for you!" She sank down on the sofa again, crouching among the festive ripples of her dress like a stricken masquerader; and the young man stood by the fireplace and continued to gaze at her without moving. "Good God," he groaned. "When I thought--" "You thought?" "Ah, don't ask me what I thought!"<\|quote\|>Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.</\|quote\|>"I do ask you." "Well, then: there were things in that letter you asked me to read--" "My husband's letter?" "Yes." "I had nothing to fear from that letter: absolutely nothing! All I feared was to bring notoriety, scandal, on the family--on you and May." "Good God," he groaned again, bowing his face in his hands. The silence that followed lay on them with the weight of things final and irrevocable. It seemed to Archer to be crushing him down like his own grave-stone; in all the wide future he saw nothing that would ever lift that load from his heart. He did not move from his place, or raise his head from his hands; his hidden eyeballs went on staring into utter darkness. "At least I loved you--" he brought out. On the other side of the hearth, from the sofa-corner where he supposed that she still crouched, he heard a faint stifled crying like a child's. He started up and came to her side. "Ellen! What madness! Why are you crying? Nothing's done that can't be undone. I'm still free, and you're going to be." He had her in his arms, her face like a wet flower at his lips, and all their vain terrors shrivelling up like ghosts at sunrise. The one thing that astonished him now was that he should have stood for five minutes arguing with her across the width of the room, when just touching her made everything so simple. She gave him back all his kiss, but after a moment he felt her stiffening in his arms, and she put him aside and stood up. "Ah, my poor Newland--I suppose this had to be. But it doesn't in the least alter things," she said, looking down at him in her turn from the hearth. "It alters the whole of life for me." "No, no--it mustn't, it can't. You're engaged to May Welland; and I'm married." He stood up too, flushed and resolute. "Nonsense! It's too late for that sort of thing. We've no right to lie to other people or to ourselves. We won't talk of your marriage; but do you see me marrying May after this?" She stood silent, resting her thin elbows on the mantelpiece, her profile reflected in the glass behind her. One of the locks of her chignon had become loosened and hung on her neck; she looked haggard	all, she had perhaps purposely deflected the conversation from her own affairs, and after the pain his last words had evidently caused her he felt that all he could do was to follow her lead. But the sense of the waning hour made him desperate: he could not bear the thought that a barrier of words should drop between them again. "Yes," he said abruptly; "I went south to ask May to marry me after Easter. There's no reason why we shouldn't be married then." "And May adores you--and yet you couldn't convince her? I thought her too intelligent to be the slave of such absurd superstitions." "She IS too intelligent--she's not their slave." Madame Olenska looked at him. "Well, then--I don't understand." Archer reddened, and hurried on with a rush. "We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign." "Merciful heavens--a bad sign?" "She thinks it means that I can't trust myself to go on caring for her. She thinks, in short, I want to marry her at once to get away from some one that I--care for more." Madame Olenska examined this curiously. "But if she thinks that--why isn't she in a hurry too?" "Because she's not like that: she's so much nobler. She insists all the more on the long engagement, to give me time--" "Time to give her up for the other woman?" "If I want to." Madame Olenska leaned toward the fire and gazed into it with fixed eyes. Down the quiet street Archer heard the approaching trot of her horses. "That IS noble," she said, with a slight break in her voice. "Yes. But it's ridiculous." "Ridiculous? Because you don't care for any one else?" "Because I don't mean to marry any one else." "Ah." There was another long interval. At length she looked up at him and asked: "This other woman--does she love you?" "Oh, there's no other woman; I mean, the person that May was thinking of is--was never--" "Then, why, after all, are you in such haste?" "There's your carriage," said Archer. She half-rose and looked about her with absent eyes. Her fan and gloves lay on the sofa beside her and she picked them up mechanically. "Yes; I suppose I must be going." "You're going to Mrs. Struthers's?" "Yes." She smiled and added: "I must go where I am invited, or I should be too lonely. Why not come with me?" Archer felt that at any cost he must keep her beside him, must make her give him the rest of her evening. Ignoring her question, he continued to lean against the chimney-piece, his eyes fixed on the hand in which she held her gloves and fan, as if watching to see if he had the power to make her drop them. "May guessed the truth," he said. "There is another woman--but not the one she thinks." Ellen Olenska made no answer, and did not move. After a moment he sat down beside her, and, taking her hand, softly unclasped it, so that the gloves and fan fell on the sofa between them. She started up, and freeing herself from him moved away to the other side of the hearth. "Ah, don't make love to me! Too many people have done that," she said, frowning. Archer, changing colour, stood up also: it was the bitterest rebuke she could have given him. "I have never made love to you," he said, "and I never shall. But you are the woman I would have married if it had been possible for either of us." "Possible for either of us?" She looked at him with unfeigned astonishment. "And you say that--when it's you who've made it impossible?" He stared at her, groping in a blackness through which a single arrow of light tore its blinding way. "I'VE made it impossible--?" "You, you, YOU!" she cried, her lip trembling like a child's on the verge of tears. "Isn't it you who made me give up divorcing--give it up because you showed me how selfish and wicked it was, how one must sacrifice one's self to preserve the dignity of marriage ... and to spare one's family the publicity, the scandal? And because my family was going to be your family--for May's sake and for yours--I did what you told me, what you proved to me that I ought to do. Ah," she broke out with a sudden laugh, "I've made no secret of having done it for you!" She sank down on the sofa again, crouching among the festive ripples of her dress like a stricken masquerader; and the young man stood by the fireplace and continued to gaze at her without moving. "Good God," he groaned. "When I thought--" "You thought?" "Ah, don't ask me what I thought!"<\|quote\|>Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.</\|quote\|>"I do ask you." "Well, then: there were things in that letter you asked me to read--" "My husband's letter?" "Yes." "I had nothing to fear from that letter: absolutely nothing! All I feared was to bring notoriety, scandal, on the family--on you and May." "Good God," he groaned again, bowing his face in his hands. The silence that followed lay on them with the weight of things final and irrevocable. It seemed to Archer to be crushing him down like his own grave-stone; in all the wide future he saw nothing that would ever lift that load from his heart. He did not move from his place, or raise his head from his hands; his hidden eyeballs went on staring into utter darkness. "At least I loved you--" he brought out. On the other side of the hearth, from the sofa-corner where he supposed that she still crouched, he heard a faint stifled crying like a child's. He started up and came to her side. "Ellen! What madness! Why are you crying? Nothing's done that can't be undone. I'm still free, and you're going to be." He had her in his arms, her face like a wet flower at his lips, and all their vain terrors shrivelling up like ghosts at sunrise. The one thing that astonished him now was that he should have stood for five minutes arguing with her across the width of the room, when just touching her made everything so simple. She gave him back all his kiss, but after a moment he felt her stiffening in his arms, and she put him aside and stood up. "Ah, my poor Newland--I suppose this had to be. But it doesn't in the least alter things," she said, looking down at him in her turn from the hearth. "It alters the whole of life for me." "No, no--it mustn't, it can't. You're engaged to May Welland; and I'm married." He stood up too, flushed and resolute. "Nonsense! It's too late for that sort of thing. We've no right to lie to other people or to ourselves. We won't talk of your marriage; but do you see me marrying May after this?" She stood silent, resting her thin elbows on the mantelpiece, her profile reflected in the glass behind her. One of the locks of her chignon had become loosened and hung on her neck; she looked haggard and almost old. "I don't see you," she said at length, "putting that question to May. Do you?" He gave a reckless shrug. "It's too late to do anything else." "You say that because it's the easiest thing to say at this moment--not because it's true. In reality it's too late to do anything but what we'd both decided on." "Ah, I don't understand you!" She forced a pitiful smile that pinched her face instead of smoothing it. "You don't understand because you haven't yet guessed how you've changed things for me: oh, from the first--long before I knew all you'd done." "All I'd done?" "Yes. I was perfectly unconscious at first that people here were shy of me--that they thought I was a dreadful sort of person. It seems they had even refused to meet me at dinner. I found that out afterward; and how you'd made your mother go with you to the van der Luydens'; and how you'd insisted on announcing your engagement at the Beaufort ball, so that I might have two families to stand by me instead of one--" At that he broke into a laugh. "Just imagine," she said, "how stupid and unobservant I was! I knew nothing of all this till Granny blurted it out one day. New York simply meant peace and freedom to me: it was coming home. And I was so happy at being among my own people that every one I met seemed kind and good, and glad to see me. But from the very beginning," she continued, "I felt there was no one as kind as you; no one who gave me reasons that I understood for doing what at first seemed so hard and--unnecessary. The very good people didn't convince me; I felt they'd never been tempted. But you knew; you understood; you had felt the world outside tugging at one with all its golden hands--and yet you hated the things it asks of one; you hated happiness bought by disloyalty and cruelty and indifference. That was what I'd never known before--and it's better than anything I've known." She spoke in a low even voice, without tears or visible agitation; and each word, as it dropped from her, fell into his breast like burning lead. He sat bowed over, his head between his hands, staring at the hearthrug, and at the tip of the satin shoe that	fan fell on the sofa between them. She started up, and freeing herself from him moved away to the other side of the hearth. "Ah, don't make love to me! Too many people have done that," she said, frowning. Archer, changing colour, stood up also: it was the bitterest rebuke she could have given him. "I have never made love to you," he said, "and I never shall. But you are the woman I would have married if it had been possible for either of us." "Possible for either of us?" She looked at him with unfeigned astonishment. "And you say that--when it's you who've made it impossible?" He stared at her, groping in a blackness through which a single arrow of light tore its blinding way. "I'VE made it impossible--?" "You, you, YOU!" she cried, her lip trembling like a child's on the verge of tears. "Isn't it you who made me give up divorcing--give it up because you showed me how selfish and wicked it was, how one must sacrifice one's self to preserve the dignity of marriage ... and to spare one's family the publicity, the scandal? And because my family was going to be your family--for May's sake and for yours--I did what you told me, what you proved to me that I ought to do. Ah," she broke out with a sudden laugh, "I've made no secret of having done it for you!" She sank down on the sofa again, crouching among the festive ripples of her dress like a stricken masquerader; and the young man stood by the fireplace and continued to gaze at her without moving. "Good God," he groaned. "When I thought--" "You thought?" "Ah, don't ask me what I thought!"<\|quote\|>Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.</\|quote\|>"I do ask you." "Well, then: there were things in that letter you asked me to read--" "My husband's letter?" "Yes." "I had nothing to fear from that letter: absolutely nothing! All I feared was to bring notoriety, scandal, on the family--on you and May." "Good God," he groaned again, bowing his face in his hands. The silence that followed lay on them with the weight of things final and irrevocable. It seemed to Archer to be crushing him down like his own grave-stone; in all the wide future he saw nothing that would ever lift that load from his heart. He did not move from his place, or raise his head from his hands; his hidden eyeballs went on staring into utter darkness. "At least I loved you--" he brought out. On the other side of the hearth, from the sofa-corner where he supposed that she still crouched, he heard a faint stifled crying like a child's. He started up and came to her side. "Ellen! What madness! Why are you crying? Nothing's done that can't be undone. I'm still free, and you're going to be." He had her in his arms, her face like a wet flower at his lips, and all their vain terrors shrivelling up like ghosts at sunrise. The one thing that astonished him now was that he should have stood for five minutes arguing with her across the width of the room, when just touching her made everything so simple. She gave him back all his kiss, but after a moment he felt her stiffening in his arms, and she put him aside and stood up. "Ah, my poor Newland--I suppose this had to be. But it doesn't in the least alter things," she said, looking down at him in her turn from the hearth. "It alters the whole of life for me." "No, no--it mustn't, it can't. You're engaged to May Welland; and I'm married." He stood up too, flushed and resolute. "Nonsense! It's too late for that sort of thing. We've no right to lie to other people or to ourselves. We won't talk of your marriage; but do you see me marrying May after this?" She stood silent, resting her thin elbows on the mantelpiece, her profile reflected in the glass behind her. One of the locks of her chignon had become loosened and hung on her neck; she looked haggard and almost old. "I don't see you," she said at length, "putting that question to May. Do you?" He gave a reckless shrug. "It's too late to do anything else." "You say that because it's the easiest thing to say at this moment--not because it's true. In reality it's too late to do anything but what we'd both decided on." "Ah, I don't understand you!" She forced a pitiful smile that pinched her face instead of smoothing it. "You don't understand because you haven't yet guessed how you've changed things for me: oh, from the first--long before I knew all you'd done." "All I'd done?" "Yes. I was perfectly unconscious at first that people here were shy of me--that they thought I was a dreadful sort of person. It seems they had even refused to meet me at dinner. I found that out afterward; and how you'd made your mother go with you to the	The Age Of Innocence
"You see"	Katharine Hilbery	worth doing nowadays," she remarked.<\|quote\|>"You see"</\|quote\|>she tapped the volume of	"Nobody ever does do anything worth doing nowadays," she remarked.<\|quote\|>"You see"</\|quote\|>she tapped the volume of her grandfather s poems "we	himself, but at the same time she wished to annoy him, to waft him away from her on some light current of ridicule or satire, as she was wont to do with these intermittent young men of her father s. "Nobody ever does do anything worth doing nowadays," she remarked.<\|quote\|>"You see"</\|quote\|>she tapped the volume of her grandfather s poems "we don t even print as well as they did, and as for poets or painters or novelists there are none; so, at any rate, I m not singular." "No, we haven t any great men," Denham replied. "I m very	you do anything yourself?" he demanded. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I don t leave the house at ten and come back at six." "I don t mean that." Mr. Denham had recovered his self-control; he spoke with a quietness which made Katharine rather anxious that he should explain himself, but at the same time she wished to annoy him, to waft him away from her on some light current of ridicule or satire, as she was wont to do with these intermittent young men of her father s. "Nobody ever does do anything worth doing nowadays," she remarked.<\|quote\|>"You see"</\|quote\|>she tapped the volume of her grandfather s poems "we don t even print as well as they did, and as for poets or painters or novelists there are none; so, at any rate, I m not singular." "No, we haven t any great men," Denham replied. "I m very glad that we haven t. I hate great men. The worship of greatness in the nineteenth century seems to me to explain the worthlessness of that generation." Katharine opened her lips and drew in her breath, as if to reply with equal vigor, when the shutting of a door in	a little stiffly, "but I suppose you have to show people round. You are writing a life of your grandfather, aren t you? And this kind of thing" he nodded towards the other room, where they could hear bursts of cultivated laughter "must take up a lot of time." She looked at him expectantly, as if between them they were decorating a small figure of herself, and she saw him hesitating in the disposition of some bow or sash. "You ve got it very nearly right," she said, "but I only help my mother. I don t write myself." "Do you do anything yourself?" he demanded. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I don t leave the house at ten and come back at six." "I don t mean that." Mr. Denham had recovered his self-control; he spoke with a quietness which made Katharine rather anxious that he should explain himself, but at the same time she wished to annoy him, to waft him away from her on some light current of ridicule or satire, as she was wont to do with these intermittent young men of her father s. "Nobody ever does do anything worth doing nowadays," she remarked.<\|quote\|>"You see"</\|quote\|>she tapped the volume of her grandfather s poems "we don t even print as well as they did, and as for poets or painters or novelists there are none; so, at any rate, I m not singular." "No, we haven t any great men," Denham replied. "I m very glad that we haven t. I hate great men. The worship of greatness in the nineteenth century seems to me to explain the worthlessness of that generation." Katharine opened her lips and drew in her breath, as if to reply with equal vigor, when the shutting of a door in the next room withdrew her attention, and they both became conscious that the voices, which had been rising and falling round the tea-table, had fallen silent; the light, even, seemed to have sunk lower. A moment later Mrs. Hilbery appeared in the doorway of the ante-room. She stood looking at them with a smile of expectancy on her face, as if a scene from the drama of the younger generation were being played for her benefit. She was a remarkable-looking woman, well advanced in the sixties, but owing to the lightness of her frame and the brightness of her eyes	he replied, as if he were saying what he thought as accurately as he could. "No, but one never would like to be any one else." "I should. I should like to be lots of other people." "Then why not us?" Katharine asked. Denham looked at her as she sat in her grandfather s arm-chair, drawing her great-uncle s malacca cane smoothly through her fingers, while her background was made up equally of lustrous blue-and-white paint, and crimson books with gilt lines on them. The vitality and composure of her attitude, as of a bright-plumed bird poised easily before further flights, roused him to show her the limitations of her lot. So soon, so easily, would he be forgotten. "You ll never know anything at first hand," he began, almost savagely. "It s all been done for you. You ll never know the pleasure of buying things after saving up for them, or reading books for the first time, or making discoveries." "Go on," Katharine observed, as he paused, suddenly doubtful, when he heard his voice proclaiming aloud these facts, whether there was any truth in them. "Of course, I don t know how you spend your time," he continued, a little stiffly, "but I suppose you have to show people round. You are writing a life of your grandfather, aren t you? And this kind of thing" he nodded towards the other room, where they could hear bursts of cultivated laughter "must take up a lot of time." She looked at him expectantly, as if between them they were decorating a small figure of herself, and she saw him hesitating in the disposition of some bow or sash. "You ve got it very nearly right," she said, "but I only help my mother. I don t write myself." "Do you do anything yourself?" he demanded. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I don t leave the house at ten and come back at six." "I don t mean that." Mr. Denham had recovered his self-control; he spoke with a quietness which made Katharine rather anxious that he should explain himself, but at the same time she wished to annoy him, to waft him away from her on some light current of ridicule or satire, as she was wont to do with these intermittent young men of her father s. "Nobody ever does do anything worth doing nowadays," she remarked.<\|quote\|>"You see"</\|quote\|>she tapped the volume of her grandfather s poems "we don t even print as well as they did, and as for poets or painters or novelists there are none; so, at any rate, I m not singular." "No, we haven t any great men," Denham replied. "I m very glad that we haven t. I hate great men. The worship of greatness in the nineteenth century seems to me to explain the worthlessness of that generation." Katharine opened her lips and drew in her breath, as if to reply with equal vigor, when the shutting of a door in the next room withdrew her attention, and they both became conscious that the voices, which had been rising and falling round the tea-table, had fallen silent; the light, even, seemed to have sunk lower. A moment later Mrs. Hilbery appeared in the doorway of the ante-room. She stood looking at them with a smile of expectancy on her face, as if a scene from the drama of the younger generation were being played for her benefit. She was a remarkable-looking woman, well advanced in the sixties, but owing to the lightness of her frame and the brightness of her eyes she seemed to have been wafted over the surface of the years without taking much harm in the passage. Her face was shrunken and aquiline, but any hint of sharpness was dispelled by the large blue eyes, at once sagacious and innocent, which seemed to regard the world with an enormous desire that it should behave itself nobly, and an entire confidence that it could do so, if it would only take the pains. Certain lines on the broad forehead and about the lips might be taken to suggest that she had known moments of some difficulty and perplexity in the course of her career, but these had not destroyed her trustfulness, and she was clearly still prepared to give every one any number of fresh chances and the whole system the benefit of the doubt. She wore a great resemblance to her father, and suggested, as he did, the fresh airs and open spaces of a younger world. "Well," she said, "how do you like our things, Mr. Denham?" Mr. Denham rose, put his book down, opened his mouth, but said nothing, as Katharine observed, with some amusement. Mrs. Hilbery handled the book he had laid down. "There are	peculiarly provoking way. He was amused and gratified to find that he had the power to annoy his oblivious, supercilious hostess, if he could not impress her; though he would have preferred to impress her. He sat silent, holding the precious little book of poems unopened in his hands, and Katharine watched him, the melancholy or contemplative expression deepening in her eyes as her annoyance faded. She appeared to be considering many things. She had forgotten her duties. "Well," said Denham again, suddenly opening the little book of poems, as though he had said all that he meant to say or could, with propriety, say. He turned over the pages with great decision, as if he were judging the book in its entirety, the printing and paper and binding, as well as the poetry, and then, having satisfied himself of its good or bad quality, he placed it on the writing-table, and examined the malacca cane with the gold knob which had belonged to the soldier. "But aren t you proud of your family?" Katharine demanded. "No," said Denham. "We ve never done anything to be proud of unless you count paying one s bills a matter for pride." "That sounds rather dull," Katharine remarked. "You would think us horribly dull," Denham agreed. "Yes, I might find you dull, but I don t think I should find you ridiculous," Katharine added, as if Denham had actually brought that charge against her family. "No because we re not in the least ridiculous. We re a respectable middle-class family, living at Highgate." "We don t live at Highgate, but we re middle class too, I suppose." Denham merely smiled, and replacing the malacca cane on the rack, he drew a sword from its ornamental sheath. "That belonged to Clive, so we say," said Katharine, taking up her duties as hostess again automatically. "Is it a lie?" Denham inquired. "It s a family tradition. I don t know that we can prove it." "You see, we don t have traditions in our family," said Denham. "You sound very dull," Katharine remarked, for the second time. "Merely middle class," Denham replied. "You pay your bills, and you speak the truth. I don t see why you should despise us." Mr. Denham carefully sheathed the sword which the Hilberys said belonged to Clive. "I shouldn t like to be you; that s all I said," he replied, as if he were saying what he thought as accurately as he could. "No, but one never would like to be any one else." "I should. I should like to be lots of other people." "Then why not us?" Katharine asked. Denham looked at her as she sat in her grandfather s arm-chair, drawing her great-uncle s malacca cane smoothly through her fingers, while her background was made up equally of lustrous blue-and-white paint, and crimson books with gilt lines on them. The vitality and composure of her attitude, as of a bright-plumed bird poised easily before further flights, roused him to show her the limitations of her lot. So soon, so easily, would he be forgotten. "You ll never know anything at first hand," he began, almost savagely. "It s all been done for you. You ll never know the pleasure of buying things after saving up for them, or reading books for the first time, or making discoveries." "Go on," Katharine observed, as he paused, suddenly doubtful, when he heard his voice proclaiming aloud these facts, whether there was any truth in them. "Of course, I don t know how you spend your time," he continued, a little stiffly, "but I suppose you have to show people round. You are writing a life of your grandfather, aren t you? And this kind of thing" he nodded towards the other room, where they could hear bursts of cultivated laughter "must take up a lot of time." She looked at him expectantly, as if between them they were decorating a small figure of herself, and she saw him hesitating in the disposition of some bow or sash. "You ve got it very nearly right," she said, "but I only help my mother. I don t write myself." "Do you do anything yourself?" he demanded. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I don t leave the house at ten and come back at six." "I don t mean that." Mr. Denham had recovered his self-control; he spoke with a quietness which made Katharine rather anxious that he should explain himself, but at the same time she wished to annoy him, to waft him away from her on some light current of ridicule or satire, as she was wont to do with these intermittent young men of her father s. "Nobody ever does do anything worth doing nowadays," she remarked.<\|quote\|>"You see"</\|quote\|>she tapped the volume of her grandfather s poems "we don t even print as well as they did, and as for poets or painters or novelists there are none; so, at any rate, I m not singular." "No, we haven t any great men," Denham replied. "I m very glad that we haven t. I hate great men. The worship of greatness in the nineteenth century seems to me to explain the worthlessness of that generation." Katharine opened her lips and drew in her breath, as if to reply with equal vigor, when the shutting of a door in the next room withdrew her attention, and they both became conscious that the voices, which had been rising and falling round the tea-table, had fallen silent; the light, even, seemed to have sunk lower. A moment later Mrs. Hilbery appeared in the doorway of the ante-room. She stood looking at them with a smile of expectancy on her face, as if a scene from the drama of the younger generation were being played for her benefit. She was a remarkable-looking woman, well advanced in the sixties, but owing to the lightness of her frame and the brightness of her eyes she seemed to have been wafted over the surface of the years without taking much harm in the passage. Her face was shrunken and aquiline, but any hint of sharpness was dispelled by the large blue eyes, at once sagacious and innocent, which seemed to regard the world with an enormous desire that it should behave itself nobly, and an entire confidence that it could do so, if it would only take the pains. Certain lines on the broad forehead and about the lips might be taken to suggest that she had known moments of some difficulty and perplexity in the course of her career, but these had not destroyed her trustfulness, and she was clearly still prepared to give every one any number of fresh chances and the whole system the benefit of the doubt. She wore a great resemblance to her father, and suggested, as he did, the fresh airs and open spaces of a younger world. "Well," she said, "how do you like our things, Mr. Denham?" Mr. Denham rose, put his book down, opened his mouth, but said nothing, as Katharine observed, with some amusement. Mrs. Hilbery handled the book he had laid down. "There are some books that _live_," she mused. "They are young with us, and they grow old with us. Are you fond of poetry, Mr. Denham? But what an absurd question to ask! The truth is, dear Mr. Fortescue has almost tired me out. He is so eloquent and so witty, so searching and so profound that, after half an hour or so, I feel inclined to turn out all the lights. But perhaps he d be more wonderful than ever in the dark. What d you think, Katharine? Shall we give a little party in complete darkness? There d have to be bright rooms for the bores...." Here Mr. Denham held out his hand. "But we ve any number of things to show you!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed, taking no notice of it. "Books, pictures, china, manuscripts, and the very chair that Mary Queen of Scots sat in when she heard of Darnley s murder. I must lie down for a little, and Katharine must change her dress (though she s wearing a very pretty one), but if you don t mind being left alone, supper will be at eight. I dare say you ll write a poem of your own while you re waiting. Ah, how I love the firelight! Doesn t our room look charming?" She stepped back and bade them contemplate the empty drawing-room, with its rich, irregular lights, as the flames leapt and wavered. "Dear things!" she exclaimed. "Dear chairs and tables! How like old friends they are faithful, silent friends. Which reminds me, Katharine, little Mr. Anning is coming to-night, and Tite Street, and Cadogan Square.... Do remember to get that drawing of your great-uncle glazed. Aunt Millicent remarked it last time she was here, and I know how it would hurt me to see _my_ father in a broken glass." It was like tearing through a maze of diamond-glittering spiders webs to say good-bye and escape, for at each movement Mrs. Hilbery remembered something further about the villainies of picture-framers or the delights of poetry, and at one time it seemed to the young man that he would be hypnotized into doing what she pretended to want him to do, for he could not suppose that she attached any value whatever to his presence. Katharine, however, made an opportunity for him to leave, and for that he was grateful to her, as one young person is	s all I said," he replied, as if he were saying what he thought as accurately as he could. "No, but one never would like to be any one else." "I should. I should like to be lots of other people." "Then why not us?" Katharine asked. Denham looked at her as she sat in her grandfather s arm-chair, drawing her great-uncle s malacca cane smoothly through her fingers, while her background was made up equally of lustrous blue-and-white paint, and crimson books with gilt lines on them. The vitality and composure of her attitude, as of a bright-plumed bird poised easily before further flights, roused him to show her the limitations of her lot. So soon, so easily, would he be forgotten. "You ll never know anything at first hand," he began, almost savagely. "It s all been done for you. You ll never know the pleasure of buying things after saving up for them, or reading books for the first time, or making discoveries." "Go on," Katharine observed, as he paused, suddenly doubtful, when he heard his voice proclaiming aloud these facts, whether there was any truth in them. "Of course, I don t know how you spend your time," he continued, a little stiffly, "but I suppose you have to show people round. You are writing a life of your grandfather, aren t you? And this kind of thing" he nodded towards the other room, where they could hear bursts of cultivated laughter "must take up a lot of time." She looked at him expectantly, as if between them they were decorating a small figure of herself, and she saw him hesitating in the disposition of some bow or sash. "You ve got it very nearly right," she said, "but I only help my mother. I don t write myself." "Do you do anything yourself?" he demanded. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I don t leave the house at ten and come back at six." "I don t mean that." Mr. Denham had recovered his self-control; he spoke with a quietness which made Katharine rather anxious that he should explain himself, but at the same time she wished to annoy him, to waft him away from her on some light current of ridicule or satire, as she was wont to do with these intermittent young men of her father s. "Nobody ever does do anything worth doing nowadays," she remarked.<\|quote\|>"You see"</\|quote\|>she tapped the volume of her grandfather s poems "we don t even print as well as they did, and as for poets or painters or novelists there are none; so, at any rate, I m not singular." "No, we haven t any great men," Denham replied. "I m very glad that we haven t. I hate great men. The worship of greatness in the nineteenth century seems to me to explain the worthlessness of that generation." Katharine opened her lips and drew in her breath, as if to reply with equal vigor, when the shutting of a door in the next room withdrew her attention, and they both became conscious that the voices, which had been rising and falling round the tea-table, had fallen silent; the light, even, seemed to have sunk lower. A moment later Mrs. Hilbery appeared in the doorway of the ante-room. She stood looking at them with a smile of expectancy on her face, as if a scene from the drama of the younger generation were being played for her benefit. She was a remarkable-looking woman, well advanced in the sixties, but owing to the lightness of her frame and the brightness of her eyes she seemed to have been wafted over the surface of the years without taking much harm in the passage. Her face was shrunken and aquiline, but any hint of sharpness was dispelled by the large blue eyes, at once sagacious and innocent, which seemed to regard the world with an enormous desire that it should behave itself nobly, and an entire confidence that it could do so, if it would only take the pains. Certain lines on the broad forehead and about the lips might be taken to suggest that she had known moments of some difficulty and perplexity in the course of her career, but these had not destroyed her trustfulness, and she was clearly still prepared to give every one any number of fresh chances and the whole system the benefit of the doubt. She wore a great resemblance to her father, and suggested, as he did, the fresh airs and open spaces of a younger world. "Well," she said, "how do you like our things, Mr. Denham?" Mr. Denham rose, put his book down, opened his mouth, but said nothing, as Katharine observed, with some amusement. Mrs. Hilbery handled the book he had laid down. "There are some books that _live_," she mused. "They are young with us, and they grow old with us. Are you fond of poetry, Mr. Denham? But what an absurd question to ask! The truth is, dear Mr. Fortescue has almost tired me out. He is so eloquent and so witty, so searching and so profound that, after half an hour or so, I feel inclined to turn out all the lights. But perhaps he d be more wonderful than ever in the dark.	Night And Day
Mrs. Braddocks put in.	No speaker	you know we've revived them?"<\|quote\|>Mrs. Braddocks put in.</\|quote\|>"You must come, Jake. We're	dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?"<\|quote\|>Mrs. Braddocks put in.</\|quote\|>"You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from	a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?"<\|quote\|>Mrs. Braddocks put in.</\|quote\|>"You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and	dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!" "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?"<\|quote\|>Mrs. Braddocks put in.</\|quote\|>"You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and had all their easy social graces. "Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went back to the small room. "Who are your friends?" Georgette asked. "Writers and artists." "There are lots of those on this side of the river." "Too many." "I think so. Still, some of them make money."	restaurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the food. "It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all right." "Better than you eat in Li ge." "Brussels, you mean." We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses. "You're not a bad type," she said. "It's a shame you're sick. We get on well. What's the matter with you, anyway?" "I got hurt in the war," I said. "Oh, that dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!" "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?"<\|quote\|>Mrs. Braddocks put in.</\|quote\|>"You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and had all their easy social graces. "Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went back to the small room. "Who are your friends?" Georgette asked. "Writers and artists." "There are lots of those on this side of the river." "Too many." "I think so. Still, some of them make money." "Oh, yes." We finished the meal and the wine. "Come on," I said. "We're going to have coffee with the others." Georgette opened her bag, made a few passes at her face as she looked in the little mirror, re-defined her lips with the lipstick, and straightened her hat. "Good," she said. We went into the room full of people and Braddocks and the men at his table stood up. "I wish to present my fianc e, Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc," I said. Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round. "Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the	kissed. She touched me with one hand and I put her hand away. "Never mind." "What's the matter? You sick?" "Yes." "Everybody's sick. I'm sick, too." We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints P res. "You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick." "You neither." "It doesn't make any difference with me. It doesn't make any difference with a woman." "What are you called?" "Georgette. How are you called?" "Jacob." "That's a Flemish name." "American too." "You're not Flamand?" "No, American." "Good, I detest Flamands." By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the _cocher_ to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. "This is no great thing of a restaurant." "No," I said. "Maybe you would rather go to Foyot's. Why don't you keep the cab and go on?" I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea that it would be nice to eat with some one. It was a long time since I had dined with a _poule_, and I had forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the restaurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the food. "It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all right." "Better than you eat in Li ge." "Brussels, you mean." We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses. "You're not a bad type," she said. "It's a shame you're sick. We get on well. What's the matter with you, anyway?" "I got hurt in the war," I said. "Oh, that dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!" "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?"<\|quote\|>Mrs. Braddocks put in.</\|quote\|>"You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and had all their easy social graces. "Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went back to the small room. "Who are your friends?" Georgette asked. "Writers and artists." "There are lots of those on this side of the river." "Too many." "I think so. Still, some of them make money." "Oh, yes." We finished the meal and the wine. "Come on," I said. "We're going to have coffee with the others." Georgette opened her bag, made a few passes at her face as she looked in the little mirror, re-defined her lips with the lipstick, and straightened her hat. "Good," she said. We went into the room full of people and Braddocks and the men at his table stood up. "I wish to present my fianc e, Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc," I said. Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round. "Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the singer?" Mrs. Braddocks asked. "Connais pas," Georgette answered. "But you have the same name," Mrs. Braddocks insisted cordially. "No," said Georgette. "Not at all. My name is Hobin." "But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc. Surely he did," insisted Mrs. Braddocks, who in the excitement of talking French was liable to have no idea what she was saying. "He's a fool," Georgette said. "Oh, it was a joke, then," Mrs. Braddocks said. "Yes," said Georgette. "To laugh at." "Did you hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called down the table to Braddocks. "Mr. Barnes introduced his fianc e as Mademoiselle Leblanc, and her name is actually Hobin." "Of course, darling. Mademoiselle Hobin, I've known her for a very long time." "Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin," Frances Clyne called, speaking French very rapidly and not seeming so proud and astonished as Mrs. Braddocks at its coming out really French. "Have you been in Paris long? Do you like it here? You love Paris, do you not?" "Who's she?" Georgette turned to me. "Do I have to talk to her?" She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed ready to start talking	was a warm spring night and I sat at a table on the terrace of the Napolitain after Robert had gone, watching it get dark and the electric signs come on, and the red and green stop-and-go traffic-signal, and the crowd going by, and the horse-cabs clippety-clopping along at the edge of the solid taxi traffic, and the _poules_ going by, singly and in pairs, looking for the evening meal. I watched a good-looking girl walk past the table and watched her go up the street and lost sight of her, and watched another, and then saw the first one coming back again. She went by once more and I caught her eye, and she came over and sat down at the table. The waiter came up. "Well, what will you drink?" I asked. "Pernod." "That's not good for little girls." "Little girl yourself. Dites gar on, un pernod." "A pernod for me, too." "What's the matter?" she asked. "Going on a party?" "Sure. Aren't you?" "I don't know. You never know in this town." "Don't you like Paris?" "No." "Why don't you go somewhere else?" "Isn't anywhere else." "You're happy, all right." "Happy, hell!" Pernod is greenish imitation absinthe. When you add water it turns milky. It tastes like licorice and it has a good uplift, but it drops you just as far. We sat and drank it, and the girl looked sullen. "Well," I said, "are you going to buy me a dinner?" She grinned and I saw why she made a point of not laughing. With her mouth closed she was a rather pretty girl. I paid for the saucers and we walked out to the street. I hailed a horse-cab and the driver pulled up at the curb. Settled back in the slow, smoothly rolling _fiacre_ we moved up the Avenue de l'Op ra, passed the locked doors of the shops, their windows lighted, the Avenue broad and shiny and almost deserted. The cab passed the New York _Herald_ bureau with the window full of clocks. "What are all the clocks for?" she asked. "They show the hour all over America." "Don't kid me." We turned off the Avenue up the Rue des Pyramides, through the traffic of the Rue de Rivoli, and through a dark gate into the Tuileries. She cuddled against me and I put my arm around her. She looked up to be kissed. She touched me with one hand and I put her hand away. "Never mind." "What's the matter? You sick?" "Yes." "Everybody's sick. I'm sick, too." We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints P res. "You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick." "You neither." "It doesn't make any difference with me. It doesn't make any difference with a woman." "What are you called?" "Georgette. How are you called?" "Jacob." "That's a Flemish name." "American too." "You're not Flamand?" "No, American." "Good, I detest Flamands." By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the _cocher_ to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. "This is no great thing of a restaurant." "No," I said. "Maybe you would rather go to Foyot's. Why don't you keep the cab and go on?" I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea that it would be nice to eat with some one. It was a long time since I had dined with a _poule_, and I had forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the restaurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the food. "It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all right." "Better than you eat in Li ge." "Brussels, you mean." We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses. "You're not a bad type," she said. "It's a shame you're sick. We get on well. What's the matter with you, anyway?" "I got hurt in the war," I said. "Oh, that dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!" "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?"<\|quote\|>Mrs. Braddocks put in.</\|quote\|>"You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and had all their easy social graces. "Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went back to the small room. "Who are your friends?" Georgette asked. "Writers and artists." "There are lots of those on this side of the river." "Too many." "I think so. Still, some of them make money." "Oh, yes." We finished the meal and the wine. "Come on," I said. "We're going to have coffee with the others." Georgette opened her bag, made a few passes at her face as she looked in the little mirror, re-defined her lips with the lipstick, and straightened her hat. "Good," she said. We went into the room full of people and Braddocks and the men at his table stood up. "I wish to present my fianc e, Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc," I said. Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round. "Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the singer?" Mrs. Braddocks asked. "Connais pas," Georgette answered. "But you have the same name," Mrs. Braddocks insisted cordially. "No," said Georgette. "Not at all. My name is Hobin." "But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc. Surely he did," insisted Mrs. Braddocks, who in the excitement of talking French was liable to have no idea what she was saying. "He's a fool," Georgette said. "Oh, it was a joke, then," Mrs. Braddocks said. "Yes," said Georgette. "To laugh at." "Did you hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called down the table to Braddocks. "Mr. Barnes introduced his fianc e as Mademoiselle Leblanc, and her name is actually Hobin." "Of course, darling. Mademoiselle Hobin, I've known her for a very long time." "Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin," Frances Clyne called, speaking French very rapidly and not seeming so proud and astonished as Mrs. Braddocks at its coming out really French. "Have you been in Paris long? Do you like it here? You love Paris, do you not?" "Who's she?" Georgette turned to me. "Do I have to talk to her?" She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed ready to start talking again. "No, I don't like Paris. It's expensive and dirty." "Really? I find it so extraordinarily clean. One of the cleanest cities in all Europe." "I find it dirty." "How strange! But perhaps you have not been here very long." "I've been here long enough." "But it does have nice people in it. One must grant that." Georgette turned to me. "You have nice friends." Frances was a little drunk and would have liked to have kept it up but the coffee came, and Lavigne with the liqueurs, and after that we all went out and started for Braddocks's dancing-club. The dancing-club was a _bal musette_ in the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevi ve. Five nights a week the working people of the Pantheon quarter danced there. One night a week it was the dancing-club. On Monday nights it was closed. When we arrived it was quite empty, except for a policeman sitting near the door, the wife of the proprietor back of the zinc bar, and the proprietor himself. The daughter of the house came downstairs as we went in. There were long benches, and tables ran across the room, and at the far end a dancing-floor. "I wish people would come earlier," Braddocks said. The daughter came up and wanted to know what we would drink. The proprietor got up on a high stool beside the dancing-floor and began to play the accordion. He had a string of bells around one of his ankles and beat time with his foot as he played. Every one danced. It was hot and we came off the floor perspiring. "My God," Georgette said. "What a box to sweat in!" "It's hot." "Hot, my God!" "Take off your hat." "That's a good idea." Some one asked Georgette to dance, and I went over to the bar. It was really very hot and the accordion music was pleasant in the hot night. I drank a beer, standing in the doorway and getting the cool breath of wind from the street. Two taxis were coming down the steep street. They both stopped in front of the Bal. A crowd of young men, some in jerseys and some in their shirt-sleeves, got out. I could see their hands and newly washed, wavy hair in the light from the door. The policeman standing by the door looked at me and smiled. They came in. As	and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints P res. "You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick." "You neither." "It doesn't make any difference with me. It doesn't make any difference with a woman." "What are you called?" "Georgette. How are you called?" "Jacob." "That's a Flemish name." "American too." "You're not Flamand?" "No, American." "Good, I detest Flamands." By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the _cocher_ to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. "This is no great thing of a restaurant." "No," I said. "Maybe you would rather go to Foyot's. Why don't you keep the cab and go on?" I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea that it would be nice to eat with some one. It was a long time since I had dined with a _poule_, and I had forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the restaurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the food. "It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all right." "Better than you eat in Li ge." "Brussels, you mean." We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses. "You're not a bad type," she said. "It's a shame you're sick. We get on well. What's the matter with you, anyway?" "I got hurt in the war," I said. "Oh, that dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!" "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?"<\|quote\|>Mrs. Braddocks put in.</\|quote\|>"You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and had all their easy social graces. "Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went back to the small room. "Who are your friends?" Georgette asked. "Writers and artists." "There are lots of those on this side of the river." "Too many." "I think so. Still, some of them make money." "Oh, yes." We finished the meal and the wine. "Come on," I said. "We're going to have coffee with the others." Georgette opened her bag, made a few passes at her face as she looked in the little mirror, re-defined her lips with the lipstick, and straightened her hat. "Good," she said. We went into the room full of people and Braddocks and the men at his table stood up. "I wish to present my fianc e, Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc," I said. Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round. "Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the singer?" Mrs. Braddocks asked. "Connais pas," Georgette answered. "But you have the same name," Mrs. Braddocks insisted cordially. "No," said Georgette. "Not at all. My name is Hobin." "But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc. Surely he did," insisted Mrs. Braddocks, who in the excitement of talking French was liable to have no idea what she was saying. "He's a fool," Georgette said. "Oh, it was a joke, then," Mrs. Braddocks said. "Yes," said Georgette. "To laugh at." "Did you hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called down the table to Braddocks. "Mr. Barnes introduced his fianc e as Mademoiselle Leblanc, and her name is actually Hobin." "Of course, darling. Mademoiselle Hobin, I've known her for a very long time." "Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin," Frances Clyne called, speaking French very rapidly and not seeming so proud and astonished as Mrs. Braddocks at its coming out really French. "Have you been in Paris long? Do you like it here? You love Paris, do you not?" "Who's she?" Georgette turned to me. "Do I have to talk to her?" She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed ready to start talking again. "No, I don't like Paris. It's expensive and dirty." "Really? I find it so extraordinarily clean. One of the cleanest cities in all Europe." "I find it dirty." "How strange! But perhaps you have not been here very long." "I've been here long enough." "But it does have nice people in it. One must grant that." Georgette turned to me. "You have nice friends." Frances was a little drunk and would have liked to have kept it up but the coffee came, and Lavigne with the liqueurs, and after that we all went out and started for Braddocks's dancing-club. The dancing-club was a _bal musette_ in the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevi ve. Five nights a week the working people of the Pantheon quarter danced there. One night a week it was the dancing-club. On Monday nights it was closed. When we arrived it was quite	The Sun Also Rises
"Light him down,"	Bill Sikes	him down the dark stairs.<\|quote\|>"Light him down,"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, who was filling	asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.<\|quote\|>"Light him down,"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. "It's a pity	in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.<\|quote\|>"Light him down,"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. "It's a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light." Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the	swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed her head; and, after a little time, burst out laughing. "Why, now she's on the other tack!" exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of excessive surprise on his companion. Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.<\|quote\|>"Light him down,"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. "It's a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light." Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the girl, said, in a whisper. "What is it, Nancy, dear?" "What do you mean?" replied the girl, in the same tone. "The reason of all this," replied Fagin. "If _he_" he pointed with his skinny fore-finger up the stairs "is so hard with you (he's a brute, Nance, a brute-beast),	nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment. "She was hanging about me all day, and night too, when I was stretched on my back; and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself aloof," said Sikes. "We was poor too, all the time, and I think, one way or other, it's worried and fretted her; and that being shut up here so long has made her restless eh?" "That's it, my dear," replied the Jew in a whisper. "Hush!" As he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her former seat. Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed her head; and, after a little time, burst out laughing. "Why, now she's on the other tack!" exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of excessive surprise on his companion. Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.<\|quote\|>"Light him down,"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. "It's a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light." Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the girl, said, in a whisper. "What is it, Nancy, dear?" "What do you mean?" replied the girl, in the same tone. "The reason of all this," replied Fagin. "If _he_" he pointed with his skinny fore-finger up the stairs "is so hard with you (he's a brute, Nance, a brute-beast), why don't you" "Well?" said the girl, as Fagin paused, with his mouth almost touching her ear, and his eyes looking into hers. "No matter just now. We'll talk of this again. You have a friend in me, Nance; a staunch friend. I have the means at hand, quiet and close. If you want revenge on those that treat you like a dog like a dog! worse than his dog, for he humours him sometimes come to me. I say, come to me. He is the mere hound of a day, but you know me of old, Nance." "I know	chair, held her down by force. She struggled and implored by turns until twelve o'clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the point any further. With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make no more efforts to go out that night, Sikes left her to recover at leisure and rejoined Fagin. "Whew!" said the housebreaker wiping the perspiration from his face. "Wot a precious strange gal that is!" "You may say that, Bill," replied Fagin thoughtfully. "You may say that." "Wot did she take it into her head to go out to-night for, do you think?" asked Sikes. "Come; you should know her better than me. Wot does it mean?" "Obstinacy; woman's obstinacy, I suppose, my dear." "Well, I suppose it is," growled Sikes. "I thought I had tamed her, but she's as bad as ever." "Worse," said Fagin thoughtfully. "I never knew her like this, for such a little cause." "Nor I," said Sikes. "I think she's got a touch of that fever in her blood yet, and it won't come out eh?" "Like enough." "I'll let her a little blood, without troubling the doctor, if she's took that way again," said Sikes. Fagin nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment. "She was hanging about me all day, and night too, when I was stretched on my back; and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself aloof," said Sikes. "We was poor too, all the time, and I think, one way or other, it's worried and fretted her; and that being shut up here so long has made her restless eh?" "That's it, my dear," replied the Jew in a whisper. "Hush!" As he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her former seat. Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed her head; and, after a little time, burst out laughing. "Why, now she's on the other tack!" exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of excessive surprise on his companion. Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.<\|quote\|>"Light him down,"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. "It's a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light." Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the girl, said, in a whisper. "What is it, Nancy, dear?" "What do you mean?" replied the girl, in the same tone. "The reason of all this," replied Fagin. "If _he_" he pointed with his skinny fore-finger up the stairs "is so hard with you (he's a brute, Nance, a brute-beast), why don't you" "Well?" said the girl, as Fagin paused, with his mouth almost touching her ear, and his eyes looking into hers. "No matter just now. We'll talk of this again. You have a friend in me, Nance; a staunch friend. I have the means at hand, quiet and close. If you want revenge on those that treat you like a dog like a dog! worse than his dog, for he humours him sometimes come to me. I say, come to me. He is the mere hound of a day, but you know me of old, Nance." "I know you well," replied the girl, without manifesting the least emotion. "Good-night." She shrank back, as Fagin offered to lay his hand on hers, but said good-night again, in a steady voice, and, answering his parting look with a nod of intelligence, closed the door between them. Fagin walked towards his home, intent upon the thoughts that were working within his brain. He had conceived the idea not from what had just passed though that had tended to confirm him, but slowly and by degrees that Nancy, wearied of the housebreaker's brutality, had conceived an attachment for some new friend. Her altered manner, her repeated absences from home alone, her comparative indifference to the interests of the gang for which she had once been so zealous, and, added to these, her desperate impatience to leave home that night at a particular hour, all favoured the supposition, and rendered it, to him at least, almost matter of certainty. The object of this new liking was not among his myrmidons. He would be a valuable acquisition with such an assistant as Nancy, and must (thus Fagin argued) be secured without delay. There was another, and a darker object, to be gained. Sikes knew	of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. "Nowhere. Sit down." "I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath of air." "Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes. "There's not enough there," said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press. "There," said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?" "It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl turning very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?" "Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out of her senses, you know, or she daren't talk to me in that way." "You'll drive me on the something desperate," muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. "Let me go, will you, this minute this instant." "No!" said Sikes. "Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It'll be better for him. Do you hear me?" cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground. "Hear you!" repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her. "Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your throat as'll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over you, you jade! Wot is it?" "Let me go," said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself down on the floor, before the door, she said, "Bill, let me go; you don't know what you are doing. You don't, indeed. For only one hour do do!" "Cut my limbs off one by one!" cried Sikes, seizing her roughly by the arm, "If I don't think the gal's stark raving mad. Get up." "Not till you let me go not till you let me go Never never!" screamed the girl. Sikes looked on, for a minute, watching his opportunity, and suddenly pinioning her hands dragged her, struggling and wrestling with him by the way, into a small room adjoining, where he sat himself on a bench, and thrusting her into a chair, held her down by force. She struggled and implored by turns until twelve o'clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the point any further. With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make no more efforts to go out that night, Sikes left her to recover at leisure and rejoined Fagin. "Whew!" said the housebreaker wiping the perspiration from his face. "Wot a precious strange gal that is!" "You may say that, Bill," replied Fagin thoughtfully. "You may say that." "Wot did she take it into her head to go out to-night for, do you think?" asked Sikes. "Come; you should know her better than me. Wot does it mean?" "Obstinacy; woman's obstinacy, I suppose, my dear." "Well, I suppose it is," growled Sikes. "I thought I had tamed her, but she's as bad as ever." "Worse," said Fagin thoughtfully. "I never knew her like this, for such a little cause." "Nor I," said Sikes. "I think she's got a touch of that fever in her blood yet, and it won't come out eh?" "Like enough." "I'll let her a little blood, without troubling the doctor, if she's took that way again," said Sikes. Fagin nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment. "She was hanging about me all day, and night too, when I was stretched on my back; and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself aloof," said Sikes. "We was poor too, all the time, and I think, one way or other, it's worried and fretted her; and that being shut up here so long has made her restless eh?" "That's it, my dear," replied the Jew in a whisper. "Hush!" As he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her former seat. Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed her head; and, after a little time, burst out laughing. "Why, now she's on the other tack!" exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of excessive surprise on his companion. Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.<\|quote\|>"Light him down,"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. "It's a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light." Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the girl, said, in a whisper. "What is it, Nancy, dear?" "What do you mean?" replied the girl, in the same tone. "The reason of all this," replied Fagin. "If _he_" he pointed with his skinny fore-finger up the stairs "is so hard with you (he's a brute, Nance, a brute-beast), why don't you" "Well?" said the girl, as Fagin paused, with his mouth almost touching her ear, and his eyes looking into hers. "No matter just now. We'll talk of this again. You have a friend in me, Nance; a staunch friend. I have the means at hand, quiet and close. If you want revenge on those that treat you like a dog like a dog! worse than his dog, for he humours him sometimes come to me. I say, come to me. He is the mere hound of a day, but you know me of old, Nance." "I know you well," replied the girl, without manifesting the least emotion. "Good-night." She shrank back, as Fagin offered to lay his hand on hers, but said good-night again, in a steady voice, and, answering his parting look with a nod of intelligence, closed the door between them. Fagin walked towards his home, intent upon the thoughts that were working within his brain. He had conceived the idea not from what had just passed though that had tended to confirm him, but slowly and by degrees that Nancy, wearied of the housebreaker's brutality, had conceived an attachment for some new friend. Her altered manner, her repeated absences from home alone, her comparative indifference to the interests of the gang for which she had once been so zealous, and, added to these, her desperate impatience to leave home that night at a particular hour, all favoured the supposition, and rendered it, to him at least, almost matter of certainty. The object of this new liking was not among his myrmidons. He would be a valuable acquisition with such an assistant as Nancy, and must (thus Fagin argued) be secured without delay. There was another, and a darker object, to be gained. Sikes knew too much, and his ruffian taunts had not galled Fagin the less, because the wounds were hidden. The girl must know, well, that if she shook him off, she could never be safe from his fury, and that it would be surely wreaked to the maiming of limbs, or perhaps the loss of life on the object of her more recent fancy. "With a little persuasion," thought Fagin, "what more likely than that she would consent to poison him? Women have done such things, and worse, to secure the same object before now. There would be the dangerous villain: the man I hate: gone; another secured in his place; and my influence over the girl, with a knowledge of this crime to back it, unlimited." These things passed through the mind of Fagin, during the short time he sat alone, in the housebreaker's room; and with them uppermost in his thoughts, he had taken the opportunity afterwards afforded him, of sounding the girl in the broken hints he threw out at parting. There was no expression of surprise, no assumption of an inability to understand his meaning. The girl clearly comprehended it. Her glance at parting showed _that_. But perhaps she would recoil from a plot to take the life of Sikes, and that was one of the chief ends to be attained. "How," thought Fagin, as he crept homeward, "can I increase my influence with her? What new power can I acquire?" Such brains are fertile in expedients. If, without extracting a confession from herself, he laid a watch, discovered the object of her altered regard, and threatened to reveal the whole history to Sikes (of whom she stood in no common fear) unless she entered into his designs, could he not secure her compliance? "I can," said Fagin, almost aloud. "She durst not refuse me then. Not for her life, not for her life! I have it all. The means are ready, and shall be set to work. I shall have you yet!" He cast back a dark look, and a threatening motion of the hand, towards the spot where he had left the bolder villain; and went on his way: busying his bony hands in the folds of his tattered garment, which he wrenched tightly in his grasp, as though there were a hated enemy crushed with every motion of his fingers. CHAPTER XLV. NOAH CLAYPOLE IS	thoughtfully. "You may say that." "Wot did she take it into her head to go out to-night for, do you think?" asked Sikes. "Come; you should know her better than me. Wot does it mean?" "Obstinacy; woman's obstinacy, I suppose, my dear." "Well, I suppose it is," growled Sikes. "I thought I had tamed her, but she's as bad as ever." "Worse," said Fagin thoughtfully. "I never knew her like this, for such a little cause." "Nor I," said Sikes. "I think she's got a touch of that fever in her blood yet, and it won't come out eh?" "Like enough." "I'll let her a little blood, without troubling the doctor, if she's took that way again," said Sikes. Fagin nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment. "She was hanging about me all day, and night too, when I was stretched on my back; and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself aloof," said Sikes. "We was poor too, all the time, and I think, one way or other, it's worried and fretted her; and that being shut up here so long has made her restless eh?" "That's it, my dear," replied the Jew in a whisper. "Hush!" As he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her former seat. Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed her head; and, after a little time, burst out laughing. "Why, now she's on the other tack!" exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of excessive surprise on his companion. Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.<\|quote\|>"Light him down,"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. "It's a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light." Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the girl, said, in a whisper. "What is it, Nancy, dear?" "What do you mean?" replied the girl, in the same tone. "The reason of all this," replied Fagin. "If _he_" he pointed with his skinny fore-finger up the stairs "is so hard with you (he's a brute, Nance, a brute-beast), why don't you" "Well?" said the girl, as Fagin paused, with his mouth almost touching her ear, and his eyes looking into hers. "No matter just now. We'll talk of this again. You have a friend in me, Nance; a staunch friend. I have the means at hand, quiet and close. If you want revenge on those that treat you like a dog like a dog! worse than his dog, for he humours him sometimes come to me. I say, come to me. He is the mere hound of a day, but you know me of old, Nance." "I know you well," replied the girl, without manifesting the least emotion. "Good-night." She shrank back, as Fagin offered to lay his hand on hers, but said good-night again, in a steady voice, and, answering his parting look with a nod of intelligence, closed the door between them. Fagin walked towards his home, intent upon the thoughts that were working within his brain. He had conceived the idea not from what had just passed though that had tended to confirm him, but slowly and by degrees that Nancy, wearied of the housebreaker's brutality, had conceived an attachment for some new friend. Her altered manner, her repeated absences from home alone, her comparative indifference to the interests of the gang for which she had once been so zealous, and, added to these, her desperate impatience to leave home that night at a particular hour, all favoured the supposition, and rendered it, to him at least, almost matter of certainty. The object of this new liking was not among his myrmidons. He would be a valuable acquisition with such an assistant as Nancy, and must (thus Fagin argued) be secured without delay. There was another, and a darker object, to be gained. Sikes knew too much, and his ruffian taunts had not galled Fagin the less, because the wounds were hidden. The girl must know, well, that if she shook him off, she could never be safe from his fury, and that it would be surely wreaked to the maiming of limbs, or perhaps the loss of life on the object of her more recent fancy. "With a little persuasion," thought Fagin, "what more likely than that she would consent to poison him? Women have done such things, and worse, to secure the same object before now. There would be the dangerous villain: the man I hate: gone; another secured in his place; and my influence over the girl, with a knowledge of this crime to back	Oliver Twist
"I've never seen him do an awkward thing,"	Brett Ashley	prepared him for the killing.<\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing,"</\|quote\|>Brett said. "You won't until	he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.<\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing,"</\|quote\|>Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said.	in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.<\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing,"</\|quote\|>Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling	have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.<\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing,"</\|quote\|>Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time	she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.<\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing,"</\|quote\|>Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the	not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.<\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing,"</\|quote\|>Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the ring to where the bull would come out. After it was over we went out and were pressed tight in the crowd. "These bull-fights are hell on one," Brett said. "I'm limp as a rag." "Oh, you'll get a drink," Mike said. The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was Miura bulls, and a very bad bull-fight. The next day there was no bull-fight scheduled. But all day and all night the fiesta kept on. CHAPTER 16 In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over the mountains from the sea. You could not see the tops of the mountains. The plateau was dull and gloomy, and the shapes of the trees and the houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the sea. The flags in the square hung wet from the white poles and the banners were wet and hung damp against the front of the houses, and in between the steady drizzle the rain came down and drove every one under the arcades and made pools of water in the square, and the streets wet and dark and	right?" "I didn't feel badly at all." "Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert." "The first horse did bother me," Cohn said. "You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill. Cohn laughed. "No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that." "It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick." "I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute." "I thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?" "Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "He said Brett was a sadist," Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it." The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.<\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing,"</\|quote\|>Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the ring to where the bull would come out. After it was over we went out and were pressed tight in the crowd. "These bull-fights are hell on one," Brett said. "I'm limp as a rag." "Oh, you'll get a drink," Mike said. The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was Miura bulls, and a very bad bull-fight. The next day there was no bull-fight scheduled. But all day and all night the fiesta kept on. CHAPTER 16 In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over the mountains from the sea. You could not see the tops of the mountains. The plateau was dull and gloomy, and the shapes of the trees and the houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the sea. The flags in the square hung wet from the white poles and the banners were wet and hung damp against the front of the houses, and in between the steady drizzle the rain came down and drove every one under the arcades and made pools of water in the square, and the streets wet and dark and deserted; yet the fiesta kept up without any pause. It was only driven under cover. The covered seats of the bull-ring had been crowded with people sitting out of the rain watching the concourse of Basque and Navarrais dancers and singers, and afterward the Val Carlos dancers in their costumes danced down the street in the rain, the drums sounding hollow and damp, and the chiefs of the bands riding ahead on their big, heavy-footed horses, their costumes wet, the horses' coats wet in the rain. The crowd was in the caf s and the dancers came in, too, and sat, their tight-wound white legs under the tables, shaking the water from their belled caps, and spreading their red and purple jackets over the chairs to dry. It was raining hard outside. I left the crowd in the caf and went over to the hotel to get shaved for dinner. I was shaving in my room when there was a knock on the door. "Come in," I called. Montoya walked in. "How are you?" he said. "Fine," I said. "No bulls to-day." "No," I said, "nothing but rain." "Where are your friends?" "Over at the Iru a." Montoya smiled his embarrassed smile. "Look," he said. "Do you know the American ambassador?" "Yes," I said. "Everybody knows the American ambassador." "He's here in town, now." "Yes," I said. "Everybody's seen them." "I've seen them, too," Montoya said. He didn't say anything. I went on shaving. "Sit down," I said. "Let me send for a drink." "No, I have to go." I finished shaving and put my face down into the bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking more embarrassed. "Look," he said. "I've just had a message from them at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner." "Well," I said, "it can't hurt Marcial any." "Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll be back to-night." Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something. "Don't give Romero the message," I said. "You think so?" "Absolutely." Montoya was very pleased. "I wanted to ask you because you were an American," he said. "That's what I'd do." "Look," said Montoya. "People take a boy like that. They don't know what he's	how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.<\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing,"</\|quote\|>Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the ring to where the bull would come out. After it was over we went out and were pressed tight in the crowd. "These bull-fights are hell on one," Brett said. "I'm limp as a rag." "Oh, you'll get a drink," Mike said. The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was Miura bulls, and a very bad bull-fight. The next day there was no bull-fight scheduled. But all day and all night the fiesta kept on. CHAPTER 16 In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over the mountains from the sea. You could not see the tops of the mountains. The plateau was dull and gloomy, and the shapes of the trees and the houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the sea. The flags in the square hung wet from the white poles and the banners were wet and hung damp against the front of the houses, and in between the steady drizzle the rain came down and drove every one under the arcades and made pools of water in the square, and the streets wet and dark and deserted; yet the fiesta kept up without any pause. It was only driven under cover. The covered seats of the bull-ring had been crowded with people sitting out of the rain watching the concourse of Basque and Navarrais dancers and singers, and afterward the Val Carlos dancers in their costumes danced down the street in the rain, the drums sounding hollow and damp, and the chiefs of the bands riding ahead on their big, heavy-footed horses, their costumes wet, the horses' coats wet in the rain. The crowd was in the caf s and the dancers came in, too, and sat, their tight-wound white legs under the tables, shaking the water from their belled caps, and spreading their red and purple jackets over the chairs to dry. It was raining hard outside. I left the crowd in the caf and went over to the hotel to get shaved for dinner. I was shaving in my room when there was a knock on the door. "Come in," I called. Montoya walked in. "How are you?"	The Sun Also Rises
"But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?"	Ellen Olenska	heaped-up curls of her chignon.<\|quote\|>"But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?"</\|quote\|>She followed the Marchioness into	raising her hand to the heaped-up curls of her chignon.<\|quote\|>"But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?"</\|quote\|>She followed the Marchioness into the hall, saw her fitted	from the Marchioness to Archer, asked abruptly: "And you two--have you made friends!" "It's for Mr. Archer to say, darling; he has waited patiently while you were dressing." "Yes--I gave you time enough: my hair wouldn't go," Madame Olenska said, raising her hand to the heaped-up curls of her chignon.<\|quote\|>"But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?"</\|quote\|>She followed the Marchioness into the hall, saw her fitted into a miscellaneous heap of overshoes, shawls and tippets, and called from the doorstep: "Mind, the carriage is to be back for me at ten!" Then she returned to the drawing-room, where Archer, on re-entering it, found her standing by	from me!" She flung her velvet opera cloak over the maid's shoulders and turned back into the drawing-room, shutting the door sharply. Her bosom was rising high under its lace, and for a moment Archer thought she was about to cry; but she burst into a laugh instead, and looking from the Marchioness to Archer, asked abruptly: "And you two--have you made friends!" "It's for Mr. Archer to say, darling; he has waited patiently while you were dressing." "Yes--I gave you time enough: my hair wouldn't go," Madame Olenska said, raising her hand to the heaped-up curls of her chignon.<\|quote\|>"But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?"</\|quote\|>She followed the Marchioness into the hall, saw her fitted into a miscellaneous heap of overshoes, shawls and tippets, and called from the doorstep: "Mind, the carriage is to be back for me at ten!" Then she returned to the drawing-room, where Archer, on re-entering it, found her standing by the mantelpiece, examining herself in the mirror. It was not usual, in New York society, for a lady to address her parlour-maid as "my dear one," and send her out on an errand wrapped in her own opera-cloak; and Archer, through all his deeper feelings, tasted the pleasurable excitement of	pronounce with intentional deliberateness in order that he might follow it: "Here--throw this into the dustbin!" and then, as Nastasia stared protestingly: "But no--it's not the fault of the poor flowers. Tell the boy to carry them to the house three doors away, the house of Mr. Winsett, the dark gentleman who dined here. His wife is ill--they may give her pleasure ... The boy is out, you say? Then, my dear one, run yourself; here, put my cloak over you and fly. I want the thing out of the house immediately! And, as you live, don't say they come from me!" She flung her velvet opera cloak over the maid's shoulders and turned back into the drawing-room, shutting the door sharply. Her bosom was rising high under its lace, and for a moment Archer thought she was about to cry; but she burst into a laugh instead, and looking from the Marchioness to Archer, asked abruptly: "And you two--have you made friends!" "It's for Mr. Archer to say, darling; he has waited patiently while you were dressing." "Yes--I gave you time enough: my hair wouldn't go," Madame Olenska said, raising her hand to the heaped-up curls of her chignon.<\|quote\|>"But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?"</\|quote\|>She followed the Marchioness into the hall, saw her fitted into a miscellaneous heap of overshoes, shawls and tippets, and called from the doorstep: "Mind, the carriage is to be back for me at ten!" Then she returned to the drawing-room, where Archer, on re-entering it, found her standing by the mantelpiece, examining herself in the mirror. It was not usual, in New York society, for a lady to address her parlour-maid as "my dear one," and send her out on an errand wrapped in her own opera-cloak; and Archer, through all his deeper feelings, tasted the pleasurable excitement of being in a world where action followed on emotion with such Olympian speed. Madame Olenska did not move when he came up behind her, and for a second their eyes met in the mirror; then she turned, threw herself into her sofa-corner, and sighed out: "There's time for a cigarette." He handed her the box and lit a spill for her; and as the flame flashed up into her face she glanced at him with laughing eyes and said: "What do you think of me in a temper?" Archer paused a moment; then he answered with sudden resolution: "It makes	still a wife..." XVIII. "What are you two plotting together, aunt Medora?" Madame Olenska cried as she came into the room. She was dressed as if for a ball. Everything about her shimmered and glimmered softly, as if her dress had been woven out of candle-beams; and she carried her head high, like a pretty woman challenging a roomful of rivals. "We were saying, my dear, that here was something beautiful to surprise you with," Mrs. Manson rejoined, rising to her feet and pointing archly to the flowers. Madame Olenska stopped short and looked at the bouquet. Her colour did not change, but a sort of white radiance of anger ran over her like summer lightning. "Ah," she exclaimed, in a shrill voice that the young man had never heard, "who is ridiculous enough to send me a bouquet? Why a bouquet? And why tonight of all nights? I am not going to a ball; I am not a girl engaged to be married. But some people are always ridiculous." She turned back to the door, opened it, and called out: "Nastasia!" The ubiquitous handmaiden promptly appeared, and Archer heard Madame Olenska say, in an Italian that she seemed to pronounce with intentional deliberateness in order that he might follow it: "Here--throw this into the dustbin!" and then, as Nastasia stared protestingly: "But no--it's not the fault of the poor flowers. Tell the boy to carry them to the house three doors away, the house of Mr. Winsett, the dark gentleman who dined here. His wife is ill--they may give her pleasure ... The boy is out, you say? Then, my dear one, run yourself; here, put my cloak over you and fly. I want the thing out of the house immediately! And, as you live, don't say they come from me!" She flung her velvet opera cloak over the maid's shoulders and turned back into the drawing-room, shutting the door sharply. Her bosom was rising high under its lace, and for a moment Archer thought she was about to cry; but she burst into a laugh instead, and looking from the Marchioness to Archer, asked abruptly: "And you two--have you made friends!" "It's for Mr. Archer to say, darling; he has waited patiently while you were dressing." "Yes--I gave you time enough: my hair wouldn't go," Madame Olenska said, raising her hand to the heaped-up curls of her chignon.<\|quote\|>"But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?"</\|quote\|>She followed the Marchioness into the hall, saw her fitted into a miscellaneous heap of overshoes, shawls and tippets, and called from the doorstep: "Mind, the carriage is to be back for me at ten!" Then she returned to the drawing-room, where Archer, on re-entering it, found her standing by the mantelpiece, examining herself in the mirror. It was not usual, in New York society, for a lady to address her parlour-maid as "my dear one," and send her out on an errand wrapped in her own opera-cloak; and Archer, through all his deeper feelings, tasted the pleasurable excitement of being in a world where action followed on emotion with such Olympian speed. Madame Olenska did not move when he came up behind her, and for a second their eyes met in the mirror; then she turned, threw herself into her sofa-corner, and sighed out: "There's time for a cigarette." He handed her the box and lit a spill for her; and as the flame flashed up into her face she glanced at him with laughing eyes and said: "What do you think of me in a temper?" Archer paused a moment; then he answered with sudden resolution: "It makes me understand what your aunt has been saying about you." "I knew she'd been talking about me. Well?" "She said you were used to all kinds of things--splendours and amusements and excitements--that we could never hope to give you here." Madame Olenska smiled faintly into the circle of smoke about her lips. "Medora is incorrigibly romantic. It has made up to her for so many things!" Archer hesitated again, and again took his risk. "Is your aunt's romanticism always consistent with accuracy?" "You mean: does she speak the truth?" Her niece considered. "Well, I'll tell you: in almost everything she says, there's something true and something untrue. But why do you ask? What has she been telling you?" He looked away into the fire, and then back at her shining presence. His heart tightened with the thought that this was their last evening by that fireside, and that in a moment the carriage would come to carry her away. "She says--she pretends that Count Olenski has asked her to persuade you to go back to him." Madame Olenska made no answer. She sat motionless, holding her cigarette in her half-lifted hand. The expression of her face had not changed; and	"So she describes it--my sensitive child! But on the material side, Mr. Archer, if one may stoop to consider such things; do you know what she is giving up? Those roses there on the sofa--acres like them, under glass and in the open, in his matchless terraced gardens at Nice! Jewels--historic pearls: the Sobieski emeralds--sables,--but she cares nothing for all these! Art and beauty, those she does care for, she lives for, as I always have; and those also surrounded her. Pictures, priceless furniture, music, brilliant conversation--ah, that, my dear young man, if you'll excuse me, is what you've no conception of here! And she had it all; and the homage of the greatest. She tells me she is not thought handsome in New York--good heavens! Her portrait has been painted nine times; the greatest artists in Europe have begged for the privilege. Are these things nothing? And the remorse of an adoring husband?" As the Marchioness Manson rose to her climax her face assumed an expression of ecstatic retrospection which would have moved Archer's mirth had he not been numb with amazement. He would have laughed if any one had foretold to him that his first sight of poor Medora Manson would have been in the guise of a messenger of Satan; but he was in no mood for laughing now, and she seemed to him to come straight out of the hell from which Ellen Olenska had just escaped. "She knows nothing yet--of all this?" he asked abruptly. Mrs. Manson laid a purple finger on her lips. "Nothing directly--but does she suspect? Who can tell? The truth is, Mr. Archer, I have been waiting to see you. From the moment I heard of the firm stand you had taken, and of your influence over her, I hoped it might be possible to count on your support--to convince you ..." "That she ought to go back? I would rather see her dead!" cried the young man violently. "Ah," the Marchioness murmured, without visible resentment. For a while she sat in her arm-chair, opening and shutting the absurd ivory fan between her mittened fingers; but suddenly she lifted her head and listened. "Here she comes," she said in a rapid whisper; and then, pointing to the bouquet on the sofa: "Am I to understand that you prefer THAT, Mr. Archer? After all, marriage is marriage ... and my niece is still a wife..." XVIII. "What are you two plotting together, aunt Medora?" Madame Olenska cried as she came into the room. She was dressed as if for a ball. Everything about her shimmered and glimmered softly, as if her dress had been woven out of candle-beams; and she carried her head high, like a pretty woman challenging a roomful of rivals. "We were saying, my dear, that here was something beautiful to surprise you with," Mrs. Manson rejoined, rising to her feet and pointing archly to the flowers. Madame Olenska stopped short and looked at the bouquet. Her colour did not change, but a sort of white radiance of anger ran over her like summer lightning. "Ah," she exclaimed, in a shrill voice that the young man had never heard, "who is ridiculous enough to send me a bouquet? Why a bouquet? And why tonight of all nights? I am not going to a ball; I am not a girl engaged to be married. But some people are always ridiculous." She turned back to the door, opened it, and called out: "Nastasia!" The ubiquitous handmaiden promptly appeared, and Archer heard Madame Olenska say, in an Italian that she seemed to pronounce with intentional deliberateness in order that he might follow it: "Here--throw this into the dustbin!" and then, as Nastasia stared protestingly: "But no--it's not the fault of the poor flowers. Tell the boy to carry them to the house three doors away, the house of Mr. Winsett, the dark gentleman who dined here. His wife is ill--they may give her pleasure ... The boy is out, you say? Then, my dear one, run yourself; here, put my cloak over you and fly. I want the thing out of the house immediately! And, as you live, don't say they come from me!" She flung her velvet opera cloak over the maid's shoulders and turned back into the drawing-room, shutting the door sharply. Her bosom was rising high under its lace, and for a moment Archer thought she was about to cry; but she burst into a laugh instead, and looking from the Marchioness to Archer, asked abruptly: "And you two--have you made friends!" "It's for Mr. Archer to say, darling; he has waited patiently while you were dressing." "Yes--I gave you time enough: my hair wouldn't go," Madame Olenska said, raising her hand to the heaped-up curls of her chignon.<\|quote\|>"But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?"</\|quote\|>She followed the Marchioness into the hall, saw her fitted into a miscellaneous heap of overshoes, shawls and tippets, and called from the doorstep: "Mind, the carriage is to be back for me at ten!" Then she returned to the drawing-room, where Archer, on re-entering it, found her standing by the mantelpiece, examining herself in the mirror. It was not usual, in New York society, for a lady to address her parlour-maid as "my dear one," and send her out on an errand wrapped in her own opera-cloak; and Archer, through all his deeper feelings, tasted the pleasurable excitement of being in a world where action followed on emotion with such Olympian speed. Madame Olenska did not move when he came up behind her, and for a second their eyes met in the mirror; then she turned, threw herself into her sofa-corner, and sighed out: "There's time for a cigarette." He handed her the box and lit a spill for her; and as the flame flashed up into her face she glanced at him with laughing eyes and said: "What do you think of me in a temper?" Archer paused a moment; then he answered with sudden resolution: "It makes me understand what your aunt has been saying about you." "I knew she'd been talking about me. Well?" "She said you were used to all kinds of things--splendours and amusements and excitements--that we could never hope to give you here." Madame Olenska smiled faintly into the circle of smoke about her lips. "Medora is incorrigibly romantic. It has made up to her for so many things!" Archer hesitated again, and again took his risk. "Is your aunt's romanticism always consistent with accuracy?" "You mean: does she speak the truth?" Her niece considered. "Well, I'll tell you: in almost everything she says, there's something true and something untrue. But why do you ask? What has she been telling you?" He looked away into the fire, and then back at her shining presence. His heart tightened with the thought that this was their last evening by that fireside, and that in a moment the carriage would come to carry her away. "She says--she pretends that Count Olenski has asked her to persuade you to go back to him." Madame Olenska made no answer. She sat motionless, holding her cigarette in her half-lifted hand. The expression of her face had not changed; and Archer remembered that he had before noticed her apparent incapacity for surprise. "You knew, then?" he broke out. She was silent for so long that the ash dropped from her cigarette. She brushed it to the floor. "She has hinted about a letter: poor darling! Medora's hints--" "Is it at your husband's request that she has arrived here suddenly?" Madame Olenska seemed to consider this question also. "There again: one can't tell. She told me she had had a 'spiritual summons,' whatever that is, from Dr. Carver. I'm afraid she's going to marry Dr. Carver ... poor Medora, there's always some one she wants to marry. But perhaps the people in Cuba just got tired of her! I think she was with them as a sort of paid companion. Really, I don't know why she came." "But you do believe she has a letter from your husband?" Again Madame Olenska brooded silently; then she said: "After all, it was to be expected." The young man rose and went to lean against the fireplace. A sudden restlessness possessed him, and he was tongue-tied by the sense that their minutes were numbered, and that at any moment he might hear the wheels of the returning carriage. "You know that your aunt believes you will go back?" Madame Olenska raised her head quickly. A deep blush rose to her face and spread over her neck and shoulders. She blushed seldom and painfully, as if it hurt her like a burn. "Many cruel things have been believed of me," she said. "Oh, Ellen--forgive me; I'm a fool and a brute!" She smiled a little. "You are horribly nervous; you have your own troubles. I know you think the Wellands are unreasonable about your marriage, and of course I agree with you. In Europe people don't understand our long American engagements; I suppose they are not as calm as we are." She pronounced the "we" with a faint emphasis that gave it an ironic sound. Archer felt the irony but did not dare to take it up. After all, she had perhaps purposely deflected the conversation from her own affairs, and after the pain his last words had evidently caused her he felt that all he could do was to follow her lead. But the sense of the waning hour made him desperate: he could not bear the thought that a barrier of words should	see you. From the moment I heard of the firm stand you had taken, and of your influence over her, I hoped it might be possible to count on your support--to convince you ..." "That she ought to go back? I would rather see her dead!" cried the young man violently. "Ah," the Marchioness murmured, without visible resentment. For a while she sat in her arm-chair, opening and shutting the absurd ivory fan between her mittened fingers; but suddenly she lifted her head and listened. "Here she comes," she said in a rapid whisper; and then, pointing to the bouquet on the sofa: "Am I to understand that you prefer THAT, Mr. Archer? After all, marriage is marriage ... and my niece is still a wife..." XVIII. "What are you two plotting together, aunt Medora?" Madame Olenska cried as she came into the room. She was dressed as if for a ball. Everything about her shimmered and glimmered softly, as if her dress had been woven out of candle-beams; and she carried her head high, like a pretty woman challenging a roomful of rivals. "We were saying, my dear, that here was something beautiful to surprise you with," Mrs. Manson rejoined, rising to her feet and pointing archly to the flowers. Madame Olenska stopped short and looked at the bouquet. Her colour did not change, but a sort of white radiance of anger ran over her like summer lightning. "Ah," she exclaimed, in a shrill voice that the young man had never heard, "who is ridiculous enough to send me a bouquet? Why a bouquet? And why tonight of all nights? I am not going to a ball; I am not a girl engaged to be married. But some people are always ridiculous." She turned back to the door, opened it, and called out: "Nastasia!" The ubiquitous handmaiden promptly appeared, and Archer heard Madame Olenska say, in an Italian that she seemed to pronounce with intentional deliberateness in order that he might follow it: "Here--throw this into the dustbin!" and then, as Nastasia stared protestingly: "But no--it's not the fault of the poor flowers. Tell the boy to carry them to the house three doors away, the house of Mr. Winsett, the dark gentleman who dined here. His wife is ill--they may give her pleasure ... The boy is out, you say? Then, my dear one, run yourself; here, put my cloak over you and fly. I want the thing out of the house immediately! And, as you live, don't say they come from me!" She flung her velvet opera cloak over the maid's shoulders and turned back into the drawing-room, shutting the door sharply. Her bosom was rising high under its lace, and for a moment Archer thought she was about to cry; but she burst into a laugh instead, and looking from the Marchioness to Archer, asked abruptly: "And you two--have you made friends!" "It's for Mr. Archer to say, darling; he has waited patiently while you were dressing." "Yes--I gave you time enough: my hair wouldn't go," Madame Olenska said, raising her hand to the heaped-up curls of her chignon.<\|quote\|>"But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?"</\|quote\|>She followed the Marchioness into the hall, saw her fitted into a miscellaneous heap of overshoes, shawls and tippets, and called from the doorstep: "Mind, the carriage is to be back for me at ten!" Then she returned to the drawing-room, where Archer, on re-entering it, found her standing by the mantelpiece, examining herself in the mirror. It was not usual, in New York society, for a lady to address her parlour-maid as "my dear one," and send her out on an errand wrapped in her own opera-cloak; and Archer, through all his deeper feelings, tasted the pleasurable excitement of being in a world where action followed on emotion with such Olympian speed. Madame Olenska did not move when he came up behind her, and for a second their eyes met in the mirror; then she turned, threw herself into her sofa-corner, and sighed out: "There's time for a cigarette." He handed her the box and lit a spill for her; and as the flame flashed up into her face she glanced at him with laughing eyes and said: "What do you think of me in a temper?" Archer paused a moment; then he answered with sudden resolution: "It makes me understand what your aunt has been saying about you." "I knew she'd been talking about me. Well?" "She said you were used to all kinds of things--splendours and amusements and excitements--that we could never hope to give you here." Madame Olenska smiled faintly into the circle of smoke about her lips. "Medora is incorrigibly romantic. It has made up to her for so many things!" Archer hesitated again, and again took his risk. "Is your aunt's romanticism always consistent with accuracy?" "You mean: does she speak the truth?" Her niece considered. "Well, I'll tell you: in almost everything she says, there's something true and something untrue. But why do you ask? What has she been telling you?" He looked away into the fire, and then back at her shining presence. His heart tightened with the thought that this was their last evening by that fireside, and that in a moment the carriage would come to carry her away. "She says--she pretends that Count Olenski has asked her to persuade you to go back to him." Madame Olenska made no answer. She sat motionless, holding her cigarette in her half-lifted hand. The expression of her face had not changed; and Archer remembered that he had before noticed her apparent incapacity for surprise. "You knew, then?" he broke out. She was silent for so long that the ash dropped from her cigarette. She brushed it to the floor. "She has hinted about a letter: poor darling! Medora's hints--" "Is it at your husband's request that she has arrived here suddenly?" Madame Olenska seemed to consider this question also. "There again: one can't tell. She told me she had had a 'spiritual summons,' whatever that is, from Dr. Carver. I'm afraid she's going to marry Dr. Carver ... poor Medora, there's always some one she wants to marry. But perhaps the people in Cuba just got tired of her! I think she was with them as a sort of paid companion. Really, I don't know why she came." "But you do believe she has a letter from your husband?" Again Madame Olenska brooded silently; then she said: "After all, it was to be expected." The young man rose and went to lean against the fireplace. A sudden restlessness possessed him, and he was tongue-tied by the sense that their minutes were numbered, and	The Age Of Innocence
"Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,"	Oliver Twist	know," rejoined the old lady.<\|quote\|>"Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Oliver. "I liked to	prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady.<\|quote\|>"Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved	Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see." "I see it is ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?" "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady.<\|quote\|>"Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!" said the old lady, good-humouredly; "you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else." This was all	into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed. "Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see." "I see it is ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?" "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady.<\|quote\|>"Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!" said the old lady, good-humouredly; "you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else." This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable	COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed. "Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see." "I see it is ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?" "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady.<\|quote\|>"Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!" said the old lady, good-humouredly; "you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else." This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a-year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it	Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; "there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!" With these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of concealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver. Then, he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath his clothing. A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. "Who's there?" he cried in a shrill tone. "Me!" replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole. "What now?" cried the Jew impatiently. "Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?" inquired the Dodger. "Yes," replied the Jew, "wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him out, that's all. I shall know what to do next; never fear." The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried downstairs after his companions. "He has not peached so far," said the Jew as he pursued his occupation. "If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet." CHAPTER XIV. COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed. "Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see." "I see it is ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?" "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady.<\|quote\|>"Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!" said the old lady, good-humouredly; "you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else." This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a-year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as quickly as she could teach: and at which game they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and then to go cosily to bed. They were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like Heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up	defiance of the Stamp-office. But, as neither of these criminals answered to the name of Oliver, or knew anything about him, Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in the striped waistcoat; and with the most piteous wailings and lamentations, rendered more piteous by a prompt and efficient use of the street-door key and the little basket, demanded her own dear brother. "I haven't got him, my dear," said the old man. "Where is he?" screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner. "Why, the gentleman's got him," replied the officer. "What gentleman! Oh, gracious heavens! What gentleman?" exclaimed Nancy. In reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the deeply affected sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office, and discharged in consequence of a witness having proved the robbery to have been committed by another boy, not in custody; and that the prosecutor had carried him away, in an insensible condition, to his own residence: of and concerning which, all the informant knew was, that it was somewhere in Pentonville, he having heard that word mentioned in the directions to the coachman. In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift run, returned by the most devious and complicated route she could think of, to the domicile of the Jew. Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered, than he very hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat, expeditiously departed: without devoting any time to the formality of wishing the company good-morning. "We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found," said the Jew greatly excited. "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; "there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!" "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; "there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!" With these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of concealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver. Then, he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath his clothing. A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. "Who's there?" he cried in a shrill tone. "Me!" replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole. "What now?" cried the Jew impatiently. "Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?" inquired the Dodger. "Yes," replied the Jew, "wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him out, that's all. I shall know what to do next; never fear." The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried downstairs after his companions. "He has not peached so far," said the Jew as he pursued his occupation. "If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet." CHAPTER XIV. COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed. "Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see." "I see it is ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?" "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady.<\|quote\|>"Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!" said the old lady, good-humouredly; "you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else." This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a-year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as quickly as she could teach: and at which game they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and then to go cosily to bed. They were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like Heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to think that they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger of his ever being able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell the truth; and Oliver had never had a new suit before. One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr. Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see him in his study, and talk to him a little while. "Bless us, and save us! Wash your hands, and let me part your hair nicely for you, child," said Mrs. Bedwin. "Dear heart alive! If we had known he would have asked for you, we would have put you a clean collar on, and made you as smart as sixpence!" Oliver did as the old lady bade him; and, although she lamented grievously, meanwhile, that there was not even time to crimp the little frill that bordered his shirt-collar; he looked so delicate and handsome, despite that important personal advantage, that she went so far as to say: looking at him with great complacency from head to foot, that she really didn't think it would have been possible, on the longest notice, to have made much difference in him for the better. Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door. On Mr. Brownlow calling to him to come in, he found himself in a little back room, quite full of books, with a window, looking into some pleasant little gardens. There was a table drawn up before the window, at which Mr. Brownlow was seated reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed the book away from him, and told him to come near the table, and sit down. Oliver complied; marvelling where the people could be found to read such a great number of books as seemed to be written to make the world wiser. Which is still a marvel to more experienced people than Oliver Twist, every day of their lives. "There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?" said Mr. Brownlow, observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling. "A great number, sir," replied Oliver. "I never saw so many." "You shall read them, if	Nancy says?" inquired the Dodger. "Yes," replied the Jew, "wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him out, that's all. I shall know what to do next; never fear." The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried downstairs after his companions. "He has not peached so far," said the Jew as he pursued his occupation. "If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet." CHAPTER XIV. COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed. "Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see." "I see it is ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?" "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady.<\|quote\|>"Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!" said the old lady, good-humouredly; "you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else." This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a-year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as quickly as she could teach: and at which game they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and then to go cosily to bed. They were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like Heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to think that they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger of his ever being able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell the truth; and Oliver had never had a new suit before. One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr. Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see him in his study, and talk to him a little while. "Bless us, and save us! Wash	Oliver Twist
“worked out,”	No speaker	that the country girls, who<\|quote\|>“worked out,”</\|quote\|>were not. The American farmers	that they were “refined,” and that the country girls, who<\|quote\|>“worked out,”</\|quote\|>were not. The American farmers in our county were quite	listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely put there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested. The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, uninquiring belief that they were “refined,” and that the country girls, who<\|quote\|>“worked out,”</\|quote\|>were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as hard-pressed as their neighbors from other countries. All alike had come to Nebraska with little capital and no knowledge of the soil they must subdue. All had borrowed money on their land. But no matter in what straits the	in winter because of the cold, and in summer because of the heat. When one danced with them their bodies never moved inside their clothes; their muscles seemed to ask but one thing—not to be disturbed. I remember those girls merely as faces in the schoolroom, gay and rosy, or listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely put there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested. The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, uninquiring belief that they were “refined,” and that the country girls, who<\|quote\|>“worked out,”</\|quote\|>were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as hard-pressed as their neighbors from other countries. All alike had come to Nebraska with little capital and no knowledge of the soil they must subdue. All had borrowed money on their land. But no matter in what straits the Pennsylvanian or Virginian found himself, he would not let his daughters go out into service. Unless his girls could teach a country school, they sat at home in poverty. The Bohemian and Scandinavian girls could not get positions as teachers, because they had had no opportunity to learn the language.	Physically they were almost a race apart, and out-of-door work had given them a vigor which, when they got over their first shyness on coming to town, developed into a positive carriage and freedom of movement, and made them conspicuous among Black Hawk women. That was before the day of High-School athletics. Girls who had to walk more than half a mile to school were pitied. There was not a tennis court in the town; physical exercise was thought rather inelegant for the daughters of well-to-do families. Some of the High-School girls were jolly and pretty, but they stayed indoors in winter because of the cold, and in summer because of the heat. When one danced with them their bodies never moved inside their clothes; their muscles seemed to ask but one thing—not to be disturbed. I remember those girls merely as faces in the schoolroom, gay and rosy, or listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely put there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested. The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, uninquiring belief that they were “refined,” and that the country girls, who<\|quote\|>“worked out,”</\|quote\|>were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as hard-pressed as their neighbors from other countries. All alike had come to Nebraska with little capital and no knowledge of the soil they must subdue. All had borrowed money on their land. But no matter in what straits the Pennsylvanian or Virginian found himself, he would not let his daughters go out into service. Unless his girls could teach a country school, they sat at home in poverty. The Bohemian and Scandinavian girls could not get positions as teachers, because they had had no opportunity to learn the language. Determined to help in the struggle to clear the homestead from debt, they had no alternative but to go into service. Some of them, after they came to town, remained as serious and as discreet in behavior as they had been when they ploughed and herded on their father’s farm. Others, like the three Bohemian Marys, tried to make up for the years of youth they had lost. But every one of them did what she had set out to do, and sent home those hard-earned dollars. The girls I knew were always helping to pay for ploughs and reapers,	condemnation for a waltz with “the hired girls.” IX THERE was a curious social situation in Black Hawk. All the young men felt the attraction of the fine, well-set-up country girls who had come to town to earn a living, and, in nearly every case, to help the father struggle out of debt, or to make it possible for the younger children of the family to go to school. Those girls had grown up in the first bitter-hard times, and had got little schooling themselves. But the younger brothers and sisters, for whom they made such sacrifices and who have had “advantages,” never seem to me, when I meet them now, half as interesting or as well educated. The older girls, who helped to break up the wild sod, learned so much from life, from poverty, from their mothers and grandmothers; they had all, like Ántonia, been early awakened and made observant by coming at a tender age from an old country to a new. I can remember a score of these country girls who were in service in Black Hawk during the few years I lived there, and I can remember something unusual and engaging about each of them. Physically they were almost a race apart, and out-of-door work had given them a vigor which, when they got over their first shyness on coming to town, developed into a positive carriage and freedom of movement, and made them conspicuous among Black Hawk women. That was before the day of High-School athletics. Girls who had to walk more than half a mile to school were pitied. There was not a tennis court in the town; physical exercise was thought rather inelegant for the daughters of well-to-do families. Some of the High-School girls were jolly and pretty, but they stayed indoors in winter because of the cold, and in summer because of the heat. When one danced with them their bodies never moved inside their clothes; their muscles seemed to ask but one thing—not to be disturbed. I remember those girls merely as faces in the schoolroom, gay and rosy, or listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely put there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested. The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, uninquiring belief that they were “refined,” and that the country girls, who<\|quote\|>“worked out,”</\|quote\|>were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as hard-pressed as their neighbors from other countries. All alike had come to Nebraska with little capital and no knowledge of the soil they must subdue. All had borrowed money on their land. But no matter in what straits the Pennsylvanian or Virginian found himself, he would not let his daughters go out into service. Unless his girls could teach a country school, they sat at home in poverty. The Bohemian and Scandinavian girls could not get positions as teachers, because they had had no opportunity to learn the language. Determined to help in the struggle to clear the homestead from debt, they had no alternative but to go into service. Some of them, after they came to town, remained as serious and as discreet in behavior as they had been when they ploughed and herded on their father’s farm. Others, like the three Bohemian Marys, tried to make up for the years of youth they had lost. But every one of them did what she had set out to do, and sent home those hard-earned dollars. The girls I knew were always helping to pay for ploughs and reapers, brood-sows, or steers to fatten. One result of this family solidarity was that the foreign farmers in our county were the first to become prosperous. After the fathers were out of debt, the daughters married the sons of neighbors,—usually of like nationality,—and the girls who once worked in Black Hawk kitchens are to-day managing big farms and fine families of their own; their children are better off than the children of the town women they used to serve. I thought the attitude of the town people toward these girls very stupid. If I told my schoolmates that Lena Lingard’s grandfather was a clergyman, and much respected in Norway, they looked at me blankly. What did it matter? All foreigners were ignorant people who could n’t speak English. There was not a man in Black Hawk who had the intelligence or cultivation, much less the personal distinction, of Ántonia’s father. Yet people saw no difference between her and the three Marys; they were all Bohemians, all “hired girls.” I always knew I should live long enough to see my country girls come into their own, and I have. To-day the best that a harassed Black Hawk merchant can hope for is	the laundryman’s garden, and the grass in the middle of the lot was pink with them. The Vannis kept exemplary order, and closed every evening at the hour suggested by the City Council. When Mrs. Vanni gave the signal, and the harp struck up “Home, Sweet Home,” all Black Hawk knew it was ten o’clock. You could set your watch by that tune as confidently as by the Round House whistle. At last there was something to do in those long, empty summer evenings, when the married people sat like images on their front porches, and the boys and girls tramped and tramped the board sidewalks—northward to the edge of the open prairie, south to the depot, then back again to the post-office, the ice-cream parlor, the butcher shop. Now there was a place where the girls could wear their new dresses, and where one could laugh aloud without being reproved by the ensuing silence. That silence seemed to ooze out of the ground, to hang under the foliage of the black maple trees with the bats and shadows. Now it was broken by light-hearted sounds. First the deep purring of Mr. Vanni’s harp came in silvery ripples through the blackness of the dusty-smelling night; then the violins fell in—one of them was almost like a flute. They called so archly, so seductively, that our feet hurried toward the tent of themselves. Why had n’t we had a tent before? Dancing became popular now, just as roller skating had been the summer before. The Progressive Euchre Club arranged with the Vannis for the exclusive use of the floor on Tuesday and Friday nights. At other times any one could dance who paid his money and was orderly; the railroad men, the Round House mechanics, the delivery boys, the iceman, the farmhands who lived near enough to ride into town after their day’s work was over. I never missed a Saturday night dance. The tent was open until midnight then. The country boys came in from farms eight and ten miles away, and all the country girls were on the floor,—Ántonia and Lena and Tiny, and the Danish laundry girls and their friends. I was not the only boy who found these dances gayer than the others. The young men who belonged to the Progressive Euchre Club used to drop in late and risk a tiff with their sweethearts and general condemnation for a waltz with “the hired girls.” IX THERE was a curious social situation in Black Hawk. All the young men felt the attraction of the fine, well-set-up country girls who had come to town to earn a living, and, in nearly every case, to help the father struggle out of debt, or to make it possible for the younger children of the family to go to school. Those girls had grown up in the first bitter-hard times, and had got little schooling themselves. But the younger brothers and sisters, for whom they made such sacrifices and who have had “advantages,” never seem to me, when I meet them now, half as interesting or as well educated. The older girls, who helped to break up the wild sod, learned so much from life, from poverty, from their mothers and grandmothers; they had all, like Ántonia, been early awakened and made observant by coming at a tender age from an old country to a new. I can remember a score of these country girls who were in service in Black Hawk during the few years I lived there, and I can remember something unusual and engaging about each of them. Physically they were almost a race apart, and out-of-door work had given them a vigor which, when they got over their first shyness on coming to town, developed into a positive carriage and freedom of movement, and made them conspicuous among Black Hawk women. That was before the day of High-School athletics. Girls who had to walk more than half a mile to school were pitied. There was not a tennis court in the town; physical exercise was thought rather inelegant for the daughters of well-to-do families. Some of the High-School girls were jolly and pretty, but they stayed indoors in winter because of the cold, and in summer because of the heat. When one danced with them their bodies never moved inside their clothes; their muscles seemed to ask but one thing—not to be disturbed. I remember those girls merely as faces in the schoolroom, gay and rosy, or listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely put there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested. The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, uninquiring belief that they were “refined,” and that the country girls, who<\|quote\|>“worked out,”</\|quote\|>were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as hard-pressed as their neighbors from other countries. All alike had come to Nebraska with little capital and no knowledge of the soil they must subdue. All had borrowed money on their land. But no matter in what straits the Pennsylvanian or Virginian found himself, he would not let his daughters go out into service. Unless his girls could teach a country school, they sat at home in poverty. The Bohemian and Scandinavian girls could not get positions as teachers, because they had had no opportunity to learn the language. Determined to help in the struggle to clear the homestead from debt, they had no alternative but to go into service. Some of them, after they came to town, remained as serious and as discreet in behavior as they had been when they ploughed and herded on their father’s farm. Others, like the three Bohemian Marys, tried to make up for the years of youth they had lost. But every one of them did what she had set out to do, and sent home those hard-earned dollars. The girls I knew were always helping to pay for ploughs and reapers, brood-sows, or steers to fatten. One result of this family solidarity was that the foreign farmers in our county were the first to become prosperous. After the fathers were out of debt, the daughters married the sons of neighbors,—usually of like nationality,—and the girls who once worked in Black Hawk kitchens are to-day managing big farms and fine families of their own; their children are better off than the children of the town women they used to serve. I thought the attitude of the town people toward these girls very stupid. If I told my schoolmates that Lena Lingard’s grandfather was a clergyman, and much respected in Norway, they looked at me blankly. What did it matter? All foreigners were ignorant people who could n’t speak English. There was not a man in Black Hawk who had the intelligence or cultivation, much less the personal distinction, of Ántonia’s father. Yet people saw no difference between her and the three Marys; they were all Bohemians, all “hired girls.” I always knew I should live long enough to see my country girls come into their own, and I have. To-day the best that a harassed Black Hawk merchant can hope for is to sell provisions and farm machinery and automobiles to the rich farms where that first crop of stalwart Bohemian and Scandinavian girls are now the mistresses. The Black Hawk boys looked forward to marrying Black Hawk girls, and living in a brand-new little house with best chairs that must not be sat upon, and hand-painted china that must not be used. But sometimes a young fellow would look up from his ledger, or out through the grating of his father’s bank, and let his eyes follow Lena Lingard, as she passed the window with her slow, undulating walk, or Tiny Soderball, tripping by in her short skirt and striped stockings. The country girls were considered a menace to the social order. Their beauty shone out too boldly against a conventional background. But anxious mothers need have felt no alarm. They mistook the mettle of their sons. The respect for respectability was stronger than any desire in Black Hawk youth. Our young man of position was like the son of a royal house; the boy who swept out his office or drove his delivery wagon might frolic with the jolly country girls, but he himself must sit all evening in a plush parlor where conversation dragged so perceptibly that the father often came in and made blundering efforts to warm up the atmosphere. On his way home from his dull call, he would perhaps meet Tony and Lena, coming along the sidewalk whispering to each other, or the three Bohemian Marys in their long plush coats and caps, comporting themselves with a dignity that only made their eventful histories the more piquant. If he went to the hotel to see a traveling man on business, there was Tiny, arching her shoulders at him like a kitten. If he went into the laundry to get his collars, there were the four Danish girls, smiling up from their ironing-boards, with their white throats and their pink cheeks. The three Marys were the heroines of a cycle of scandalous stories, which the old men were fond of relating as they sat about the cigar-stand in the drug-store. Mary Dusak had been housekeeper for a bachelor rancher from Boston, and after several years in his service she was forced to retire from the world for a short time. Later she came back to town to take the place of her friend, Mary Svoboda, who was	ride into town after their day’s work was over. I never missed a Saturday night dance. The tent was open until midnight then. The country boys came in from farms eight and ten miles away, and all the country girls were on the floor,—Ántonia and Lena and Tiny, and the Danish laundry girls and their friends. I was not the only boy who found these dances gayer than the others. The young men who belonged to the Progressive Euchre Club used to drop in late and risk a tiff with their sweethearts and general condemnation for a waltz with “the hired girls.” IX THERE was a curious social situation in Black Hawk. All the young men felt the attraction of the fine, well-set-up country girls who had come to town to earn a living, and, in nearly every case, to help the father struggle out of debt, or to make it possible for the younger children of the family to go to school. Those girls had grown up in the first bitter-hard times, and had got little schooling themselves. But the younger brothers and sisters, for whom they made such sacrifices and who have had “advantages,” never seem to me, when I meet them now, half as interesting or as well educated. The older girls, who helped to break up the wild sod, learned so much from life, from poverty, from their mothers and grandmothers; they had all, like Ántonia, been early awakened and made observant by coming at a tender age from an old country to a new. I can remember a score of these country girls who were in service in Black Hawk during the few years I lived there, and I can remember something unusual and engaging about each of them. Physically they were almost a race apart, and out-of-door work had given them a vigor which, when they got over their first shyness on coming to town, developed into a positive carriage and freedom of movement, and made them conspicuous among Black Hawk women. That was before the day of High-School athletics. Girls who had to walk more than half a mile to school were pitied. There was not a tennis court in the town; physical exercise was thought rather inelegant for the daughters of well-to-do families. Some of the High-School girls were jolly and pretty, but they stayed indoors in winter because of the cold, and in summer because of the heat. When one danced with them their bodies never moved inside their clothes; their muscles seemed to ask but one thing—not to be disturbed. I remember those girls merely as faces in the schoolroom, gay and rosy, or listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely put there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested. The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, uninquiring belief that they were “refined,” and that the country girls, who<\|quote\|>“worked out,”</\|quote\|>were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as hard-pressed as their neighbors from other countries. All alike had come to Nebraska with little capital and no knowledge of the soil they must subdue. All had borrowed money on their land. But no matter in what straits the Pennsylvanian or Virginian found himself, he would not let his daughters go out into service. Unless his girls could teach a country school, they sat at home in poverty. The Bohemian and Scandinavian girls could not get positions as teachers, because they had had no opportunity to learn the language. Determined to help in the struggle to clear the homestead from debt, they had no alternative but to go into service. Some of them, after they came to town, remained as serious and as discreet in behavior as they had been when they ploughed and herded on their father’s farm. Others, like the three Bohemian Marys, tried to make up for the years of youth they had lost. But every one of them did what she had set out to do, and sent home those hard-earned dollars. The girls I knew were always helping to pay for ploughs and reapers, brood-sows, or steers to fatten. One result of this family solidarity was that the foreign farmers in our county were the first to become prosperous. After the fathers were out of debt, the daughters married the sons of neighbors,—usually of like nationality,—and the girls who once worked in Black Hawk kitchens are to-day managing big farms and fine families of their own; their children are better off than the children of the town women they used to serve. I thought the attitude of the town people toward these girls very stupid. If I told my schoolmates that Lena Lingard’s grandfather was a clergyman, and much respected in Norway, they looked at me blankly. What did it matter? All foreigners were ignorant people who could n’t speak English. There was not a man in Black Hawk who had the intelligence or cultivation, much less the personal distinction, of Ántonia’s father. Yet people saw no difference between her and the three Marys; they were all Bohemians, all “hired girls.” I always knew I should live long enough to see my country girls come into their own, and I have. To-day the best that a harassed Black Hawk merchant can hope for is to sell provisions and farm machinery and automobiles to the rich farms where that first crop of stalwart Bohemian and Scandinavian girls are now the mistresses. The Black Hawk boys looked forward to marrying Black Hawk girls, and living in a brand-new little house with best chairs that must not be sat upon, and hand-painted china that must not be used. But sometimes a young fellow would look up from his ledger, or out through the grating of his father’s bank, and let his eyes follow Lena Lingard, as she passed the window with her slow, undulating walk, or Tiny Soderball, tripping by in her short skirt and striped stockings. The country girls were considered a menace	My Antonia
he said; and Madame Olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. The room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. It was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which Madame Olenska sat down opposite to him. A woman who had run away from her husband--and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. By being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other.... XXIV. They lunched slowly and meditatively, with mute intervals between rushes of talk; for, the spell once broken, they had much to say, and yet moments when saying became the mere accompaniment to long duologues of silence. Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, not with conscious intention but because he did not want to miss a word of her history; and leaning on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, she talked to him of the year and a half since they had met. She had grown tired of what people called "society"; New York was kind, it was almost oppressively hospitable; she should never forget the way in which it had welcomed her back; but after the first flush of novelty she had found herself, as she phrased it, too "different" to care for the things it cared about--and so she had decided to try Washington, where one was supposed to meet more varieties of people and of opinion. And on the whole she should probably settle down in Washington, and make a home there for poor Medora, who had worn out the patience of all her other relations just at the time when she most needed looking after and protecting from matrimonial perils.	No speaker	ask for a private room,"<\|quote\|>he said; and Madame Olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. The room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. It was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which Madame Olenska sat down opposite to him. A woman who had run away from her husband--and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. By being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other.... XXIV. They lunched slowly and meditatively, with mute intervals between rushes of talk; for, the spell once broken, they had much to say, and yet moments when saying became the mere accompaniment to long duologues of silence. Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, not with conscious intention but because he did not want to miss a word of her history; and leaning on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, she talked to him of the year and a half since they had met. She had grown tired of what people called "society"; New York was kind, it was almost oppressively hospitable; she should never forget the way in which it had welcomed her back; but after the first flush of novelty she had found herself, as she phrased it, too "different" to care for the things it cared about--and so she had decided to try Washington, where one was supposed to meet more varieties of people and of opinion. And on the whole she should probably settle down in Washington, and make a home there for poor Medora, who had worn out the patience of all her other relations just at the time when she most needed looking after and protecting from matrimonial perils.</\|quote\|>"But Dr. Carver--aren't you afraid	their noise. "This is hopeless--I'll ask for a private room,"<\|quote\|>he said; and Madame Olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. The room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. It was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which Madame Olenska sat down opposite to him. A woman who had run away from her husband--and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. By being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other.... XXIV. They lunched slowly and meditatively, with mute intervals between rushes of talk; for, the spell once broken, they had much to say, and yet moments when saying became the mere accompaniment to long duologues of silence. Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, not with conscious intention but because he did not want to miss a word of her history; and leaning on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, she talked to him of the year and a half since they had met. She had grown tired of what people called "society"; New York was kind, it was almost oppressively hospitable; she should never forget the way in which it had welcomed her back; but after the first flush of novelty she had found herself, as she phrased it, too "different" to care for the things it cared about--and so she had decided to try Washington, where one was supposed to meet more varieties of people and of opinion. And on the whole she should probably settle down in Washington, and make a home there for poor Medora, who had worn out the patience of all her other relations just at the time when she most needed looking after and protecting from matrimonial perils.</\|quote\|>"But Dr. Carver--aren't you afraid of Dr. Carver? I hear	the inn, which he had hoped they would have to themselves, they found a strident party of innocent-looking young men and women--school-teachers on a holiday, the landlord told them--and Archer's heart sank at the idea of having to talk through their noise. "This is hopeless--I'll ask for a private room,"<\|quote\|>he said; and Madame Olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. The room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. It was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which Madame Olenska sat down opposite to him. A woman who had run away from her husband--and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. By being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other.... XXIV. They lunched slowly and meditatively, with mute intervals between rushes of talk; for, the spell once broken, they had much to say, and yet moments when saying became the mere accompaniment to long duologues of silence. Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, not with conscious intention but because he did not want to miss a word of her history; and leaning on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, she talked to him of the year and a half since they had met. She had grown tired of what people called "society"; New York was kind, it was almost oppressively hospitable; she should never forget the way in which it had welcomed her back; but after the first flush of novelty she had found herself, as she phrased it, too "different" to care for the things it cared about--and so she had decided to try Washington, where one was supposed to meet more varieties of people and of opinion. And on the whole she should probably settle down in Washington, and make a home there for poor Medora, who had worn out the patience of all her other relations just at the time when she most needed looking after and protecting from matrimonial perils.</\|quote\|>"But Dr. Carver--aren't you afraid of Dr. Carver? I hear he's been staying with you at the Blenkers'." She smiled. "Oh, the Carver danger is over. Dr. Carver is a very clever man. He wants a rich wife to finance his plans, and Medora is simply a good advertisement as	it left her face uncovered, and Archer was struck by the tranquil gaiety of her expression. She seemed to take their adventure as a matter of course, and to be neither in fear of unexpected encounters, nor (what was worse) unduly elated by their possibility. In the bare dining-room of the inn, which he had hoped they would have to themselves, they found a strident party of innocent-looking young men and women--school-teachers on a holiday, the landlord told them--and Archer's heart sank at the idea of having to talk through their noise. "This is hopeless--I'll ask for a private room,"<\|quote\|>he said; and Madame Olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. The room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. It was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which Madame Olenska sat down opposite to him. A woman who had run away from her husband--and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. By being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other.... XXIV. They lunched slowly and meditatively, with mute intervals between rushes of talk; for, the spell once broken, they had much to say, and yet moments when saying became the mere accompaniment to long duologues of silence. Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, not with conscious intention but because he did not want to miss a word of her history; and leaning on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, she talked to him of the year and a half since they had met. She had grown tired of what people called "society"; New York was kind, it was almost oppressively hospitable; she should never forget the way in which it had welcomed her back; but after the first flush of novelty she had found herself, as she phrased it, too "different" to care for the things it cared about--and so she had decided to try Washington, where one was supposed to meet more varieties of people and of opinion. And on the whole she should probably settle down in Washington, and make a home there for poor Medora, who had worn out the patience of all her other relations just at the time when she most needed looking after and protecting from matrimonial perils.</\|quote\|>"But Dr. Carver--aren't you afraid of Dr. Carver? I hear he's been staying with you at the Blenkers'." She smiled. "Oh, the Carver danger is over. Dr. Carver is a very clever man. He wants a rich wife to finance his plans, and Medora is simply a good advertisement as a convert." "A convert to what?" "To all sorts of new and crazy social schemes. But, do you know, they interest me more than the blind conformity to tradition--somebody else's tradition--that I see among our own friends. It seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it into a	drifting forth into this unknown world, they seemed to have reached the kind of deeper nearness that a touch may sunder. As the boat left the harbour and turned seaward a breeze stirred about them and the bay broke up into long oily undulations, then into ripples tipped with spray. The fog of sultriness still hung over the city, but ahead lay a fresh world of ruffled waters, and distant promontories with light-houses in the sun. Madame Olenska, leaning back against the boat-rail, drank in the coolness between parted lips. She had wound a long veil about her hat, but it left her face uncovered, and Archer was struck by the tranquil gaiety of her expression. She seemed to take their adventure as a matter of course, and to be neither in fear of unexpected encounters, nor (what was worse) unduly elated by their possibility. In the bare dining-room of the inn, which he had hoped they would have to themselves, they found a strident party of innocent-looking young men and women--school-teachers on a holiday, the landlord told them--and Archer's heart sank at the idea of having to talk through their noise. "This is hopeless--I'll ask for a private room,"<\|quote\|>he said; and Madame Olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. The room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. It was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which Madame Olenska sat down opposite to him. A woman who had run away from her husband--and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. By being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other.... XXIV. They lunched slowly and meditatively, with mute intervals between rushes of talk; for, the spell once broken, they had much to say, and yet moments when saying became the mere accompaniment to long duologues of silence. Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, not with conscious intention but because he did not want to miss a word of her history; and leaning on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, she talked to him of the year and a half since they had met. She had grown tired of what people called "society"; New York was kind, it was almost oppressively hospitable; she should never forget the way in which it had welcomed her back; but after the first flush of novelty she had found herself, as she phrased it, too "different" to care for the things it cared about--and so she had decided to try Washington, where one was supposed to meet more varieties of people and of opinion. And on the whole she should probably settle down in Washington, and make a home there for poor Medora, who had worn out the patience of all her other relations just at the time when she most needed looking after and protecting from matrimonial perils.</\|quote\|>"But Dr. Carver--aren't you afraid of Dr. Carver? I hear he's been staying with you at the Blenkers'." She smiled. "Oh, the Carver danger is over. Dr. Carver is a very clever man. He wants a rich wife to finance his plans, and Medora is simply a good advertisement as a convert." "A convert to what?" "To all sorts of new and crazy social schemes. But, do you know, they interest me more than the blind conformity to tradition--somebody else's tradition--that I see among our own friends. It seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it into a copy of another country." She smiled across the table. "Do you suppose Christopher Columbus would have taken all that trouble just to go to the Opera with the Selfridge Merrys?" Archer changed colour. "And Beaufort--do you say these things to Beaufort?" he asked abruptly. "I haven't seen him for a long time. But I used to; and he understands." "Ah, it's what I've always told you; you don't like us. And you like Beaufort because he's so unlike us." He looked about the bare room and out at the bare beach and the row of stark white village houses strung	windows that made talk impossible they bumped over the disjointed cobblestones to the wharf. Seated side by side on a bench of the half-empty boat they found that they had hardly anything to say to each other, or rather that what they had to say communicated itself best in the blessed silence of their release and their isolation. As the paddle-wheels began to turn, and wharves and shipping to recede through the veil of heat, it seemed to Archer that everything in the old familiar world of habit was receding also. He longed to ask Madame Olenska if she did not have the same feeling: the feeling that they were starting on some long voyage from which they might never return. But he was afraid to say it, or anything else that might disturb the delicate balance of her trust in him. In reality he had no wish to betray that trust. There had been days and nights when the memory of their kiss had burned and burned on his lips; the day before even, on the drive to Portsmouth, the thought of her had run through him like fire; but now that she was beside him, and they were drifting forth into this unknown world, they seemed to have reached the kind of deeper nearness that a touch may sunder. As the boat left the harbour and turned seaward a breeze stirred about them and the bay broke up into long oily undulations, then into ripples tipped with spray. The fog of sultriness still hung over the city, but ahead lay a fresh world of ruffled waters, and distant promontories with light-houses in the sun. Madame Olenska, leaning back against the boat-rail, drank in the coolness between parted lips. She had wound a long veil about her hat, but it left her face uncovered, and Archer was struck by the tranquil gaiety of her expression. She seemed to take their adventure as a matter of course, and to be neither in fear of unexpected encounters, nor (what was worse) unduly elated by their possibility. In the bare dining-room of the inn, which he had hoped they would have to themselves, they found a strident party of innocent-looking young men and women--school-teachers on a holiday, the landlord told them--and Archer's heart sank at the idea of having to talk through their noise. "This is hopeless--I'll ask for a private room,"<\|quote\|>he said; and Madame Olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. The room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. It was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which Madame Olenska sat down opposite to him. A woman who had run away from her husband--and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. By being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other.... XXIV. They lunched slowly and meditatively, with mute intervals between rushes of talk; for, the spell once broken, they had much to say, and yet moments when saying became the mere accompaniment to long duologues of silence. Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, not with conscious intention but because he did not want to miss a word of her history; and leaning on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, she talked to him of the year and a half since they had met. She had grown tired of what people called "society"; New York was kind, it was almost oppressively hospitable; she should never forget the way in which it had welcomed her back; but after the first flush of novelty she had found herself, as she phrased it, too "different" to care for the things it cared about--and so she had decided to try Washington, where one was supposed to meet more varieties of people and of opinion. And on the whole she should probably settle down in Washington, and make a home there for poor Medora, who had worn out the patience of all her other relations just at the time when she most needed looking after and protecting from matrimonial perils.</\|quote\|>"But Dr. Carver--aren't you afraid of Dr. Carver? I hear he's been staying with you at the Blenkers'." She smiled. "Oh, the Carver danger is over. Dr. Carver is a very clever man. He wants a rich wife to finance his plans, and Medora is simply a good advertisement as a convert." "A convert to what?" "To all sorts of new and crazy social schemes. But, do you know, they interest me more than the blind conformity to tradition--somebody else's tradition--that I see among our own friends. It seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it into a copy of another country." She smiled across the table. "Do you suppose Christopher Columbus would have taken all that trouble just to go to the Opera with the Selfridge Merrys?" Archer changed colour. "And Beaufort--do you say these things to Beaufort?" he asked abruptly. "I haven't seen him for a long time. But I used to; and he understands." "Ah, it's what I've always told you; you don't like us. And you like Beaufort because he's so unlike us." He looked about the bare room and out at the bare beach and the row of stark white village houses strung along the shore. "We're damnably dull. We've no character, no colour, no variety.--I wonder," he broke out, "why you don't go back?" Her eyes darkened, and he expected an indignant rejoinder. But she sat silent, as if thinking over what he had said, and he grew frightened lest she should answer that she wondered too. At length she said: "I believe it's because of you." It was impossible to make the confession more dispassionately, or in a tone less encouraging to the vanity of the person addressed. Archer reddened to the temples, but dared not move or speak: it was as if her words had been some rare butterfly that the least motion might drive off on startled wings, but that might gather a flock about it if it were left undisturbed. "At least," she continued, "it was you who made me understand that under the dullness there are things so fine and sensitive and delicate that even those I most cared for in my other life look cheap in comparison. I don't know how to explain myself" "--she drew together her troubled brows--" "but it seems as if I'd never before understood with how much that is hard and	among the travellers with cooling drinks at their elbows of whom Archer had caught a glimpse as she went in? He waited, pacing up and down before the herdic. A Sicilian youth with eyes like Nastasia's offered to shine his boots, and an Irish matron to sell him peaches; and every few moments the doors opened to let out hot men with straw hats tilted far back, who glanced at him as they went by. He marvelled that the door should open so often, and that all the people it let out should look so like each other, and so like all the other hot men who, at that hour, through the length and breadth of the land, were passing continuously in and out of the swinging doors of hotels. And then, suddenly, came a face that he could not relate to the other faces. He caught but a flash of it, for his pacings had carried him to the farthest point of his beat, and it was in turning back to the hotel that he saw, in a group of typical countenances--the lank and weary, the round and surprised, the lantern-jawed and mild--this other face that was so many more things at once, and things so different. It was that of a young man, pale too, and half-extinguished by the heat, or worry, or both, but somehow, quicker, vivider, more conscious; or perhaps seeming so because he was so different. Archer hung a moment on a thin thread of memory, but it snapped and floated off with the disappearing face--apparently that of some foreign business man, looking doubly foreign in such a setting. He vanished in the stream of passersby, and Archer resumed his patrol. He did not care to be seen watch in hand within view of the hotel, and his unaided reckoning of the lapse of time led him to conclude that, if Madame Olenska was so long in reappearing, it could only be because she had met the emissary and been waylaid by him. At the thought Archer's apprehension rose to anguish. "If she doesn't come soon I'll go in and find her," he said. The doors swung open again and she was at his side. They got into the herdic, and as it drove off he took out his watch and saw that she had been absent just three minutes. In the clatter of loose windows that made talk impossible they bumped over the disjointed cobblestones to the wharf. Seated side by side on a bench of the half-empty boat they found that they had hardly anything to say to each other, or rather that what they had to say communicated itself best in the blessed silence of their release and their isolation. As the paddle-wheels began to turn, and wharves and shipping to recede through the veil of heat, it seemed to Archer that everything in the old familiar world of habit was receding also. He longed to ask Madame Olenska if she did not have the same feeling: the feeling that they were starting on some long voyage from which they might never return. But he was afraid to say it, or anything else that might disturb the delicate balance of her trust in him. In reality he had no wish to betray that trust. There had been days and nights when the memory of their kiss had burned and burned on his lips; the day before even, on the drive to Portsmouth, the thought of her had run through him like fire; but now that she was beside him, and they were drifting forth into this unknown world, they seemed to have reached the kind of deeper nearness that a touch may sunder. As the boat left the harbour and turned seaward a breeze stirred about them and the bay broke up into long oily undulations, then into ripples tipped with spray. The fog of sultriness still hung over the city, but ahead lay a fresh world of ruffled waters, and distant promontories with light-houses in the sun. Madame Olenska, leaning back against the boat-rail, drank in the coolness between parted lips. She had wound a long veil about her hat, but it left her face uncovered, and Archer was struck by the tranquil gaiety of her expression. She seemed to take their adventure as a matter of course, and to be neither in fear of unexpected encounters, nor (what was worse) unduly elated by their possibility. In the bare dining-room of the inn, which he had hoped they would have to themselves, they found a strident party of innocent-looking young men and women--school-teachers on a holiday, the landlord told them--and Archer's heart sank at the idea of having to talk through their noise. "This is hopeless--I'll ask for a private room,"<\|quote\|>he said; and Madame Olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. The room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. It was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which Madame Olenska sat down opposite to him. A woman who had run away from her husband--and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. By being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other.... XXIV. They lunched slowly and meditatively, with mute intervals between rushes of talk; for, the spell once broken, they had much to say, and yet moments when saying became the mere accompaniment to long duologues of silence. Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, not with conscious intention but because he did not want to miss a word of her history; and leaning on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, she talked to him of the year and a half since they had met. She had grown tired of what people called "society"; New York was kind, it was almost oppressively hospitable; she should never forget the way in which it had welcomed her back; but after the first flush of novelty she had found herself, as she phrased it, too "different" to care for the things it cared about--and so she had decided to try Washington, where one was supposed to meet more varieties of people and of opinion. And on the whole she should probably settle down in Washington, and make a home there for poor Medora, who had worn out the patience of all her other relations just at the time when she most needed looking after and protecting from matrimonial perils.</\|quote\|>"But Dr. Carver--aren't you afraid of Dr. Carver? I hear he's been staying with you at the Blenkers'." She smiled. "Oh, the Carver danger is over. Dr. Carver is a very clever man. He wants a rich wife to finance his plans, and Medora is simply a good advertisement as a convert." "A convert to what?" "To all sorts of new and crazy social schemes. But, do you know, they interest me more than the blind conformity to tradition--somebody else's tradition--that I see among our own friends. It seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it into a copy of another country." She smiled across the table. "Do you suppose Christopher Columbus would have taken all that trouble just to go to the Opera with the Selfridge Merrys?" Archer changed colour. "And Beaufort--do you say these things to Beaufort?" he asked abruptly. "I haven't seen him for a long time. But I used to; and he understands." "Ah, it's what I've always told you; you don't like us. And you like Beaufort because he's so unlike us." He looked about the bare room and out at the bare beach and the row of stark white village houses strung along the shore. "We're damnably dull. We've no character, no colour, no variety.--I wonder," he broke out, "why you don't go back?" Her eyes darkened, and he expected an indignant rejoinder. But she sat silent, as if thinking over what he had said, and he grew frightened lest she should answer that she wondered too. At length she said: "I believe it's because of you." It was impossible to make the confession more dispassionately, or in a tone less encouraging to the vanity of the person addressed. Archer reddened to the temples, but dared not move or speak: it was as if her words had been some rare butterfly that the least motion might drive off on startled wings, but that might gather a flock about it if it were left undisturbed. "At least," she continued, "it was you who made me understand that under the dullness there are things so fine and sensitive and delicate that even those I most cared for in my other life look cheap in comparison. I don't know how to explain myself" "--she drew together her troubled brows--" "but it seems as if I'd never before understood with how much that is hard and shabby and base the most exquisite pleasures may be paid." "Exquisite pleasures--it's something to have had them!" he felt like retorting; but the appeal in her eyes kept him silent. "I want," she went on, "to be perfectly honest with you--and with myself. For a long time I've hoped this chance would come: that I might tell you how you've helped me, what you've made of me--" Archer sat staring beneath frowning brows. He interrupted her with a laugh. "And what do you make out that you've made of me?" She paled a little. "Of you?" "Yes: for I'm of your making much more than you ever were of mine. I'm the man who married one woman because another one told him to." Her paleness turned to a fugitive flush. "I thought--you promised--you were not to say such things today." "Ah--how like a woman! None of you will ever see a bad business through!" She lowered her voice. "IS it a bad business--for May?" He stood in the window, drumming against the raised sash, and feeling in every fibre the wistful tenderness with which she had spoken her cousin's name. "For that's the thing we've always got to think of--haven't we--by your own showing?" she insisted. "My own showing?" he echoed, his blank eyes still on the sea. "Or if not," she continued, pursuing her own thought with a painful application, "if it's not worth while to have given up, to have missed things, so that others may be saved from disillusionment and misery--then everything I came home for, everything that made my other life seem by contrast so bare and so poor because no one there took account of them--all these things are a sham or a dream--" He turned around without moving from his place. "And in that case there's no reason on earth why you shouldn't go back?" he concluded for her. Her eyes were clinging to him desperately. "Oh, IS there no reason?" "Not if you staked your all on the success of my marriage. My marriage," he said savagely, "isn't going to be a sight to keep you here." She made no answer, and he went on: "What's the use? You gave me my first glimpse of a real life, and at the same moment you asked me to go on with a sham one. It's beyond human enduring--that's all." "Oh, don't say that; when	within view of the hotel, and his unaided reckoning of the lapse of time led him to conclude that, if Madame Olenska was so long in reappearing, it could only be because she had met the emissary and been waylaid by him. At the thought Archer's apprehension rose to anguish. "If she doesn't come soon I'll go in and find her," he said. The doors swung open again and she was at his side. They got into the herdic, and as it drove off he took out his watch and saw that she had been absent just three minutes. In the clatter of loose windows that made talk impossible they bumped over the disjointed cobblestones to the wharf. Seated side by side on a bench of the half-empty boat they found that they had hardly anything to say to each other, or rather that what they had to say communicated itself best in the blessed silence of their release and their isolation. As the paddle-wheels began to turn, and wharves and shipping to recede through the veil of heat, it seemed to Archer that everything in the old familiar world of habit was receding also. He longed to ask Madame Olenska if she did not have the same feeling: the feeling that they were starting on some long voyage from which they might never return. But he was afraid to say it, or anything else that might disturb the delicate balance of her trust in him. In reality he had no wish to betray that trust. There had been days and nights when the memory of their kiss had burned and burned on his lips; the day before even, on the drive to Portsmouth, the thought of her had run through him like fire; but now that she was beside him, and they were drifting forth into this unknown world, they seemed to have reached the kind of deeper nearness that a touch may sunder. As the boat left the harbour and turned seaward a breeze stirred about them and the bay broke up into long oily undulations, then into ripples tipped with spray. The fog of sultriness still hung over the city, but ahead lay a fresh world of ruffled waters, and distant promontories with light-houses in the sun. Madame Olenska, leaning back against the boat-rail, drank in the coolness between parted lips. She had wound a long veil about her hat, but it left her face uncovered, and Archer was struck by the tranquil gaiety of her expression. She seemed to take their adventure as a matter of course, and to be neither in fear of unexpected encounters, nor (what was worse) unduly elated by their possibility. In the bare dining-room of the inn, which he had hoped they would have to themselves, they found a strident party of innocent-looking young men and women--school-teachers on a holiday, the landlord told them--and Archer's heart sank at the idea of having to talk through their noise. "This is hopeless--I'll ask for a private room,"<\|quote\|>he said; and Madame Olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. The room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. It was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which Madame Olenska sat down opposite to him. A woman who had run away from her husband--and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. By being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other.... XXIV. They lunched slowly and meditatively, with mute intervals between rushes of talk; for, the spell once broken, they had much to say, and yet moments when saying became the mere accompaniment to long duologues of silence. Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, not with conscious intention but because he did not want to miss a word of her history; and leaning on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, she talked to him of the year and a half since they had met. She had grown tired of what people called "society"; New York was kind, it was almost oppressively hospitable; she should never forget the way in which it had welcomed her back; but after the first flush of novelty she had found herself, as she phrased it, too "different" to care for the things it cared about--and so she had decided to try Washington, where one was supposed to meet more varieties of people and of opinion. And on the whole she should probably settle down in Washington, and make a home there for poor Medora, who had worn out the patience of all her other relations just at the time when she most needed looking after and protecting from matrimonial perils.</\|quote\|>"But Dr. Carver--aren't you afraid of Dr. Carver? I hear he's been staying with you at the Blenkers'." She smiled. "Oh, the Carver danger is over. Dr. Carver is a very clever man. He wants a rich wife to finance his plans, and Medora is simply a good advertisement as a convert." "A convert to what?" "To all sorts of new and crazy social schemes. But, do you know, they interest me more than the blind conformity to tradition--somebody else's tradition--that I see among our own friends. It seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it into a copy of another country." She smiled across the table. "Do you suppose Christopher Columbus would have taken all that trouble just to go to the Opera with the Selfridge Merrys?" Archer changed colour. "And Beaufort--do you say these things to Beaufort?" he asked abruptly. "I haven't seen him for a long time. But I used to; and he understands." "Ah, it's what I've always told you; you don't like us. And you like Beaufort because he's so unlike us." He looked about the bare room and out at the bare beach and the row of stark white village houses strung along the shore. "We're damnably dull. We've no character, no colour, no variety.--I wonder," he broke out, "why you don't go back?" Her eyes darkened, and he expected an indignant rejoinder. But she sat silent, as if thinking over what he had said, and he grew frightened lest she should answer that she wondered too. At length she said: "I believe it's because of you." It was impossible to make the confession more dispassionately, or in a tone less encouraging to the vanity of the person addressed. Archer reddened to the temples, but dared not move or speak: it was as if her words had been some rare butterfly that the least motion might drive off on startled wings, but that might gather a flock about it if it were left undisturbed. "At least," she continued, "it was you who made me understand that under the dullness there are things so fine and sensitive and delicate that even those I most cared for in my other life look cheap in comparison. I don't know how to explain myself" "--she drew together her troubled brows--" "but it seems as if I'd never before understood with how much that is hard and shabby and base the most exquisite pleasures may be paid." "Exquisite pleasures--it's something to have had them!" he felt like retorting; but the appeal in her eyes kept him silent. "I want,"	The Age Of Innocence
"I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals--and we, at our age, can t change houses. It s humiliating."	Margaret	easy as eating," returned Helen.<\|quote\|>"I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals--and we, at our age, can t change houses. It s humiliating."</\|quote\|>"Your father may have been	one?" "It will be as easy as eating," returned Helen.<\|quote\|>"I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals--and we, at our age, can t change houses. It s humiliating."</\|quote\|>"Your father may have been able to change countries," said	the sort. Say yes." "Say no. " Then Margaret spoke rather seriously. "I think," she said, "that our race is degenerating. We cannot settle even this little thing; what will it be like when we have to settle a big one?" "It will be as easy as eating," returned Helen.<\|quote\|>"I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals--and we, at our age, can t change houses. It s humiliating."</\|quote\|>"Your father may have been able to change countries," said Mrs. Munt with asperity, "and that may or may not be a good thing. But he could change houses no better than you can, in fact, much worse. Never shall I forget what poor Emily suffered in the move from	"Now, children, which is it to be? You know the Ducie Street house. Shall I say yes or shall I say no? Tibby love--which? I m specially anxious to pin you both." "It all depends on what meaning you attach to the word possible " "It depends on nothing of the sort. Say yes." "Say no. " Then Margaret spoke rather seriously. "I think," she said, "that our race is degenerating. We cannot settle even this little thing; what will it be like when we have to settle a big one?" "It will be as easy as eating," returned Helen.<\|quote\|>"I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals--and we, at our age, can t change houses. It s humiliating."</\|quote\|>"Your father may have been able to change countries," said Mrs. Munt with asperity, "and that may or may not be a good thing. But he could change houses no better than you can, in fact, much worse. Never shall I forget what poor Emily suffered in the move from Manchester." "I knew it," cried Helen. "I told you so. It is the little things one bungles at. The big, real ones are nothing when they come." "Bungle, my dear! You are too little to recollect--in fact, you weren t there. But the furniture was actually in the vans and	"I don t MANAGE the Wilcoxes; I don t see where they come IN." "No more do I," agreed Helen. "It s funny that we just don t lose sight of them. Out of all our hotel acquaintances, Mr. Wilcox is the only one who has stuck. It is now over three years, and we have drifted away from far more interesting people in that time." "Interesting people don t get one houses." "Meg, if you start in your honest-English vein, I shall throw the treacle at you." "It s a better vein than the cosmopolitan," said Margaret, getting up. "Now, children, which is it to be? You know the Ducie Street house. Shall I say yes or shall I say no? Tibby love--which? I m specially anxious to pin you both." "It all depends on what meaning you attach to the word possible " "It depends on nothing of the sort. Say yes." "Say no. " Then Margaret spoke rather seriously. "I think," she said, "that our race is degenerating. We cannot settle even this little thing; what will it be like when we have to settle a big one?" "It will be as easy as eating," returned Helen.<\|quote\|>"I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals--and we, at our age, can t change houses. It s humiliating."</\|quote\|>"Your father may have been able to change countries," said Mrs. Munt with asperity, "and that may or may not be a good thing. But he could change houses no better than you can, in fact, much worse. Never shall I forget what poor Emily suffered in the move from Manchester." "I knew it," cried Helen. "I told you so. It is the little things one bungles at. The big, real ones are nothing when they come." "Bungle, my dear! You are too little to recollect--in fact, you weren t there. But the furniture was actually in the vans and on the move before the lease for Wickham Place was signed, and Emily took train with baby--who was Margaret then--and the smaller luggage for London, without so much as knowing where her new home would be. Getting away from that house may be hard, but it is nothing to the misery that we all went through getting you into it." Helen, with her mouth full, cried: "And that s the man who beat the Austrians, and the Danes, and the French, and who beat the Germans that were inside himself. And we re like him." "Speak for yourself," said Tibby.	would seem strange to the others. As soon as she began speaking, the sound of her own voice reassured her. There could be nothing in it. The replies also were typical, and in the burr of conversation her fears vanished. "You needn t go though--" began her hostess. "I needn t, but hadn t I better? It s really getting rather serious. We let chance after chance slip, and the end of it is we shall be bundled out bag and baggage into the street. We don t know what we WANT, that s the mischief with us--" "No, we have no real ties," said Helen, helping herself to toast. "Shan t I go up to town to-day, take the house if it s the least possible, and then come down by the afternoon train to-morrow, and start enjoying myself. I shall be no fun to myself or to others until this business is off my mind." "But you won t do anything rash, Margaret?" "There s nothing rash to do." "Who ARE the Wilcoxes?" said Tibby, a question that sounds silly, but was really extremely subtle as his aunt found to her cost when she tried to answer it. "I don t MANAGE the Wilcoxes; I don t see where they come IN." "No more do I," agreed Helen. "It s funny that we just don t lose sight of them. Out of all our hotel acquaintances, Mr. Wilcox is the only one who has stuck. It is now over three years, and we have drifted away from far more interesting people in that time." "Interesting people don t get one houses." "Meg, if you start in your honest-English vein, I shall throw the treacle at you." "It s a better vein than the cosmopolitan," said Margaret, getting up. "Now, children, which is it to be? You know the Ducie Street house. Shall I say yes or shall I say no? Tibby love--which? I m specially anxious to pin you both." "It all depends on what meaning you attach to the word possible " "It depends on nothing of the sort. Say yes." "Say no. " Then Margaret spoke rather seriously. "I think," she said, "that our race is degenerating. We cannot settle even this little thing; what will it be like when we have to settle a big one?" "It will be as easy as eating," returned Helen.<\|quote\|>"I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals--and we, at our age, can t change houses. It s humiliating."</\|quote\|>"Your father may have been able to change countries," said Mrs. Munt with asperity, "and that may or may not be a good thing. But he could change houses no better than you can, in fact, much worse. Never shall I forget what poor Emily suffered in the move from Manchester." "I knew it," cried Helen. "I told you so. It is the little things one bungles at. The big, real ones are nothing when they come." "Bungle, my dear! You are too little to recollect--in fact, you weren t there. But the furniture was actually in the vans and on the move before the lease for Wickham Place was signed, and Emily took train with baby--who was Margaret then--and the smaller luggage for London, without so much as knowing where her new home would be. Getting away from that house may be hard, but it is nothing to the misery that we all went through getting you into it." Helen, with her mouth full, cried: "And that s the man who beat the Austrians, and the Danes, and the French, and who beat the Germans that were inside himself. And we re like him." "Speak for yourself," said Tibby. "Remember that I am cosmopolitan, please." "Helen may be right." "Of course she s right," said Helen. Helen might be right, but she did not go up to London. Margaret did that. An interrupted holiday is the worst of the minor worries, and one may be pardoned for feeling morbid when a business letter snatches one away from the sea and friends. She could not believe that her father had ever felt the same. Her eyes had been troubling her lately, so that she could not read in the train and it bored her to look at the landscape, which she had seen but yesterday. At Southampton she "waved" to Frieda; Frieda was on her way down to join them at Swanage, and Mrs. Munt had calculated that their trains would cross. But Frieda was looking the other way, and Margaret travelled on to town feeling solitary and old-maidish. How like an old maid to fancy that Mr. Wilcox was courting her! She had once visited a spinster--poor, silly, and unattractive--whose mania it was that every man who approached her fell in love. How Margaret s heart had bled for the deluded thing! How she had lectured, reasoned, and in	time they finished lunch, and Margaret, who had excused herself from the Hippodrome, took her leave. Evie had scarcely addressed her, and she suspected that the entertainment had been planned by the father. He and she were advancing out of their respective families towards a more intimate acquaintance. It had begun long ago. She had been his wife s friend and, as such, he had given her that silver vinaigrette as a memento. It was pretty of him to have given that vinaigrette, and he had always preferred her to Helen--unlike most men. But the advance had been astonishing lately. They had done more in a week than in two years, and were really beginning to know each other. She did not forget his promise to sample Eustace Miles, and asked him as soon as she could secure Tibby as his chaperon. He came, and partook of body-building dishes with humility. Next morning the Schlegels left for Swanage. They had not succeeded in finding a new home. CHAPTER XVIII As they were seated at Aunt Juley s breakfast-table at The Bays, parrying her excessive hospitality and enjoying the view of the bay, a letter came for Margaret and threw her into perturbation. It was from Mr. Wilcox. It announced an "important change" in his plans. Owing to Evie s marriage, he had decided to give up his house in Ducie Street, and was willing to let it on a yearly tenancy. It was a businesslike letter, and stated frankly what he would do for them and what he would not do. Also the rent. If they approved, Margaret was to come up AT ONCE--the words were underlined, as is necessary when dealing with women--and to go over the house with him. If they disapproved, a wire would oblige, as he should put it into the hands of an agent. The letter perturbed, because she was not sure what it meant. If he liked her, if he had manoeuvred to get her to Simpson s, might this be a manoeuvre to get her to London, and result in an offer of marriage? She put it to herself as indelicately as possible, in the hope that her brain would cry, "Rubbish, you re a self-conscious fool!" But her brain only tingled a little and was silent, and for a time she sat gazing at the mincing waves, and wondering whether the news would seem strange to the others. As soon as she began speaking, the sound of her own voice reassured her. There could be nothing in it. The replies also were typical, and in the burr of conversation her fears vanished. "You needn t go though--" began her hostess. "I needn t, but hadn t I better? It s really getting rather serious. We let chance after chance slip, and the end of it is we shall be bundled out bag and baggage into the street. We don t know what we WANT, that s the mischief with us--" "No, we have no real ties," said Helen, helping herself to toast. "Shan t I go up to town to-day, take the house if it s the least possible, and then come down by the afternoon train to-morrow, and start enjoying myself. I shall be no fun to myself or to others until this business is off my mind." "But you won t do anything rash, Margaret?" "There s nothing rash to do." "Who ARE the Wilcoxes?" said Tibby, a question that sounds silly, but was really extremely subtle as his aunt found to her cost when she tried to answer it. "I don t MANAGE the Wilcoxes; I don t see where they come IN." "No more do I," agreed Helen. "It s funny that we just don t lose sight of them. Out of all our hotel acquaintances, Mr. Wilcox is the only one who has stuck. It is now over three years, and we have drifted away from far more interesting people in that time." "Interesting people don t get one houses." "Meg, if you start in your honest-English vein, I shall throw the treacle at you." "It s a better vein than the cosmopolitan," said Margaret, getting up. "Now, children, which is it to be? You know the Ducie Street house. Shall I say yes or shall I say no? Tibby love--which? I m specially anxious to pin you both." "It all depends on what meaning you attach to the word possible " "It depends on nothing of the sort. Say yes." "Say no. " Then Margaret spoke rather seriously. "I think," she said, "that our race is degenerating. We cannot settle even this little thing; what will it be like when we have to settle a big one?" "It will be as easy as eating," returned Helen.<\|quote\|>"I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals--and we, at our age, can t change houses. It s humiliating."</\|quote\|>"Your father may have been able to change countries," said Mrs. Munt with asperity, "and that may or may not be a good thing. But he could change houses no better than you can, in fact, much worse. Never shall I forget what poor Emily suffered in the move from Manchester." "I knew it," cried Helen. "I told you so. It is the little things one bungles at. The big, real ones are nothing when they come." "Bungle, my dear! You are too little to recollect--in fact, you weren t there. But the furniture was actually in the vans and on the move before the lease for Wickham Place was signed, and Emily took train with baby--who was Margaret then--and the smaller luggage for London, without so much as knowing where her new home would be. Getting away from that house may be hard, but it is nothing to the misery that we all went through getting you into it." Helen, with her mouth full, cried: "And that s the man who beat the Austrians, and the Danes, and the French, and who beat the Germans that were inside himself. And we re like him." "Speak for yourself," said Tibby. "Remember that I am cosmopolitan, please." "Helen may be right." "Of course she s right," said Helen. Helen might be right, but she did not go up to London. Margaret did that. An interrupted holiday is the worst of the minor worries, and one may be pardoned for feeling morbid when a business letter snatches one away from the sea and friends. She could not believe that her father had ever felt the same. Her eyes had been troubling her lately, so that she could not read in the train and it bored her to look at the landscape, which she had seen but yesterday. At Southampton she "waved" to Frieda; Frieda was on her way down to join them at Swanage, and Mrs. Munt had calculated that their trains would cross. But Frieda was looking the other way, and Margaret travelled on to town feeling solitary and old-maidish. How like an old maid to fancy that Mr. Wilcox was courting her! She had once visited a spinster--poor, silly, and unattractive--whose mania it was that every man who approached her fell in love. How Margaret s heart had bled for the deluded thing! How she had lectured, reasoned, and in despair acquiesced! "I may have been deceived by the curate, my dear, but the young fellow who brings the midday post really is fond of me, and has, as a matter of fact--" It had always seemed to her the most hideous corner of old age, yet she might be driven into it herself by the mere pressure of virginity. Mr. Wilcox met her at Waterloo himself. She felt certain that he was not the same as usual; for one thing, he took offence at everything she said. "This is awfully kind of you," she began, "but I m afraid it s not going to do. The house has not been built that suits the Schlegel family." "What! Have you come up determined not to deal?" "Not exactly." "Not exactly? In that case let s be starting." She lingered to admire the motor, which was new, and a fairer creature than the vermilion giant that had borne Aunt Juley to her doom three years before. "Presumably it s very beautiful," she said. "How do you like it, Crane?" "Come, let s be starting," repeated her host. "How on earth did you know that my chauffeur was called Crane?" "Why, I know Crane; I ve been for a drive with Evie once. I know that you ve got a parlourmaid called Milton. I know all sorts of things." "Evie!" he echoed in injured tones. "You won t see her. She s gone out with Cahill. It s no fun, I can tell you, being left so much alone. I ve got my work all day--indeed, a great deal too much of it--but when I come home in the evening, I tell you, I can t stand the house." "In my absurd way, I m lonely too," Margaret replied. "It s heart-breaking to leave one s old home. I scarcely remember anything before Wickham Place, and Helen and Tibby were born there. Helen says--" "You, too, feel lonely?" "Horribly. Hullo, Parliament s back!" Mr. Wilcox glanced at Parliament contemptuously. The more important ropes of life lay elsewhere. "Yes, they are talking again," said he. "But you were going to say--" "Only some rubbish about furniture. Helen says it alone endures while men and houses perish, and that in the end the world will be a desert of chairs and sofas--just imagine it!--rolling through infinity with no one to sit upon them." "Your	as he should put it into the hands of an agent. The letter perturbed, because she was not sure what it meant. If he liked her, if he had manoeuvred to get her to Simpson s, might this be a manoeuvre to get her to London, and result in an offer of marriage? She put it to herself as indelicately as possible, in the hope that her brain would cry, "Rubbish, you re a self-conscious fool!" But her brain only tingled a little and was silent, and for a time she sat gazing at the mincing waves, and wondering whether the news would seem strange to the others. As soon as she began speaking, the sound of her own voice reassured her. There could be nothing in it. The replies also were typical, and in the burr of conversation her fears vanished. "You needn t go though--" began her hostess. "I needn t, but hadn t I better? It s really getting rather serious. We let chance after chance slip, and the end of it is we shall be bundled out bag and baggage into the street. We don t know what we WANT, that s the mischief with us--" "No, we have no real ties," said Helen, helping herself to toast. "Shan t I go up to town to-day, take the house if it s the least possible, and then come down by the afternoon train to-morrow, and start enjoying myself. I shall be no fun to myself or to others until this business is off my mind." "But you won t do anything rash, Margaret?" "There s nothing rash to do." "Who ARE the Wilcoxes?" said Tibby, a question that sounds silly, but was really extremely subtle as his aunt found to her cost when she tried to answer it. "I don t MANAGE the Wilcoxes; I don t see where they come IN." "No more do I," agreed Helen. "It s funny that we just don t lose sight of them. Out of all our hotel acquaintances, Mr. Wilcox is the only one who has stuck. It is now over three years, and we have drifted away from far more interesting people in that time." "Interesting people don t get one houses." "Meg, if you start in your honest-English vein, I shall throw the treacle at you." "It s a better vein than the cosmopolitan," said Margaret, getting up. "Now, children, which is it to be? You know the Ducie Street house. Shall I say yes or shall I say no? Tibby love--which? I m specially anxious to pin you both." "It all depends on what meaning you attach to the word possible " "It depends on nothing of the sort. Say yes." "Say no. " Then Margaret spoke rather seriously. "I think," she said, "that our race is degenerating. We cannot settle even this little thing; what will it be like when we have to settle a big one?" "It will be as easy as eating," returned Helen.<\|quote\|>"I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals--and we, at our age, can t change houses. It s humiliating."</\|quote\|>"Your father may have been able to change countries," said Mrs. Munt with asperity, "and that may or may not be a good thing. But he could change houses no better than you can, in fact, much worse. Never shall I forget what poor Emily suffered in the move from Manchester." "I knew it," cried Helen. "I told you so. It is the little things one bungles at. The big, real ones are nothing when they come." "Bungle, my dear! You are too little to recollect--in fact, you weren t there. But the furniture was actually in the vans and on the move before the lease for Wickham Place was signed, and Emily took train with baby--who was Margaret then--and the smaller luggage for London, without so much as knowing where her new home would be. Getting away from that house may be hard, but it is nothing to the misery that we all went through getting you into it." Helen, with her mouth full, cried: "And that s the man who beat the Austrians, and the Danes, and the French, and who beat the Germans that were inside himself. And we re like him." "Speak for yourself," said Tibby. "Remember that I am cosmopolitan, please." "Helen may be right." "Of course she s right," said Helen. Helen might be right, but she did not go up to London. Margaret did that. An interrupted holiday is the worst of the minor worries, and one may be pardoned for feeling morbid when a business letter snatches one away from the sea and friends. She could not believe that her father had ever felt the same. Her eyes had been troubling her lately, so that she could not read in the train and it bored her to look at the landscape, which she had seen but yesterday. At Southampton she "waved" to Frieda; Frieda was on her way down to join them at Swanage, and Mrs. Munt had calculated that their trains would cross. But Frieda was looking the other way, and Margaret travelled on to town feeling solitary and old-maidish. How like an old maid to fancy that Mr. Wilcox was courting her! She had once visited a	Howards End
"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad."	Mr. Beebe	she has none." "At present?"<\|quote\|>"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad."</\|quote\|>Cecil found his companion interesting.	"I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?"<\|quote\|>"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad."</\|quote\|>Cecil found his companion interesting. "And at present you think	of Freddy--" Cecil continued. "Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable." "She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity. "I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?"<\|quote\|>"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad."</\|quote\|>Cecil found his companion interesting. "And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?" "Well, I must say I've only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her,	very grave. Shall we look in the garden?" "I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs." "The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small." They both laughed, and things began to go better. "The faults of Freddy--" Cecil continued. "Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable." "She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity. "I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?"<\|quote\|>"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad."</\|quote\|>Cecil found his companion interesting. "And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?" "Well, I must say I've only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn't you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn't wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be." "In what way?" Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the	mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. "Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at last, "I insist on extracting tea before evening service." "I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary--I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?" "I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs." "The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small." They both laughed, and things began to go better. "The faults of Freddy--" Cecil continued. "Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable." "She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity. "I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?"<\|quote\|>"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad."</\|quote\|>Cecil found his companion interesting. "And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?" "Well, I must say I've only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn't you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn't wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be." "In what way?" Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the terrace. "I could as easily tell you what tune she'll play next. There was simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them. I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture number two: the string breaks." The sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the string himself. "But the string never broke?" "No. I mightn't have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainly	Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession," said Cecil. "It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also. "I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--for example, Freddy Honeychurch." "Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?" "Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is." Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. "Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at last, "I insist on extracting tea before evening service." "I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary--I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?" "I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs." "The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small." They both laughed, and things began to go better. "The faults of Freddy--" Cecil continued. "Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable." "She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity. "I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?"<\|quote\|>"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad."</\|quote\|>Cecil found his companion interesting. "And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?" "Well, I must say I've only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn't you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn't wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be." "In what way?" Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the terrace. "I could as easily tell you what tune she'll play next. There was simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them. I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture number two: the string breaks." The sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the string himself. "But the string never broke?" "No. I mightn't have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainly have heard Miss Bartlett fall." "It has broken now," said the young man in low, vibrating tones. Immediately he realized that of all the conceited, ludicrous, contemptible ways of announcing an engagement this was the worst. He cursed his love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him? "Broken? What do you mean?" "I meant," said Cecil stiffly, "that she is going to marry me." The clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which he could not keep out of his voice. "I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate with her, or I should never have talked in this flippant, superficial way. Mr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me." And down the garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disappointed. Cecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew down his mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action would get from the world? Of course, he despised the world as a whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement. But he was sensitive to the successive particles of it which he encountered. Occasionally he could	he reflected. "I represent all that he despises. Why should he want me for a brother-in-law?" The Honeychurches were a worthy family, but he began to realize that Lucy was of another clay; and perhaps--he did not put it very definitely--he ought to introduce her into more congenial circles as soon as possible. "Mr. Beebe!" said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street was shown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy's praise of him in her letters from Florence. Cecil greeted him rather critically. "I've come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose that I shall get it?" "I should say so. Food is the thing one does get here--Don't sit in that chair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it." "Pfui!" "I know," said Cecil. "I know. I can't think why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it." For Cecil considered the bone and the Maples' furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into the life that he desired. "I've come for tea and for gossip. Isn't this news?" "News? I don't understand you," said Cecil. "News?" Mr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward. "I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!" "Has he indeed?" said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder. "Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I'll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you." "I'm shockingly stupid over local affairs," said the young man languidly. "I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance." Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession," said Cecil. "It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also. "I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--for example, Freddy Honeychurch." "Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?" "Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is." Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. "Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at last, "I insist on extracting tea before evening service." "I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary--I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?" "I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs." "The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small." They both laughed, and things began to go better. "The faults of Freddy--" Cecil continued. "Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable." "She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity. "I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?"<\|quote\|>"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad."</\|quote\|>Cecil found his companion interesting. "And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?" "Well, I must say I've only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn't you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn't wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be." "In what way?" Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the terrace. "I could as easily tell you what tune she'll play next. There was simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them. I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture number two: the string breaks." The sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the string himself. "But the string never broke?" "No. I mightn't have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainly have heard Miss Bartlett fall." "It has broken now," said the young man in low, vibrating tones. Immediately he realized that of all the conceited, ludicrous, contemptible ways of announcing an engagement this was the worst. He cursed his love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him? "Broken? What do you mean?" "I meant," said Cecil stiffly, "that she is going to marry me." The clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which he could not keep out of his voice. "I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate with her, or I should never have talked in this flippant, superficial way. Mr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me." And down the garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disappointed. Cecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew down his mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action would get from the world? Of course, he despised the world as a whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement. But he was sensitive to the successive particles of it which he encountered. Occasionally he could be quite crude. "I am sorry I have given you a shock," he said dryly. "I fear that Lucy's choice does not meet with your approval." "Not that. But you ought to have stopped me. I know Miss Honeychurch only a little as time goes. Perhaps I oughtn't to have discussed her so freely with any one; certainly not with you." "You are conscious of having said something indiscreet?" Mr. Beebe pulled himself together. Really, Mr. Vyse had the art of placing one in the most tiresome positions. He was driven to use the prerogatives of his profession. "No, I have said nothing indiscreet. I foresaw at Florence that her quiet, uneventful childhood must end, and it has ended. I realized dimly enough that she might take some momentous step. She has taken it. She has learnt--you will let me talk freely, as I have begun freely--she has learnt what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some people will tell you, that our earthly life provides." It was now time for him to wave his hat at the approaching trio. He did not omit to do so. "She has learnt through you," and if his voice was still clerical, it was now also sincere; "let it be your care that her knowledge is profitable to her." "Grazie tante!" said Cecil, who did not like parsons. "Have you heard?" shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she toiled up the sloping garden. "Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?" Freddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wedding march. Youth seldom criticizes the accomplished fact. "Indeed I have!" he cried. He looked at Lucy. In her presence he could not act the parson any longer--at all events not without apology. "Mrs. Honeychurch, I'm going to do what I am always supposed to do, but generally I'm too shy. I want to invoke every kind of blessing on them, grave and gay, great and small. I want them all their lives to be supremely good and supremely happy as husband and wife, as father and mother. And now I want my tea." "You only asked for it just in time," the lady retorted. "How dare you be serious at Windy Corner?" He took his tone from her. There was no more heavy beneficence, no more attempts to dignify the situation with poetry or the Scriptures. None of them dared or was able to be	a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance." Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession," said Cecil. "It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also. "I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--for example, Freddy Honeychurch." "Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?" "Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is." Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. "Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at last, "I insist on extracting tea before evening service." "I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary--I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?" "I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs." "The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small." They both laughed, and things began to go better. "The faults of Freddy--" Cecil continued. "Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable." "She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity. "I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?"<\|quote\|>"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad."</\|quote\|>Cecil found his companion interesting. "And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?" "Well, I must say I've only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn't you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn't wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be." "In what way?" Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the terrace. "I could as easily tell you what tune she'll play next. There was simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them. I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture number two: the string breaks." The sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the string himself. "But the string never broke?" "No. I mightn't have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainly have heard Miss Bartlett fall." "It has broken now," said the young man in low, vibrating tones. Immediately he realized that of all the conceited, ludicrous, contemptible ways of announcing an engagement this was the worst. He cursed his love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him? "Broken? What do you mean?" "I meant," said Cecil stiffly, "that she is going to marry me." The clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which he could not keep out of his voice. "I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate with her, or I should never have talked in this flippant, superficial way. Mr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me." And down the garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disappointed. Cecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew down his mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action would get from the world? Of course, he despised the world as a whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement. But he was sensitive to the successive particles of it which he encountered. Occasionally he could be quite crude. "I am sorry I have given you a shock," he said dryly. "I fear that	A Room With A View
"And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."	Henry Tilney	should stand by your brother."<\|quote\|>"And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."</\|quote\|>Catherine was complimented out of	is very right that you should stand by your brother."<\|quote\|>"And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."</\|quote\|>Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could not	very much in love with him?" "But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that case, she would have met with very different treatment." "It is very right that you should stand by your brother."<\|quote\|>"And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."</\|quote\|>Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She resolved on not answering Isabella s letter, and tried to think no more of it. CHAPTER 28 Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for	that I do not like him at all. Though it has turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens, there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?" "But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that case, she would have met with very different treatment." "It is very right that you should stand by your brother."<\|quote\|>"And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."</\|quote\|>Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She resolved on not answering Isabella s letter, and tried to think no more of it. CHAPTER 28 Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland s company, and anxiously recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children as their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the first experimental	have very little to say for Frederick s motives, such as I believe them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the chief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet injured himself. If the _effect_ of his behaviour does not justify him with you, we had better not seek after the cause." "Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?" "I am persuaded that he never did." "And only made believe to do so for mischief s sake?" Henry bowed his assent. "Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens, there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?" "But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that case, she would have met with very different treatment." "It is very right that you should stand by your brother."<\|quote\|>"And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."</\|quote\|>Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She resolved on not answering Isabella s letter, and tried to think no more of it. CHAPTER 28 Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland s company, and anxiously recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children as their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the first experimental conviction that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The happiness with which their time now passed, every employment voluntary, every laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and good humour, walking where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures, and fatigues at their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the restraint which the general s presence had imposed, and most thankfully feel their present release from it. Such ease and such delights made her love the place and the people more and more every day; and had it not been for a dread of its	Isabella s name mentioned by her again." On Henry s arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor their brother s safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and reading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong indignation. When she had finished it "So much for Isabella," she cried, "and for all our intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she could not have written so; but perhaps this has served to make her character better known to me than mine is to her. I see what she has been about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I do not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and I wish I had never known her." "It will soon be as if you never had," said Henry. "There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has had designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and then fly off himself?" "I have very little to say for Frederick s motives, such as I believe them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the chief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet injured himself. If the _effect_ of his behaviour does not justify him with you, we had better not seek after the cause." "Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?" "I am persuaded that he never did." "And only made believe to do so for mischief s sake?" Henry bowed his assent. "Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens, there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?" "But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that case, she would have met with very different treatment." "It is very right that you should stand by your brother."<\|quote\|>"And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."</\|quote\|>Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She resolved on not answering Isabella s letter, and tried to think no more of it. CHAPTER 28 Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland s company, and anxiously recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children as their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the first experimental conviction that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The happiness with which their time now passed, every employment voluntary, every laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and good humour, walking where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures, and fatigues at their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the restraint which the general s presence had imposed, and most thankfully feel their present release from it. Such ease and such delights made her love the place and the people more and more every day; and had it not been for a dread of its soon becoming expedient to leave the one, and an apprehension of not being equally beloved by the other, she would at each moment of each day have been perfectly happy; but she was now in the fourth week of her visit; before the general came home, the fourth week would be turned, and perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it occurred; and eager to get rid of such a weight on her mind, she very soon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at once, propose going away, and be guided in her conduct by the manner in which her proposal might be taken. Aware that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it difficult to bring forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the first opportunity of being suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor s being in the middle of a speech about something very different, to start forth her obligation of going away very soon. Eleanor looked and declared herself much concerned. She had "hoped for the pleasure of her company for a much longer time had been misled (perhaps by her wishes) to	I would not even look at him. He went into the pump-room afterwards; but I would not have followed him for all the world. Such a contrast between him and your brother! Pray send me some news of the latter I am quite unhappy about him; he seemed so uncomfortable when he went away, with a cold, or something that affected his spirits. I would write to him myself, but have mislaid his direction; and, as I hinted above, am afraid he took something in my conduct amiss. Pray explain everything to his satisfaction; or, if he still harbours any doubt, a line from himself to me, or a call at Putney when next in town, might set all to rights. I have not been to the rooms this age, nor to the play, except going in last night with the Hodges, for a frolic, at half price: they teased me into it; and I was determined they should not say I shut myself up because Tilney was gone. We happened to sit by the Mitchells, and they pretended to be quite surprised to see me out. I knew their spite: at one time they could not be civil to me, but now they are all friendship; but I am not such a fool as to be taken in by them. You know I have a pretty good spirit of my own. Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a turban like mine, as I wore it the week before at the concert, but made wretched work of it it happened to become my odd face, I believe, at least Tilney told me so at the time, and said every eye was upon me; but he is the last man whose word I would take. I wear nothing but purple now: I know I look hideous in it, but no matter it is your dear brother s favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in writing to him and to me, Who ever am, etc. Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine. Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the very first. She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever loved her. Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her excuses were empty, and her demands impudent. "Write to James on her behalf! No, James should never hear Isabella s name mentioned by her again." On Henry s arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor their brother s safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and reading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong indignation. When she had finished it "So much for Isabella," she cried, "and for all our intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she could not have written so; but perhaps this has served to make her character better known to me than mine is to her. I see what she has been about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I do not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and I wish I had never known her." "It will soon be as if you never had," said Henry. "There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has had designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and then fly off himself?" "I have very little to say for Frederick s motives, such as I believe them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the chief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet injured himself. If the _effect_ of his behaviour does not justify him with you, we had better not seek after the cause." "Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?" "I am persuaded that he never did." "And only made believe to do so for mischief s sake?" Henry bowed his assent. "Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens, there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?" "But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that case, she would have met with very different treatment." "It is very right that you should stand by your brother."<\|quote\|>"And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."</\|quote\|>Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She resolved on not answering Isabella s letter, and tried to think no more of it. CHAPTER 28 Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland s company, and anxiously recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children as their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the first experimental conviction that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The happiness with which their time now passed, every employment voluntary, every laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and good humour, walking where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures, and fatigues at their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the restraint which the general s presence had imposed, and most thankfully feel their present release from it. Such ease and such delights made her love the place and the people more and more every day; and had it not been for a dread of its soon becoming expedient to leave the one, and an apprehension of not being equally beloved by the other, she would at each moment of each day have been perfectly happy; but she was now in the fourth week of her visit; before the general came home, the fourth week would be turned, and perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it occurred; and eager to get rid of such a weight on her mind, she very soon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at once, propose going away, and be guided in her conduct by the manner in which her proposal might be taken. Aware that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it difficult to bring forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the first opportunity of being suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor s being in the middle of a speech about something very different, to start forth her obligation of going away very soon. Eleanor looked and declared herself much concerned. She had "hoped for the pleasure of her company for a much longer time had been misled (perhaps by her wishes) to suppose that a much longer visit had been promised and could not but think that if Mr. and Mrs. Morland were aware of the pleasure it was to her to have her there, they would be too generous to hasten her return." Catherine explained: "Oh! As to _that_, Papa and Mamma were in no hurry at all. As long as she was happy, they would always be satisfied." "Then why, might she ask, in such a hurry herself to leave them?" "Oh! Because she had been there so long." "Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you no farther. If you think it long" "Oh! No, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could stay with you as long again." And it was directly settled that, till she had, her leaving them was not even to be thought of. In having this cause of uneasiness so pleasantly removed, the force of the other was likewise weakened. The kindness, the earnestness of Eleanor s manner in pressing her to stay, and Henry s gratified look on being told that her stay was determined, were such sweet proofs of her importance with them, as left her only just so much solicitude as the human mind can never do comfortably without. She did almost always believe that Henry loved her, and quite always that his father and sister loved and even wished her to belong to them; and believing so far, her doubts and anxieties were merely sportive irritations. Henry was not able to obey his father s injunction of remaining wholly at Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence in London, the engagements of his curate at Woodston obliging him to leave them on Saturday for a couple of nights. His loss was not now what it had been while the general was at home; it lessened their gaiety, but did not ruin their comfort; and the two girls agreeing in occupation, and improving in intimacy, found themselves so well sufficient for the time to themselves, that it was eleven o clock, rather a late hour at the abbey, before they quitted the supper-room on the day of Henry s departure. They had just reached the head of the stairs when it seemed, as far as the thickness of the walls would allow them to judge, that a carriage was driving up to the	Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in writing to him and to me, Who ever am, etc. Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine. Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the very first. She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever loved her. Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her excuses were empty, and her demands impudent. "Write to James on her behalf! No, James should never hear Isabella s name mentioned by her again." On Henry s arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor their brother s safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and reading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong indignation. When she had finished it "So much for Isabella," she cried, "and for all our intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she could not have written so; but perhaps this has served to make her character better known to me than mine is to her. I see what she has been about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I do not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and I wish I had never known her." "It will soon be as if you never had," said Henry. "There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has had designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and then fly off himself?" "I have very little to say for Frederick s motives, such as I believe them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the chief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet injured himself. If the _effect_ of his behaviour does not justify him with you, we had better not seek after the cause." "Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?" "I am persuaded that he never did." "And only made believe to do so for mischief s sake?" Henry bowed his assent. "Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens, there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?" "But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that case, she would have met with very different treatment." "It is very right that you should stand by your brother."<\|quote\|>"And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."</\|quote\|>Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She resolved on not answering Isabella s letter, and tried to think no more of it. CHAPTER 28 Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland s company, and anxiously recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children as their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the first experimental conviction that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The happiness with which their time now passed, every employment voluntary, every laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and good humour, walking where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures, and fatigues at their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the restraint which the general s presence had imposed, and most thankfully feel their present release from it. Such ease and such delights made her love the place and the people more and more every day; and had it not been for a dread of its soon becoming expedient to leave the one, and an apprehension of not being equally beloved by the other, she would at each moment of each day have been perfectly happy; but she was now in the fourth week of her visit; before the general came home, the fourth week would be turned, and perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it occurred; and eager to get rid of such a weight on her mind, she very soon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at once, propose	Northanger Abbey
"Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."	Don Lavington	hadn't had any head left."<\|quote\|>"Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."</\|quote\|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come,	he come back if you hadn't had any head left."<\|quote\|>"Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."</\|quote\|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would	or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left."<\|quote\|>"Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."</\|quote\|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?" "You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for	GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY. "Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell." "Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left."<\|quote\|>"Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."</\|quote\|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?" "You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't	THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY. "Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell." "Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left."<\|quote\|>"Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."</\|quote\|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?" "You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't get you back on again. Fortun' indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "And I arn't a bit, Jem Wimble, not a bit. Never you mind him, Master Don, you strike for freedom. Make your uncle give you your father's money, and then off you goes like a man to see life." "Now lookye here," cried the sturdy, broad-faced young fellow who had first spoken, as he picked up a wooden lever used for turning over the great sugar-hogsheads lying in the yard, and hoisting them into a trolly, or beneath the	THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY. "Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell." "Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left."<\|quote\|>"Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."</\|quote\|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?" "You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't get you back on again. Fortun' indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "And I arn't a bit, Jem Wimble, not a bit. Never you mind him, Master Don, you strike for freedom. Make your uncle give you your father's money, and then off you goes like a man to see life." "Now lookye here," cried the sturdy, broad-faced young fellow who had first spoken, as he picked up a wooden lever used for turning over the great sugar-hogsheads lying in the yard, and hoisting them into a trolly, or beneath the crane which raised them into the warehouse. "Lookye here, Mike Bannock, I never did knock a man down with this here wooden bar, but if you gets stirring Mas' Don again, has it you do, right across the back. Spang!" "Be quiet, Jem, and put the bar down," said LinDon Lavington, a dark, well set-up lad of seventeen, as he sat upon the head of a sugar-hogshead with his arms folded, slowly swinging his legs. "No, I sha'n't put the bar down, Mas' Don. Your uncle left me in charge of the yard, and--what yer sitting on the sugar-barrel for when there's a 'bacco hogshead close by? Now just you feel how sticky you are." Don got off the barrel, and made a face, as he proved with one hand the truth of the man's words, and then rubbed his treacly fingers against the warehouse wall. "Your mother'll make a row about that, just as my Sally does when I get molasses on my clothes." "You should teach her to lick it off, Jemmy Wimble," said the rough-looking, red-faced labourer, who had lowered down a sugar-hogshead so rapidly, that he had been within an inch of making it unnecessary to	THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY. "Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell." "Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left."<\|quote\|>"Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."</\|quote\|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?" "You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't get you back on again. Fortun' indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "And I arn't a bit, Jem Wimble, not a bit. Never you mind him, Master Don, you strike for freedom. Make your uncle give you your father's money, and then off you goes like a man to see life." "Now lookye here," cried the sturdy, broad-faced young fellow who had first spoken, as he picked up a wooden lever used for turning over the great sugar-hogsheads lying in the yard, and hoisting them into a trolly, or beneath the crane which raised them into the warehouse. "Lookye here, Mike Bannock, I never did knock a man down with this here wooden bar, but if you gets stirring Mas' Don again, has it you do, right across the back. Spang!" "Be quiet, Jem, and put the bar down," said LinDon Lavington, a dark, well set-up lad of seventeen, as he sat upon the head of a sugar-hogshead with his arms folded, slowly swinging his legs. "No, I sha'n't put the bar down, Mas' Don. Your uncle left me in charge of the yard, and--what yer sitting on the sugar-barrel for when there's a 'bacco hogshead close by? Now just you feel how sticky you are." Don got off the barrel, and made a face, as he proved with one hand the truth of the man's words, and then rubbed his treacly fingers against the warehouse wall. "Your mother'll make a row about that, just as my Sally does when I get molasses on my clothes." "You should teach her to lick it off, Jemmy Wimble," said the rough-looking, red-faced labourer, who had lowered down a sugar-hogshead so rapidly, that he had been within an inch of making it unnecessary to write Don Lavington's life, from the fact of there being no life to write. "You mind your own business, Mike," said Jem, indignantly. "That's what I'm a-doing of, and a-waiting for orders, Mr Jem Wimble. He's hen-pecked, Mas' Don, that what's the matter with him. Been married only three months, and he's hen-pecked. Haw-haw-haw! Poor old cock-bird! Hen-pecked! Haw-haw-haw!" Jem Wimble, general worker in the warehouse and yard of Josiah Christmas, West India merchant, of River Street, Bristol, gave Mike the labourer an angry look, as he turned as red as a blushing girl. "Lookye here," he cried angrily, as Don, who had reseated himself, this time on a hogshead crammed full of compressed tobacco-leaves from Baltimore, swung his legs, and looked on in a half-moody, half-amused way; "the best thing that could happen for Christmas' Ward and for Bristol City, would be for the press-gang to get hold o' you, and take you off to sea." "Haw-haw-haw!" laughed the swarthy, red-faced fellow. "Why don't you give 'em the word, and have me pressed?" "No coming back to be begged on then by Miss Kitty and Mas' Don, after being drunk for a week. You're a bad 'un, that's what you are, Mike Bannock, and I wish the master wouldn't have you here." "Not such a hard nut as you are, Jemmy," said the man with a chuckle. "Sailors won't take me--don't want cripples to go aloft. Lookye here, Mas' Don, there's a leg." As he spoke, the great idle-looking fellow limped slowly, with an exaggerated display of lameness, to and fro past the door of the office. "Get out, Mike," said Don, as the man stopped. "I believe that's nearly all sham." "That's a true word, Mas' Don," cried Jem. "He's only lame when he thinks about it. And now do please go on totting up, and let's get these casks shifted 'fore your uncle comes back." "Well, I'm waiting, Jem," cried the lad, opening a book he had under his arm, and in which a pencil was shut. "I could put down fifty, while you are moving one." "That's all right, sir; that's all right. I only want to keep things straight, and not have your uncle rowing you when he comes back. Seems to me as life's getting to be one jolly row. What with my Sally at home, and your uncle here, and you always down	THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY. "Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell." "Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left."<\|quote\|>"Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."</\|quote\|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?" "You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't get you back on again. Fortun' indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "And I arn't a bit, Jem Wimble, not a bit. Never you mind him, Master Don, you strike for freedom. Make your uncle give you your father's money, and then off you goes like a man to see life." "Now lookye here," cried the sturdy, broad-faced young fellow who had first spoken, as he picked up a wooden lever used for turning over the great sugar-hogsheads lying in the yard, and hoisting them into a trolly, or beneath the crane which raised them into the warehouse. "Lookye here, Mike Bannock, I never did knock a man down with this here wooden bar, but if you gets stirring Mas' Don again, has it you do, right across the back. Spang!" "Be quiet, Jem, and put the bar down," said LinDon Lavington, a dark, well set-up lad of seventeen, as he sat upon the head of a sugar-hogshead with his arms folded, slowly swinging his legs. "No, I sha'n't put the bar down, Mas' Don. Your uncle left me in charge of the yard, and--what yer sitting on the sugar-barrel for when there's a 'bacco hogshead close by? Now just you feel how sticky you are." Don got off the barrel, and made a face, as he proved with one hand the truth of the man's words, and then rubbed his treacly fingers against the warehouse wall. "Your mother'll make a row about that, just as my Sally does when I get molasses on my clothes." "You should teach her to lick it off, Jemmy Wimble," said the rough-looking, red-faced labourer, who had lowered down a sugar-hogshead so rapidly, that he had been within an inch of making it unnecessary to write Don Lavington's life, from the fact of there being no life to write. "You mind your own business, Mike," said Jem, indignantly. "That's what I'm a-doing of, and a-waiting for orders, Mr Jem Wimble. He's hen-pecked, Mas' Don, that what's the matter with him. Been married only three months, and he's hen-pecked. Haw-haw-haw! Poor old cock-bird! Hen-pecked! Haw-haw-haw!" Jem Wimble, general worker in the warehouse and yard of Josiah Christmas, West India merchant, of River Street, Bristol, gave Mike the labourer an angry look, as he turned as red as a blushing girl. "Lookye here," he cried angrily, as Don, who had reseated himself, this time on a hogshead crammed full of compressed tobacco-leaves from Baltimore, swung his legs, and looked on in a half-moody, half-amused way; "the best thing that could happen for Christmas' Ward and for Bristol City, would be for the press-gang to get hold o' you, and take	Don Lavington
said Eeyore.	No speaker	me----" "I'm not asking anybody,"<\|quote\|>said Eeyore.</\|quote\|>"I'm just telling everybody. We	said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody,"<\|quote\|>said Eeyore.</\|quote\|>"I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North	down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody,"<\|quote\|>said Eeyore.</\|quote\|>"I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher	said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody,"<\|quote\|>said Eeyore.</\|quote\|>"I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher Robin. "Come on!" called Pooh and Piglet "Come on!" called Owl. "We're starting," said Rabbit. "I must go." And he hurried off to the front of the Expotition with Christopher Robin. "All right," said Eeyore. "We're going. Only Don't Blame Me." So off they all went to discover the Pole.	it had an 'x'." "It isn't their necks I mind," said Piglet earnestly. "It's their teeth. But if Christopher Robin is coming I don't mind anything." In a little while they were all ready at the top of the Forest, and the Expotition started. First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore." "What I say," said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody,"<\|quote\|>said Eeyore.</\|quote\|>"I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher Robin. "Come on!" called Pooh and Piglet "Come on!" called Owl. "We're starting," said Rabbit. "I must go." And he hurried off to the front of the Expotition with Christopher Robin. "All right," said Eeyore. "We're going. Only Don't Blame Me." So off they all went to discover the Pole. And as they walked, they chattered to each other of this and that, all except Pooh, who was making up a song. "This is the first verse," he said to Piglet, when he was ready with it. "First verse of what?" "My song." "What song?" "This one." "Which one?" "Well, if you listen, Piglet, you'll hear it." "How do you know I'm not listening?" Pooh couldn't answer that one, so he began to sing. "They all went off to discover the Pole, Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all; It's a Thing you Discover, as I've been tole By Owl	got a message for you." "I'll give it to him." "We're all going on an Expotition with Christopher Robin!" "What is it when we're on it?" "A sort of boat, I think," said Pooh. "Oh! that sort." "Yes. And we're going to discover a Pole or something. Or was it a Mole? Anyhow we're going to discover it." "We are, are we?" said Rabbit. "Yes. And we've got to bring Pro--things to eat with us. In case we want to eat them. Now I'm going down to Piglet's. Tell Kanga, will you?" He left Rabbit and hurried down to Piglet's house. The Piglet was sitting on the ground at the door of his house blowing happily at a dandelion, and wondering whether it would be this year, next year, sometime or never. He had just discovered that it would be never, and was trying to remember what "_it_" was, and hoping it wasn't anything nice, when Pooh came up. "Oh! Piglet," said Pooh excitedly, "we're going on an Expotition, all of us, with things to eat. To discover something." "To discover what?" said Piglet anxiously. "Oh! just something." "Nothing fierce?" "Christopher Robin didn't say anything about fierce. He just said it had an 'x'." "It isn't their necks I mind," said Piglet earnestly. "It's their teeth. But if Christopher Robin is coming I don't mind anything." In a little while they were all ready at the top of the Forest, and the Expotition started. First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore." "What I say," said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody,"<\|quote\|>said Eeyore.</\|quote\|>"I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher Robin. "Come on!" called Pooh and Piglet "Come on!" called Owl. "We're starting," said Rabbit. "I must go." And he hurried off to the front of the Expotition with Christopher Robin. "All right," said Eeyore. "We're going. Only Don't Blame Me." So off they all went to discover the Pole. And as they walked, they chattered to each other of this and that, all except Pooh, who was making up a song. "This is the first verse," he said to Piglet, when he was ready with it. "First verse of what?" "My song." "What song?" "This one." "Which one?" "Well, if you listen, Piglet, you'll hear it." "How do you know I'm not listening?" Pooh couldn't answer that one, so he began to sing. "They all went off to discover the Pole, Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all; It's a Thing you Discover, as I've been tole By Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all. Eeyore, Christopher Robin and Pooh And Rabbit's relations all went too-- And where the Pole was none of them knew.... Sing Hey! for Owl and Rabbit and all!" "Hush!" said Christopher Robin turning round to Pooh, "we're just coming to a Dangerous Place." "Hush!" said Pooh turning round quickly to Piglet. "Hush!" said Piglet to Kanga. "Hush!" said Kanga to Owl, while Roo said "Hush!" several times to himself very quietly. "Hush!" said Owl to Eeyore. "_Hush!_" said Eeyore in a terrible voice to all Rabbit's friends-and-relations, and "Hush!" they said hastily to each other all down the line, until it got to the last one of all. And the last and smallest friend-and-relation was so upset to find that the whole Expotition was saying "Hush!" to _him_, that he buried himself head downwards in a crack in the ground, and stayed there for two days until the danger was over, and then went home in a great hurry, and lived quietly with his Aunt ever-afterwards. His name was Alexander Beetle. They had come to a stream which twisted and tumbled between high rocky banks, and Christopher Robin saw at once how dangerous it	with this song that he sang it all the way to the top of the Forest, "and if I go on singing it much longer," he thought, "it will be time for the little something, and then the last line won't be true." So he turned it into a hum instead. Christopher Robin was sitting outside his door, putting on his Big Boots. As soon as he saw the Big Boots, Pooh knew that an Adventure was going to happen, and he brushed the honey off his nose with the back of his paw, and spruced himself up as well as he could, so as to look Ready for Anything. "Good-morning, Christopher Robin," he called out. "Hallo, Pooh Bear. I can't get this boot on." "That's bad," said Pooh. "Do you think you could very kindly lean against me, 'cos I keep pulling so hard that I fall over backwards." Pooh sat down, dug his feet into the ground, and pushed hard against Christopher Robin's back, and Christopher Robin pushed hard against his, and pulled and pulled at his boot until he had got it on. "And that's that," said Pooh. "What do we do next?" "We are all going on an Expedition," said Christopher Robin, as he got up and brushed himself. "Thank you, Pooh." "Going on an Expotition?" said Pooh eagerly. "I don't think I've ever been on one of those. Where are we going to on this Expotition?" "Expedition, silly old Bear. It's got an 'x' in it." "Oh!" said Pooh. "I know." But he didn't really. "We're going to discover the North Pole." "Oh!" said Pooh again. "What _is_ the North Pole?" he asked. "It's just a thing you discover," said Christopher Robin carelessly, not being quite sure himself. "Oh! I see," said Pooh. "Are bears any good at discovering it?" "Of course they are. And Rabbit and Kanga and all of you. It's an Expedition. That's what an Expedition means. A long line of everybody. You'd better tell the others to get ready, while I see if my gun's all right. And we must all bring Provisions." "Bring what?" "Things to eat." "Oh!" said Pooh happily. "I thought you said Provisions. I'll go and tell them." And he stumped off. The first person he met was Rabbit. "Hallo, Rabbit," he said, "is that you?" "Let's pretend it isn't," said Rabbit, "and see what happens." "I've got a message for you." "I'll give it to him." "We're all going on an Expotition with Christopher Robin!" "What is it when we're on it?" "A sort of boat, I think," said Pooh. "Oh! that sort." "Yes. And we're going to discover a Pole or something. Or was it a Mole? Anyhow we're going to discover it." "We are, are we?" said Rabbit. "Yes. And we've got to bring Pro--things to eat with us. In case we want to eat them. Now I'm going down to Piglet's. Tell Kanga, will you?" He left Rabbit and hurried down to Piglet's house. The Piglet was sitting on the ground at the door of his house blowing happily at a dandelion, and wondering whether it would be this year, next year, sometime or never. He had just discovered that it would be never, and was trying to remember what "_it_" was, and hoping it wasn't anything nice, when Pooh came up. "Oh! Piglet," said Pooh excitedly, "we're going on an Expotition, all of us, with things to eat. To discover something." "To discover what?" said Piglet anxiously. "Oh! just something." "Nothing fierce?" "Christopher Robin didn't say anything about fierce. He just said it had an 'x'." "It isn't their necks I mind," said Piglet earnestly. "It's their teeth. But if Christopher Robin is coming I don't mind anything." In a little while they were all ready at the top of the Forest, and the Expotition started. First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore." "What I say," said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody,"<\|quote\|>said Eeyore.</\|quote\|>"I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher Robin. "Come on!" called Pooh and Piglet "Come on!" called Owl. "We're starting," said Rabbit. "I must go." And he hurried off to the front of the Expotition with Christopher Robin. "All right," said Eeyore. "We're going. Only Don't Blame Me." So off they all went to discover the Pole. And as they walked, they chattered to each other of this and that, all except Pooh, who was making up a song. "This is the first verse," he said to Piglet, when he was ready with it. "First verse of what?" "My song." "What song?" "This one." "Which one?" "Well, if you listen, Piglet, you'll hear it." "How do you know I'm not listening?" Pooh couldn't answer that one, so he began to sing. "They all went off to discover the Pole, Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all; It's a Thing you Discover, as I've been tole By Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all. Eeyore, Christopher Robin and Pooh And Rabbit's relations all went too-- And where the Pole was none of them knew.... Sing Hey! for Owl and Rabbit and all!" "Hush!" said Christopher Robin turning round to Pooh, "we're just coming to a Dangerous Place." "Hush!" said Pooh turning round quickly to Piglet. "Hush!" said Piglet to Kanga. "Hush!" said Kanga to Owl, while Roo said "Hush!" several times to himself very quietly. "Hush!" said Owl to Eeyore. "_Hush!_" said Eeyore in a terrible voice to all Rabbit's friends-and-relations, and "Hush!" they said hastily to each other all down the line, until it got to the last one of all. And the last and smallest friend-and-relation was so upset to find that the whole Expotition was saying "Hush!" to _him_, that he buried himself head downwards in a crack in the ground, and stayed there for two days until the danger was over, and then went home in a great hurry, and lived quietly with his Aunt ever-afterwards. His name was Alexander Beetle. They had come to a stream which twisted and tumbled between high rocky banks, and Christopher Robin saw at once how dangerous it was. "It's just the place," he explained, "for an Ambush." "What sort of bush?" whispered Pooh to Piglet. "A gorse-bush?" "My dear Pooh," said Owl in his superior way, "don't you know what an Ambush is?" "Owl," said Piglet, looking round at him severely, "Pooh's whisper was a perfectly private whisper, and there was no need----" "An Ambush," said Owl, "is a sort of Surprise." "So is a gorse-bush sometimes," said Pooh. "An Ambush, as I was about to explain to Pooh," said Piglet, "is a sort of Surprise." "If people jump out at you suddenly, that's an Ambush," said Owl. "It's an Ambush, Pooh, when people jump at you suddenly," explained Piglet. Pooh, who now knew what an Ambush was, said that a gorse-bush had sprung at him suddenly one day when he fell off a tree, and he had taken six days to get all the prickles out of himself. "We are not _talking_ about gorse-bushes," said Owl a little crossly. "I am," said Pooh. They were climbing very cautiously up the stream now, going from rock to rock, and after they had gone a little way they came to a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested. "I think," said Christopher Robin, "that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry." "Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and looked behind him. "Yes, I was. I thought so." "Thank you, Pooh. If you've quite finished with it." He moved across to Pooh's place, and began to eat. "It don't do them any Good, you know, sitting on them," he went on, as he looked up munching. "Takes all the Life out of them. Remember that	of those. Where are we going to on this Expotition?" "Expedition, silly old Bear. It's got an 'x' in it." "Oh!" said Pooh. "I know." But he didn't really. "We're going to discover the North Pole." "Oh!" said Pooh again. "What _is_ the North Pole?" he asked. "It's just a thing you discover," said Christopher Robin carelessly, not being quite sure himself. "Oh! I see," said Pooh. "Are bears any good at discovering it?" "Of course they are. And Rabbit and Kanga and all of you. It's an Expedition. That's what an Expedition means. A long line of everybody. You'd better tell the others to get ready, while I see if my gun's all right. And we must all bring Provisions." "Bring what?" "Things to eat." "Oh!" said Pooh happily. "I thought you said Provisions. I'll go and tell them." And he stumped off. The first person he met was Rabbit. "Hallo, Rabbit," he said, "is that you?" "Let's pretend it isn't," said Rabbit, "and see what happens." "I've got a message for you." "I'll give it to him." "We're all going on an Expotition with Christopher Robin!" "What is it when we're on it?" "A sort of boat, I think," said Pooh. "Oh! that sort." "Yes. And we're going to discover a Pole or something. Or was it a Mole? Anyhow we're going to discover it." "We are, are we?" said Rabbit. "Yes. And we've got to bring Pro--things to eat with us. In case we want to eat them. Now I'm going down to Piglet's. Tell Kanga, will you?" He left Rabbit and hurried down to Piglet's house. The Piglet was sitting on the ground at the door of his house blowing happily at a dandelion, and wondering whether it would be this year, next year, sometime or never. He had just discovered that it would be never, and was trying to remember what "_it_" was, and hoping it wasn't anything nice, when Pooh came up. "Oh! Piglet," said Pooh excitedly, "we're going on an Expotition, all of us, with things to eat. To discover something." "To discover what?" said Piglet anxiously. "Oh! just something." "Nothing fierce?" "Christopher Robin didn't say anything about fierce. He just said it had an 'x'." "It isn't their necks I mind," said Piglet earnestly. "It's their teeth. But if Christopher Robin is coming I don't mind anything." In a little while they were all ready at the top of the Forest, and the Expotition started. First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore." "What I say," said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody,"<\|quote\|>said Eeyore.</\|quote\|>"I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher Robin. "Come on!" called Pooh and Piglet "Come on!" called Owl. "We're starting," said Rabbit. "I must go." And he hurried off to the front of the Expotition with Christopher Robin. "All right," said Eeyore. "We're going. Only Don't Blame Me." So off they all went to discover the Pole. And as they walked, they chattered to each other of this and that, all except Pooh, who was making up a song. "This is the first verse," he said to Piglet, when he was ready with it. "First verse of what?" "My song." "What song?" "This one." "Which one?" "Well, if you listen, Piglet, you'll hear it." "How do you know I'm not listening?" Pooh couldn't answer that one, so he began to sing. "They all went off to discover the Pole, Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all; It's a Thing you Discover, as I've been tole By Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all. Eeyore, Christopher Robin and Pooh And Rabbit's relations all went too-- And where the Pole was none of them knew.... Sing Hey! for Owl and Rabbit and all!" "Hush!" said Christopher Robin turning round to Pooh, "we're just coming to a Dangerous Place." "Hush!" said Pooh turning round quickly to Piglet. "Hush!" said Piglet to Kanga. "Hush!" said Kanga to Owl, while Roo said "Hush!" several times to himself very quietly. "Hush!" said Owl to Eeyore. "_Hush!_" said Eeyore in a terrible voice to all Rabbit's friends-and-relations, and "Hush!" they said hastily to each other all down the line, until it got to the last one of all. And the last and smallest friend-and-relation was so upset to find that the whole Expotition was saying "Hush!" to _him_, that he buried himself head downwards in a crack in the ground, and stayed there for two days until the danger was over, and then went home in a great hurry, and lived quietly with his Aunt ever-afterwards. His name was Alexander Beetle. They had come to a stream which twisted and tumbled between high rocky banks, and Christopher Robin saw at once how dangerous it was. "It's just the place," he explained, "for an Ambush." "What sort of bush?" whispered Pooh to Piglet. "A gorse-bush?" "My dear Pooh," said Owl in his superior way, "don't you know what an Ambush is?" "Owl," said Piglet, looking round at him severely, "Pooh's whisper was a perfectly private whisper, and there was no need----" "An Ambush," said Owl, "is a	Winnie The Pooh
“Come to your own mother that loves you.”	Daisy	crooned, holding out her arms.<\|quote\|>“Come to your own mother that loves you.”</\|quote\|>The child, relinquished by the	the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms.<\|quote\|>“Come to your own mother that loves you.”</\|quote\|>The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room	low, vulgar girl!” “I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms.<\|quote\|>“Come to your own mother that loves you.”</\|quote\|>The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept	Daisy. As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth. “You know I love you,” she murmured. “You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan. Daisy looked around doubtfully. “You kiss Nick too.” “What a low, vulgar girl!” “I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms.<\|quote\|>“Come to your own mother that loves you.”</\|quote\|>The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before. “I got dressed before luncheon,” said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy. “That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white	at all … I’m under no obligations to you at all … and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I won’t stand that at all!” “Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically. “No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to know about it.” Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room. “Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir … Nick …” “Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy. As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth. “You know I love you,” she murmured. “You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan. Daisy looked around doubtfully. “You kiss Nick too.” “What a low, vulgar girl!” “I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms.<\|quote\|>“Come to your own mother that loves you.”</\|quote\|>The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before. “I got dressed before luncheon,” said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy. “That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You absolute little dream.” “Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.” “How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?” “Where’s Daddy?” “She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.” Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand. “Come, Pammy.” “Goodbye, sweetheart!” With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her nurse’s hand and was	touch this noon!” What he really said was: “Yes … Yes … I’ll see.” He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to take our stiff straw hats. “Madame expects you in the salon!” he cried, needlessly indicating the direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the common store of life. The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols weighing down their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans. “We can’t move,” they said together. Jordan’s fingers, powdered white over their tan, rested for a moment in mine. “And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?” I inquired. Simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, at the hall telephone. Gatsby stood in the centre of the crimson carpet and gazed around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air. “The rumour is,” whispered Jordan, “that that’s Tom’s girl on the telephone.” We were silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance: “Very well, then, I won’t sell you the car at all … I’m under no obligations to you at all … and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I won’t stand that at all!” “Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically. “No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to know about it.” Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room. “Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir … Nick …” “Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy. As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth. “You know I love you,” she murmured. “You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan. Daisy looked around doubtfully. “You kiss Nick too.” “What a low, vulgar girl!” “I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms.<\|quote\|>“Come to your own mother that loves you.”</\|quote\|>The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before. “I got dressed before luncheon,” said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy. “That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You absolute little dream.” “Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.” “How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?” “Where’s Daddy?” “She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.” Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand. “Come, Pammy.” “Goodbye, sweetheart!” With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice. Gatsby took up his drink. “They certainly look cool,” he said, with visible tension. We drank in long, greedy swallows. “I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” said Tom genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into the sun—or wait a minute—it’s just the opposite—the sun’s getting colder every year. “Come outside,” he suggested to Gatsby, “I’d like you to have a look at the place.” I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound, stagnant in the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. Gatsby’s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed across the bay. “I’m right across from you.” “So you are.” Our eyes lifted over the rose-beds and the hot lawn and the weedy refuse of the dog-days alongshore. Slowly the white wings of the boat moved against the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped ocean and the abounding blessed isles. “There’s sport for you,” said Tom, nodding. “I’d like to be out there with him for about an	people weren’t servants at all. Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. “Going away?” I inquired. “No, old sport.” “I hear you fired all your servants.” “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.” So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes. “They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.” “I see.” He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden. The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocketbook slapped to the floor. “Oh, my!” she gasped. I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that I had no designs upon it—but everyone near by, including the woman, suspected me just the same. “Hot!” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Some weather! … Hot! … Hot! … Hot! … Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it … ?” My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand. That anyone should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made damp the pyjama pocket over his heart! … Through the hall of the Buchanans’ house blew a faint wind, carrying the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we waited at the door. “The master’s body?” roared the butler into the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, madame, but we can’t furnish it—it’s far too hot to touch this noon!” What he really said was: “Yes … Yes … I’ll see.” He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to take our stiff straw hats. “Madame expects you in the salon!” he cried, needlessly indicating the direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the common store of life. The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols weighing down their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans. “We can’t move,” they said together. Jordan’s fingers, powdered white over their tan, rested for a moment in mine. “And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?” I inquired. Simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, at the hall telephone. Gatsby stood in the centre of the crimson carpet and gazed around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air. “The rumour is,” whispered Jordan, “that that’s Tom’s girl on the telephone.” We were silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance: “Very well, then, I won’t sell you the car at all … I’m under no obligations to you at all … and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I won’t stand that at all!” “Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically. “No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to know about it.” Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room. “Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir … Nick …” “Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy. As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth. “You know I love you,” she murmured. “You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan. Daisy looked around doubtfully. “You kiss Nick too.” “What a low, vulgar girl!” “I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms.<\|quote\|>“Come to your own mother that loves you.”</\|quote\|>The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before. “I got dressed before luncheon,” said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy. “That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You absolute little dream.” “Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.” “How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?” “Where’s Daddy?” “She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.” Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand. “Come, Pammy.” “Goodbye, sweetheart!” With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice. Gatsby took up his drink. “They certainly look cool,” he said, with visible tension. We drank in long, greedy swallows. “I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” said Tom genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into the sun—or wait a minute—it’s just the opposite—the sun’s getting colder every year. “Come outside,” he suggested to Gatsby, “I’d like you to have a look at the place.” I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound, stagnant in the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. Gatsby’s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed across the bay. “I’m right across from you.” “So you are.” Our eyes lifted over the rose-beds and the hot lawn and the weedy refuse of the dog-days alongshore. Slowly the white wings of the boat moved against the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped ocean and the abounding blessed isles. “There’s sport for you,” said Tom, nodding. “I’d like to be out there with him for about an hour.” We had luncheon in the dining-room, darkened too against the heat, and drank down nervous gaiety with the cold ale. “What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon?” cried Daisy, “and the day after that, and the next thirty years?” “Don’t be morbid,” Jordan said. “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.” “But it’s so hot,” insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, “and everything’s so confused. Let’s all go to town!” Her voice struggled on through the heat, beating against it, moulding its senselessness into forms. “I’ve heard of making a garage out of a stable,” Tom was saying to Gatsby, “but I’m the first man who ever made a stable out of a garage.” “Who wants to go to town?” demanded Daisy insistently. Gatsby’s eyes floated toward her. “Ah,” she cried, “you look so cool.” Their eyes met, and they stared together at each other, alone in space. With an effort she glanced down at the table. “You always look so cool,” she repeated. She had told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw. He was astounded. His mouth opened a little, and he looked at Gatsby, and then back at Daisy as if he had just recognized her as someone he knew a long time ago. “You resemble the advertisement of the man,” she went on innocently. “You know the advertisement of the man—” “All right,” broke in Tom quickly, “I’m perfectly willing to go to town. Come on—we’re all going to town.” He got up, his eyes still flashing between Gatsby and his wife. No one moved. “Come on!” His temper cracked a little. “What’s the matter, anyhow? If we’re going to town, let’s start.” His hand, trembling with his effort at self-control, bore to his lips the last of his glass of ale. Daisy’s voice got us to our feet and out on to the blazing gravel drive. “Are we just going to go?” she objected. “Like this? Aren’t we going to let anyone smoke a cigarette first?” “Everybody smoked all through lunch.” “Oh, let’s have fun,” she begged him. “It’s too hot to fuss.” He didn’t answer. “Have it your own way,” she said. “Come on, Jordan.” They went upstairs to get ready while we three men stood there shuffling the hot pebbles with our feet. A silver curve of the moon hovered already in the western	telephone.” We were silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance: “Very well, then, I won’t sell you the car at all … I’m under no obligations to you at all … and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I won’t stand that at all!” “Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically. “No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to know about it.” Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room. “Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir … Nick …” “Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy. As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth. “You know I love you,” she murmured. “You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan. Daisy looked around doubtfully. “You kiss Nick too.” “What a low, vulgar girl!” “I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms.<\|quote\|>“Come to your own mother that loves you.”</\|quote\|>The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before. “I got dressed before luncheon,” said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy. “That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You absolute little dream.” “Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.” “How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?” “Where’s Daddy?” “She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.” Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand. “Come, Pammy.” “Goodbye, sweetheart!” With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice. Gatsby took up his drink. “They certainly look cool,” he said, with visible tension. We drank in long, greedy swallows. “I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” said Tom genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into the sun—or wait a minute—it’s just the opposite—the sun’s getting colder every year. “Come outside,” he suggested to Gatsby, “I’d like you to have a look at the place.” I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound, stagnant in the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. Gatsby’s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed across the bay. “I’m right across from you.” “So you are.” Our eyes lifted over the rose-beds and the hot lawn and the weedy refuse of the dog-days alongshore. Slowly the white wings of the boat moved against the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped ocean and the abounding blessed isles. “There’s sport for you,” said Tom, nodding. “I’d like to be out there with him for about an hour.” We had luncheon in the dining-room, darkened too against the heat, and drank down nervous gaiety with the cold ale. “What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon?” cried Daisy, “and the day after that, and the next thirty years?” “Don’t be morbid,” Jordan said. “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.” “But it’s so hot,” insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, “and everything’s so confused. Let’s all go to town!” Her voice struggled on through the heat, beating against it, moulding its senselessness into forms. “I’ve heard of making a garage out of a stable,” Tom was saying to Gatsby, “but	The Great Gatsby
"To be sure."	Don Lavington	like it is at Bath?"<\|quote\|>"To be sure."</\|quote\|>"Well, that caps all. Some	water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?"<\|quote\|>"To be sure."</\|quote\|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other	of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?"<\|quote\|>"To be sure."</\|quote\|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking	seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?"<\|quote\|>"To be sure."</\|quote\|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little	course; but I say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?" "I suppose you look just about the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait," said Don. "We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?"<\|quote\|>"To be sure."</\|quote\|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it?	came stalking out of the shelter where he had been dressing--a very simple operation, for it had consisted in draping himself in a great unbleached cloth--and looking squat and comical as a man in his circumstances could look. Ngati was close at hand with his men all standing in a group, and at first sight it seemed as if they were laughing at the little, stoutly-built, pink-faced man, but, on the contrary, they were smiles of admiration. "I couldn't ha' believed it, Mas' Don," said Jem; "I feel as fresh as a daisy, and--well, I never did! Mas' Don, what a guy you do look!" Don, after a momentary thought that he looked something like one of the old Romans in a toga, just as he had seen them in an engraving, had been so taken up with the beauty of the ferny gully, with the sun gilding here and there the steamy vapour which rose from the hot springs, that he had thought no more of his personal appearance till Jem spoke. "Guy?" he said, laughing, as he ran his eye over Jem. "I say, did you ever hear the story of the pot and the kettle?" "Yes, of course; but I say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?" "I suppose you look just about the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait," said Don. "We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?"<\|quote\|>"To be sure."</\|quote\|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem." "Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!" cried Jem scornfully. "What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came running up to the _whare_. "Boats coming from the ship to search for you," he said quickly, and then turned to Ngati and spoke a few words with the result that the chief rushed at the escaped pair, and signed to them to rise. "Yes," said the Englishman, "you had better go with him and hide for a bit. We'll let you know when they are gone." "Tell them to give us our clothes," said Jem sourly. "Yes, of course. They would tell tales," said the Englishman; and he turned again to Ngati, who sent two men out of the _whare_ to return directly with the dried garments. Ngati signed to them to follow, and he led them, by a faintly marked track, in and out among the trees and	a struggle, a loud splash, and then silence, followed by Jem's voice. "Oh!" he ejaculated. "Then why didn't you say so? How was I to know you meant a hot bath? Well, it arn't bad.--Mas' Don!" "Yes." "What! Ha' you been there all the time?" "Yes." "What yer been doing of?" "Laughing." "Larfin'? Are they giving you a hot bath?" "Yes." "Arn't it good?" "Glorious!" "I thought they was going to scald me like a pig, so as to eat me afterwards. Did you hear me holler?" "Hear you? Yes.--How delicious and restful it feels." "Ah, it do, my lad; but don't you let any on it get into your mouth. I did, and arn't good. But I say; what's it mean? Seems so rum to me coming to meet us in a canoe and bringing us ashore, and giving us hot baths. I don't seem to understand it. Nobody does such things over at home." As they lay in the roughly-made stone slab baths, into which the volcanic water effervesced and gurgled, the followers of Ngati came and went busily, and a curious transformation came over the scene--the darkness seemed to undergo a change and become grey. Then as Don watched, he saw that above his head quite a cloud of steam was floating, through which a pale, sad light began to penetrate; and as he watched this, so pleasant and restful was the sensation that he felt as if he could sleep, till he took into consideration the fact that if he did, his body would become relaxed, and he would slip down with his head beneath the surface. As it grew lighter rapidly now, he could make out that the roughly thatched roof was merely stretched over a rough rocky nook in which the hot spring bubbled out of the mountain slope, and here a few rough slabs had been laid together, box-fashion, to retain the water and form the bath. Before he had more than realised the fact that Jem was in a shelter very similar to his own, the huge New Zealander was back with about a dozen of his men, and himself bearing a great native flax cloth marked with a broad pattern. Just as the sun had transformed everything without, and Don was gazing on a glorious prospect of lace-like tree-fern rising out of the steaming gully in which he stood, Jem Wimble came stalking out of the shelter where he had been dressing--a very simple operation, for it had consisted in draping himself in a great unbleached cloth--and looking squat and comical as a man in his circumstances could look. Ngati was close at hand with his men all standing in a group, and at first sight it seemed as if they were laughing at the little, stoutly-built, pink-faced man, but, on the contrary, they were smiles of admiration. "I couldn't ha' believed it, Mas' Don," said Jem; "I feel as fresh as a daisy, and--well, I never did! Mas' Don, what a guy you do look!" Don, after a momentary thought that he looked something like one of the old Romans in a toga, just as he had seen them in an engraving, had been so taken up with the beauty of the ferny gully, with the sun gilding here and there the steamy vapour which rose from the hot springs, that he had thought no more of his personal appearance till Jem spoke. "Guy?" he said, laughing, as he ran his eye over Jem. "I say, did you ever hear the story of the pot and the kettle?" "Yes, of course; but I say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?" "I suppose you look just about the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait," said Don. "We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?"<\|quote\|>"To be sure."</\|quote\|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem." "Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!" cried Jem scornfully. "What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came running up to the _whare_. "Boats coming from the ship to search for you," he said quickly, and then turned to Ngati and spoke a few words with the result that the chief rushed at the escaped pair, and signed to them to rise. "Yes," said the Englishman, "you had better go with him and hide for a bit. We'll let you know when they are gone." "Tell them to give us our clothes," said Jem sourly. "Yes, of course. They would tell tales," said the Englishman; and he turned again to Ngati, who sent two men out of the _whare_ to return directly with the dried garments. Ngati signed to them to follow, and he led them, by a faintly marked track, in and out among the trees and the cleared patches which formed the natives' gardens, and all the while carefully avoiding any openings through which the harbour could be seen. Every now and then he turned to speak volubly, but though he interpolated a few English words, his meaning would have been incomprehensible but for his gestures and the warnings nature kept giving of danger. For every here and there, as they wound in and out among the trees, they came upon soft, boggy places, where the ground was hot; and as the pressure of the foot sent hissing forth a jet of steam, it was evident that a step to right or left of the narrow track meant being plunged into a pool of heated mud of unknown depth. In other places the hot mud bubbled up in rounded pools, spitting, hissing, and bursting with faint cracks that were terribly suggestive of danger. Over these heated spots the fertility and growth of the plants was astounding. They seemed to be shooting up out of a natural hothouse, but where to attempt to pass them meant a terrible and instant death. "Look out, Mas' Don! This here's what I once heard a clown say, `It's dangerous to be safe.' I say, figgerhead, arn't there no other way?" "Ship! Men! Catchee, catchee," said Ngati, in a whisper. "Hear that, Mas' Don? Any one'd think we was babbies. Ketchy, ketchy, indeed! You ask him if there arn't no other way. I don't like walking in a place that's like so much hot soup." "Be quiet, and follow. Hist! Hark!" Don stopped short, for, from a distance, came a faint hail, followed by another nearer, which seemed to be in answer. "They're arter us, sir, and if we're to be ketched I don't mean to be ketched like this." "What are you going to do, Jem?" "Do?" said Jem, unrolling his bundled-up clothes, and preparing to sit down, "make myself look like an ornery Chrishtun." "Don't sit down there, Jem!" cried Don, as Ngati gave a warning cry at the same moment, and started back. But they were too late, for Jem had chosen a delicately green mossy and ferny patch, and plumped himself down, to utter a cry of horror, and snatch at the extended hands. For the green ferny patch was a thin covering over a noisome hole full of black boiling mud, into which the poor fellow	similar to his own, the huge New Zealander was back with about a dozen of his men, and himself bearing a great native flax cloth marked with a broad pattern. Just as the sun had transformed everything without, and Don was gazing on a glorious prospect of lace-like tree-fern rising out of the steaming gully in which he stood, Jem Wimble came stalking out of the shelter where he had been dressing--a very simple operation, for it had consisted in draping himself in a great unbleached cloth--and looking squat and comical as a man in his circumstances could look. Ngati was close at hand with his men all standing in a group, and at first sight it seemed as if they were laughing at the little, stoutly-built, pink-faced man, but, on the contrary, they were smiles of admiration. "I couldn't ha' believed it, Mas' Don," said Jem; "I feel as fresh as a daisy, and--well, I never did! Mas' Don, what a guy you do look!" Don, after a momentary thought that he looked something like one of the old Romans in a toga, just as he had seen them in an engraving, had been so taken up with the beauty of the ferny gully, with the sun gilding here and there the steamy vapour which rose from the hot springs, that he had thought no more of his personal appearance till Jem spoke. "Guy?" he said, laughing, as he ran his eye over Jem. "I say, did you ever hear the story of the pot and the kettle?" "Yes, of course; but I say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?" "I suppose you look just about the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait," said Don. "We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?"<\|quote\|>"To be sure."</\|quote\|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem." "Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!" cried Jem scornfully. "What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came running up to the _whare_. "Boats coming from the ship to search for you," he said quickly, and then turned to Ngati and spoke a few words with the result that the chief rushed at the escaped pair, and signed to them to rise. "Yes," said the Englishman, "you had better go with him and hide for a bit. We'll let you know when they are gone." "Tell them to give us our clothes," said Jem sourly. "Yes, of course. They would tell tales," said the Englishman; and he turned again to Ngati, who sent two men out of the _whare_ to return directly with the dried garments. Ngati signed to them to follow, and he led them, by a faintly marked track, in and out among the trees and the cleared patches which formed the natives' gardens, and all the while carefully avoiding any openings through which the harbour could be seen. Every now and then he turned to speak volubly, but though he interpolated a few English words, his meaning would have been incomprehensible but for his gestures and the warnings nature kept giving of danger. For every here and there, as they wound in and out among the trees, they came upon soft, boggy places, where the ground was hot; and as the pressure of the foot sent hissing forth a jet of steam, it was evident that a step to right or left of the narrow track meant being plunged into a pool of heated mud of unknown depth. In other places the hot mud bubbled up in rounded pools, spitting, hissing, and bursting with faint cracks that were terribly suggestive of danger. Over these heated spots the fertility and growth of the plants was	Don Lavington
They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.	No speaker	soon make you dry enough!"<\|quote\|>They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.</\|quote\|>"Ahem!" said the Mouse with	and listen to me! _I'll_ soon make you dry enough!"<\|quote\|>They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.</\|quote\|>"Ahem!" said the Mouse with an important air, "are you	it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, "Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! _I'll_ soon make you dry enough!"<\|quote\|>They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.</\|quote\|>"Ahem!" said the Mouse with an important air, "are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! 'William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late	familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, "I am older than you, and must know better;" and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, "Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! _I'll_ soon make you dry enough!"<\|quote\|>They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.</\|quote\|>"Ahem!" said the Mouse with an important air, "are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! 'William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--'" "Ugh!" said the Lory, with a shiver. "I beg your pardon!" said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: "Did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the Mouse. "--I	there were a Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore. CHAPTER III. A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank--the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable. The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, "I am older than you, and must know better;" and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, "Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! _I'll_ soon make you dry enough!"<\|quote\|>They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.</\|quote\|>"Ahem!" said the Mouse with an important air, "are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! 'William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--'" "Ugh!" said the Lory, with a shiver. "I beg your pardon!" said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: "Did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the Mouse. "--I proceed. 'Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--'" "Found _what_?" said the Duck. "Found _it_," the Mouse replied rather crossly: "of course you know what 'it' means." "I know what 'it' means well enough, when _I_ find a thing," said the Duck: "it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?" The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown.	such long curly brown hair! And it'll fetch things when you throw them, and it'll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts of things--I can't remember half of them--and it belongs to a farmer, you know, and he says it's so useful, it's worth a hundred pounds! He says it kills all the rats and--oh dear!" cried Alice in a sorrowful tone, "I'm afraid I've offended it again!" For the Mouse was swimming away from her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in the pool as it went. So she called softly after it, "Mouse dear! Do come back again, and we won't talk about cats or dogs either, if you don't like them!" When the Mouse heard this, it turned round and swam slowly back to her: its face was quite pale (with passion, Alice thought), and it said in a low trembling voice, "Let us get to the shore, and then I'll tell you my history, and you'll understand why it is I hate cats and dogs." It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore. CHAPTER III. A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank--the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable. The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, "I am older than you, and must know better;" and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, "Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! _I'll_ soon make you dry enough!"<\|quote\|>They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.</\|quote\|>"Ahem!" said the Mouse with an important air, "are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! 'William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--'" "Ugh!" said the Lory, with a shiver. "I beg your pardon!" said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: "Did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the Mouse. "--I proceed. 'Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--'" "Found _what_?" said the Duck. "Found _it_," the Mouse replied rather crossly: "of course you know what 'it' means." "I know what 'it' means well enough, when _I_ find a thing," said the Duck: "it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?" The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--' How are you getting on now, my dear?" it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!" said the Eaglet. "I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race." "What _is_ a Caucus-race?" said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. "Why," said the Dodo, "the best way to explain it is to do it." (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some	thought this must be the right way of speaking to a mouse: she had never done such a thing before, but she remembered having seen in her brother's Latin Grammar, "A mouse--of a mouse--to a mouse--a mouse--O mouse!") The Mouse looked at her rather inquisitively, and seemed to her to wink with one of its little eyes, but it said nothing. "Perhaps it doesn't understand English," thought Alice; "I daresay it's a French mouse, come over with William the Conqueror." (For, with all her knowledge of history, Alice had no very clear notion how long ago anything had happened.) So she began again: "O? est ma chatte?" which was the first sentence in her French lesson-book. The Mouse gave a sudden leap out of the water, and seemed to quiver all over with fright. "Oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Alice hastily, afraid that she had hurt the poor animal's feelings. "I quite forgot you didn't like cats." "Not like cats!" cried the Mouse, in a shrill, passionate voice. "Would _you_ like cats if you were me?" "Well, perhaps not," said Alice in a soothing tone: "don't be angry about it. And yet I wish I could show you our cat Dinah: I think you'd take a fancy to cats if you could only see her. She is such a dear quiet thing," Alice went on, half to herself, as she swam lazily about in the pool, "and she sits purring so nicely by the fire, licking her paws and washing her face--and she is such a nice soft thing to nurse--and she's such a capital one for catching mice--oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Alice again, for this time the Mouse was bristling all over, and she felt certain it must be really offended. "We won't talk about her any more if you'd rather not." "We indeed!" cried the Mouse, who was trembling down to the end of his tail. "As if _I_ would talk on such a subject! Our family always _hated_ cats: nasty, low, vulgar things! Don't let me hear the name again!" "I won't indeed!" said Alice, in a great hurry to change the subject of conversation. "Are you--are you fond--of--of dogs?" The Mouse did not answer, so Alice went on eagerly: "There is such a nice little dog near our house I should like to show you! A little bright-eyed terrier, you know, with oh, such long curly brown hair! And it'll fetch things when you throw them, and it'll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts of things--I can't remember half of them--and it belongs to a farmer, you know, and he says it's so useful, it's worth a hundred pounds! He says it kills all the rats and--oh dear!" cried Alice in a sorrowful tone, "I'm afraid I've offended it again!" For the Mouse was swimming away from her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in the pool as it went. So she called softly after it, "Mouse dear! Do come back again, and we won't talk about cats or dogs either, if you don't like them!" When the Mouse heard this, it turned round and swam slowly back to her: its face was quite pale (with passion, Alice thought), and it said in a low trembling voice, "Let us get to the shore, and then I'll tell you my history, and you'll understand why it is I hate cats and dogs." It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore. CHAPTER III. A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank--the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable. The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, "I am older than you, and must know better;" and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, "Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! _I'll_ soon make you dry enough!"<\|quote\|>They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.</\|quote\|>"Ahem!" said the Mouse with an important air, "are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! 'William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--'" "Ugh!" said the Lory, with a shiver. "I beg your pardon!" said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: "Did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the Mouse. "--I proceed. 'Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--'" "Found _what_?" said the Duck. "Found _it_," the Mouse replied rather crossly: "of course you know what 'it' means." "I know what 'it' means well enough, when _I_ find a thing," said the Duck: "it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?" The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--' How are you getting on now, my dear?" it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!" said the Eaglet. "I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race." "What _is_ a Caucus-race?" said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. "Why," said the Dodo, "the best way to explain it is to do it." (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.) First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (" "the exact shape doesn't matter," it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no "One, two, three, and away," but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out "The race is over!" and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, "But who has won?" This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, "_Everybody_ has won, and all must have prizes." "But who is to give the prizes?" quite a chorus of voices asked. "Why, _she_, of course," said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, "Prizes! Prizes!" Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece, all round. "But she must have a prize herself, you know," said the Mouse. "Of course," the Dodo replied very gravely. "What else have you got in your pocket?" he went on, turning to Alice. "Only a thimble," said Alice sadly. "Hand it over here," said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying "We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble;" and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and	such a subject! Our family always _hated_ cats: nasty, low, vulgar things! Don't let me hear the name again!" "I won't indeed!" said Alice, in a great hurry to change the subject of conversation. "Are you--are you fond--of--of dogs?" The Mouse did not answer, so Alice went on eagerly: "There is such a nice little dog near our house I should like to show you! A little bright-eyed terrier, you know, with oh, such long curly brown hair! And it'll fetch things when you throw them, and it'll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts of things--I can't remember half of them--and it belongs to a farmer, you know, and he says it's so useful, it's worth a hundred pounds! He says it kills all the rats and--oh dear!" cried Alice in a sorrowful tone, "I'm afraid I've offended it again!" For the Mouse was swimming away from her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in the pool as it went. So she called softly after it, "Mouse dear! Do come back again, and we won't talk about cats or dogs either, if you don't like them!" When the Mouse heard this, it turned round and swam slowly back to her: its face was quite pale (with passion, Alice thought), and it said in a low trembling voice, "Let us get to the shore, and then I'll tell you my history, and you'll understand why it is I hate cats and dogs." It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore. CHAPTER III. A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank--the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable. The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, "I am older than you, and must know better;" and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, "Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! _I'll_ soon make you dry enough!"<\|quote\|>They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.</\|quote\|>"Ahem!" said the Mouse with an important air, "are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! 'William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--'" "Ugh!" said the Lory, with a shiver. "I beg your pardon!" said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: "Did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the Mouse. "--I proceed. 'Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--'" "Found _what_?" said the Duck. "Found _it_," the Mouse replied rather crossly: "of course you know what 'it' means." "I know what 'it' means well enough, when _I_ find a thing," said the Duck: "it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?" The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--' How are you getting on now, my dear?" it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
"Now or never,"	Mr. Skaggs	to do with the secret.<\|quote\|>"Now or never,"</\|quote\|>he thought. So he said	Evidently the brother had something to do with the secret.<\|quote\|>"Now or never,"</\|quote\|>he thought. So he said boldly, "Yes, I have a	But Oakley himself proceeded to give him his first cue. "You--you--perhaps have a message from my brother--my brother who is in Paris. I have not heard from him for some time." Skaggs's mind worked quickly. He remembered the Colonel's story. Evidently the brother had something to do with the secret.<\|quote\|>"Now or never,"</\|quote\|>he thought. So he said boldly, "Yes, I have a message from your brother." The man sprung up, clutching again at his breast. "You have? you have? Give it to me. After four years he sends me a message! Give it to me!" The reporter looked steadily at the man.	twitched as he saw his host's hands seek the breast of his jacket every other moment. "It is there the secret is hidden," he said to himself, "and whatever it is, I must have it. But how--how? I can't knock the man down and rob him in his own house." But Oakley himself proceeded to give him his first cue. "You--you--perhaps have a message from my brother--my brother who is in Paris. I have not heard from him for some time." Skaggs's mind worked quickly. He remembered the Colonel's story. Evidently the brother had something to do with the secret.<\|quote\|>"Now or never,"</\|quote\|>he thought. So he said boldly, "Yes, I have a message from your brother." The man sprung up, clutching again at his breast. "You have? you have? Give it to me. After four years he sends me a message! Give it to me!" The reporter looked steadily at the man. He knew that he was in his power, that his very eagerness would prove traitor to his discretion. "Your brother bade me to say to you that you have a terrible secret, that you bear it in your breast--there--there. I am his messenger. He bids you to give it to	as he talked. "You 're from Paris, sir, from Paris?" he said. "Come in, come in." His motions were nervous and erratic. Skaggs followed him into the library, and the wife disappeared in another direction. It would have been hard to recognise in the Oakley of the present the man of a few years before. The strong frame had gone away to bone, and nothing of his old power sat on either brow or chin. He was as a man who trembled on the brink of insanity. His guilty secret had been too much for him, and Skaggs's own fingers twitched as he saw his host's hands seek the breast of his jacket every other moment. "It is there the secret is hidden," he said to himself, "and whatever it is, I must have it. But how--how? I can't knock the man down and rob him in his own house." But Oakley himself proceeded to give him his first cue. "You--you--perhaps have a message from my brother--my brother who is in Paris. I have not heard from him for some time." Skaggs's mind worked quickly. He remembered the Colonel's story. Evidently the brother had something to do with the secret.<\|quote\|>"Now or never,"</\|quote\|>he thought. So he said boldly, "Yes, I have a message from your brother." The man sprung up, clutching again at his breast. "You have? you have? Give it to me. After four years he sends me a message! Give it to me!" The reporter looked steadily at the man. He knew that he was in his power, that his very eagerness would prove traitor to his discretion. "Your brother bade me to say to you that you have a terrible secret, that you bear it in your breast--there--there. I am his messenger. He bids you to give it to me." Oakley had shrunken back as if he had been struck. "No, no!" he gasped, "no, no! I have no secret." The reporter moved nearer him. The old man shrunk against the wall, his lips working convulsively and his hand tearing at his breast as Skaggs drew nearer. He attempted to shriek, but his voice was husky and broke off in a gasping whisper. "Give it to me, as your brother commands." "No, no, no! It is not his secret; it is mine. I must carry it here always, do you hear? I must carry it till I die. Go	cannot see him. Mr. Oakley is not well and does not see visitors." "But I must see him, madam; I am here upon business of importance." "You can tell me just as well as him. I am his wife and transact all of his business." "I can tell no one but the master of the house himself." "You cannot see him. It is against his orders." "Very well," replied Skaggs, descending one step; "it is his loss, not mine. I have tried to do my duty and failed. Simply tell him that I came from Paris." "Paris?" cried a querulous voice behind the woman's back. "Leslie, why do you keep the gentleman at the door? Let him come in at once." Mrs. Oakley stepped from the door and Skaggs went in. Had he seen Oakley before he would have been shocked at the change in his appearance; but as it was, the nervous, white-haired man who stood shiftily before him told him nothing of an eating secret long carried. The man's face was gray and haggard, and deep lines were cut under his staring, fish-like eyes. His hair tumbled in white masses over his pallid forehead, and his lips twitched as he talked. "You 're from Paris, sir, from Paris?" he said. "Come in, come in." His motions were nervous and erratic. Skaggs followed him into the library, and the wife disappeared in another direction. It would have been hard to recognise in the Oakley of the present the man of a few years before. The strong frame had gone away to bone, and nothing of his old power sat on either brow or chin. He was as a man who trembled on the brink of insanity. His guilty secret had been too much for him, and Skaggs's own fingers twitched as he saw his host's hands seek the breast of his jacket every other moment. "It is there the secret is hidden," he said to himself, "and whatever it is, I must have it. But how--how? I can't knock the man down and rob him in his own house." But Oakley himself proceeded to give him his first cue. "You--you--perhaps have a message from my brother--my brother who is in Paris. I have not heard from him for some time." Skaggs's mind worked quickly. He remembered the Colonel's story. Evidently the brother had something to do with the secret.<\|quote\|>"Now or never,"</\|quote\|>he thought. So he said boldly, "Yes, I have a message from your brother." The man sprung up, clutching again at his breast. "You have? you have? Give it to me. After four years he sends me a message! Give it to me!" The reporter looked steadily at the man. He knew that he was in his power, that his very eagerness would prove traitor to his discretion. "Your brother bade me to say to you that you have a terrible secret, that you bear it in your breast--there--there. I am his messenger. He bids you to give it to me." Oakley had shrunken back as if he had been struck. "No, no!" he gasped, "no, no! I have no secret." The reporter moved nearer him. The old man shrunk against the wall, his lips working convulsively and his hand tearing at his breast as Skaggs drew nearer. He attempted to shriek, but his voice was husky and broke off in a gasping whisper. "Give it to me, as your brother commands." "No, no, no! It is not his secret; it is mine. I must carry it here always, do you hear? I must carry it till I die. Go away! Go away!" Skaggs seized him. Oakley struggled weakly, but he had no strength. The reporter's hand sought the secret pocket. He felt a paper beneath his fingers. Oakley gasped hoarsely as he drew it forth. Then raising his voice gave one agonised cry, and sank to the floor frothing at the mouth. At the cry rapid footsteps were heard in the hallway, and Mrs. Oakley threw open the door. "What is the matter?" she cried. "My message has somewhat upset your husband," was the cool answer. "But his breast is open. Your hand has been in his bosom. You have taken something from him. Give it to me, or I shall call for help." Skaggs had not reckoned on this, but his wits came to the rescue. "You dare not call for help," he said, "or the world will know!" She wrung her hands helplessly, crying, "Oh, give it to me, give it to me. We 've never done you any harm." "But you 've harmed some one else; that is enough." He moved towards the door, but she sprang in front of him with the fierceness of a tigress protecting her young. She attacked him with teeth and	with eagerness. The Colonel dropped his voice lower. "We can only speculate," he said; "but, as I have said, I have my theory. Oakley was a just man, and in punishing his old servant for the supposed robbery it is plain that he acted from principle. But he is also a proud man and would hate to confess that he had been in the wrong. So I believed that the cause of his first shock was the finding of the money that he supposed gone. Unwilling to admit this error, he lets the misapprehension go on, and it is the money which he carries in his secret pocket, with a morbid fear of its discovery, that has made him dismiss his servants, leave his business, and refuse to see his friends." "A very natural conclusion, Colonel, and I must say that I believe you. It is strange that others have not seen as you have seen and brought the matter to light." "Well, you see, Mr. Skaggs, none are so dull as the people who think they think. I can safely say that there is not another man in this town who has lighted upon the real solution of this matter, though it has been openly talked of for so long. But as for bringing it to light, no one would think of doing that. It would be sure to hurt Oakley's feelings, and he is of one of our best families." "Ah, yes, perfectly right." Skaggs had got all that he wanted; much more, in fact, than he had expected. The Colonel held him for a while yet to enlarge upon the views that he had expressed. When the reporter finally left him, it was with a cheery "Good-night, Colonel. If I were a criminal, I should be afraid of that analytical mind of yours!" He went upstairs chuckling. "The old fool!" he cried as he flung himself into a chair. "I 've got it! I 've got it! Maurice Oakley must see me, and then what?" He sat down to think out what he should do to-morrow. Again, with his fine disregard of ways and means, he determined to trust to luck, and as he expressed it, "brace old Oakley." Accordingly he went about nine o'clock the next morning to Oakley's house. A gray-haired, sad-eyed woman inquired his errand. "I want to see Mr. Oakley," he said. "You cannot see him. Mr. Oakley is not well and does not see visitors." "But I must see him, madam; I am here upon business of importance." "You can tell me just as well as him. I am his wife and transact all of his business." "I can tell no one but the master of the house himself." "You cannot see him. It is against his orders." "Very well," replied Skaggs, descending one step; "it is his loss, not mine. I have tried to do my duty and failed. Simply tell him that I came from Paris." "Paris?" cried a querulous voice behind the woman's back. "Leslie, why do you keep the gentleman at the door? Let him come in at once." Mrs. Oakley stepped from the door and Skaggs went in. Had he seen Oakley before he would have been shocked at the change in his appearance; but as it was, the nervous, white-haired man who stood shiftily before him told him nothing of an eating secret long carried. The man's face was gray and haggard, and deep lines were cut under his staring, fish-like eyes. His hair tumbled in white masses over his pallid forehead, and his lips twitched as he talked. "You 're from Paris, sir, from Paris?" he said. "Come in, come in." His motions were nervous and erratic. Skaggs followed him into the library, and the wife disappeared in another direction. It would have been hard to recognise in the Oakley of the present the man of a few years before. The strong frame had gone away to bone, and nothing of his old power sat on either brow or chin. He was as a man who trembled on the brink of insanity. His guilty secret had been too much for him, and Skaggs's own fingers twitched as he saw his host's hands seek the breast of his jacket every other moment. "It is there the secret is hidden," he said to himself, "and whatever it is, I must have it. But how--how? I can't knock the man down and rob him in his own house." But Oakley himself proceeded to give him his first cue. "You--you--perhaps have a message from my brother--my brother who is in Paris. I have not heard from him for some time." Skaggs's mind worked quickly. He remembered the Colonel's story. Evidently the brother had something to do with the secret.<\|quote\|>"Now or never,"</\|quote\|>he thought. So he said boldly, "Yes, I have a message from your brother." The man sprung up, clutching again at his breast. "You have? you have? Give it to me. After four years he sends me a message! Give it to me!" The reporter looked steadily at the man. He knew that he was in his power, that his very eagerness would prove traitor to his discretion. "Your brother bade me to say to you that you have a terrible secret, that you bear it in your breast--there--there. I am his messenger. He bids you to give it to me." Oakley had shrunken back as if he had been struck. "No, no!" he gasped, "no, no! I have no secret." The reporter moved nearer him. The old man shrunk against the wall, his lips working convulsively and his hand tearing at his breast as Skaggs drew nearer. He attempted to shriek, but his voice was husky and broke off in a gasping whisper. "Give it to me, as your brother commands." "No, no, no! It is not his secret; it is mine. I must carry it here always, do you hear? I must carry it till I die. Go away! Go away!" Skaggs seized him. Oakley struggled weakly, but he had no strength. The reporter's hand sought the secret pocket. He felt a paper beneath his fingers. Oakley gasped hoarsely as he drew it forth. Then raising his voice gave one agonised cry, and sank to the floor frothing at the mouth. At the cry rapid footsteps were heard in the hallway, and Mrs. Oakley threw open the door. "What is the matter?" she cried. "My message has somewhat upset your husband," was the cool answer. "But his breast is open. Your hand has been in his bosom. You have taken something from him. Give it to me, or I shall call for help." Skaggs had not reckoned on this, but his wits came to the rescue. "You dare not call for help," he said, "or the world will know!" She wrung her hands helplessly, crying, "Oh, give it to me, give it to me. We 've never done you any harm." "But you 've harmed some one else; that is enough." He moved towards the door, but she sprang in front of him with the fierceness of a tigress protecting her young. She attacked him with teeth and nails. She was pallid with fury, and it was all he could do to protect himself and yet not injure her. Finally, when her anger had taken her strength, he succeeded in getting out. He flew down the hall-way and out of the front door, the woman's screams following him. He did not pause to read the precious letter until he was safe in his room at the Continental Hotel. Then he sprang to his feet, crying, "Thank God! thank God! I was right, and the _Universe_ shall have a sensation. The brother is the thief, and Berry Hamilton is an innocent man. Hurrah! Now, who is it that has come on a wild-goose chase? Who is it that ought to handle his idea carefully? Heigho, Saunders my man, the drinks 'll be on you, and old Skaggsy will have done some good in the world." XVII A YELLOW JOURNAL Mr. Skaggs had no qualms of conscience about the manner in which he had come by the damaging evidence against Maurice Oakley. It was enough for him that he had it. A corporation, he argued, had no soul, and therefore no conscience. How much less, then, should so small a part of a great corporation as himself be expected to have them? He had his story. It was vivid, interesting, dramatic. It meant the favour of his editor, a big thing for the _Universe_, and a fatter lining for his own pocket. He sat down to put his discovery on paper before he attempted anything else, although the impulse to celebrate was very strong within him. He told his story well, with an eye to every one of its salient points. He sent an alleged picture of Berry Hamilton as he had appeared at the time of his arrest. He sent a picture of the Oakley home and of the cottage where the servant and his family had been so happy. There was a strong pen-picture of the man, Oakley, grown haggard and morose from carrying his guilty secret, of his confusion when confronted with the supposed knowledge of it. The old Southern city was described, and the opinions of its residents in regard to the case given. It was there--clear, interesting, and strong. One could see it all as if every phase of it were being enacted before one's eyes. Skaggs surpassed himself. When the editor first got hold	what?" He sat down to think out what he should do to-morrow. Again, with his fine disregard of ways and means, he determined to trust to luck, and as he expressed it, "brace old Oakley." Accordingly he went about nine o'clock the next morning to Oakley's house. A gray-haired, sad-eyed woman inquired his errand. "I want to see Mr. Oakley," he said. "You cannot see him. Mr. Oakley is not well and does not see visitors." "But I must see him, madam; I am here upon business of importance." "You can tell me just as well as him. I am his wife and transact all of his business." "I can tell no one but the master of the house himself." "You cannot see him. It is against his orders." "Very well," replied Skaggs, descending one step; "it is his loss, not mine. I have tried to do my duty and failed. Simply tell him that I came from Paris." "Paris?" cried a querulous voice behind the woman's back. "Leslie, why do you keep the gentleman at the door? Let him come in at once." Mrs. Oakley stepped from the door and Skaggs went in. Had he seen Oakley before he would have been shocked at the change in his appearance; but as it was, the nervous, white-haired man who stood shiftily before him told him nothing of an eating secret long carried. The man's face was gray and haggard, and deep lines were cut under his staring, fish-like eyes. His hair tumbled in white masses over his pallid forehead, and his lips twitched as he talked. "You 're from Paris, sir, from Paris?" he said. "Come in, come in." His motions were nervous and erratic. Skaggs followed him into the library, and the wife disappeared in another direction. It would have been hard to recognise in the Oakley of the present the man of a few years before. The strong frame had gone away to bone, and nothing of his old power sat on either brow or chin. He was as a man who trembled on the brink of insanity. His guilty secret had been too much for him, and Skaggs's own fingers twitched as he saw his host's hands seek the breast of his jacket every other moment. "It is there the secret is hidden," he said to himself, "and whatever it is, I must have it. But how--how? I can't knock the man down and rob him in his own house." But Oakley himself proceeded to give him his first cue. "You--you--perhaps have a message from my brother--my brother who is in Paris. I have not heard from him for some time." Skaggs's mind worked quickly. He remembered the Colonel's story. Evidently the brother had something to do with the secret.<\|quote\|>"Now or never,"</\|quote\|>he thought. So he said boldly, "Yes, I have a message from your brother." The man sprung up, clutching again at his breast. "You have? you have? Give it to me. After four years he sends me a message! Give it to me!" The reporter looked steadily at the man. He knew that he was in his power, that his very eagerness would prove traitor to his discretion. "Your brother bade me to say to you that you have a terrible secret, that you bear it in your breast--there--there. I am his messenger. He bids you to give it to me." Oakley had shrunken back as if he had been struck. "No, no!" he gasped, "no, no! I have no secret." The reporter moved nearer him. The old man shrunk against the wall, his lips working convulsively and his hand tearing at his breast as Skaggs drew nearer. He attempted to shriek, but his voice was husky and broke off in a gasping whisper. "Give it to me, as your brother commands." "No, no, no! It is not his secret; it is mine. I must carry it here always, do you hear? I must carry it till I die. Go away! Go away!" Skaggs seized him. Oakley struggled weakly, but he had no strength. The reporter's hand sought the secret pocket. He felt a paper beneath his fingers. Oakley gasped hoarsely as he drew it forth. Then raising his voice gave one agonised cry, and sank to the floor frothing at the mouth. At the cry rapid footsteps were heard in the hallway, and Mrs. Oakley threw open the door. "What is the matter?" she cried. "My message has somewhat upset your husband," was the cool answer. "But his breast is open. Your hand has been in his bosom. You have taken something from him. Give it to me, or I shall call for help." Skaggs had not reckoned on this, but his wits came to the rescue. "You dare not call for help," he said, "or the world will know!" She wrung her hands helplessly, crying, "Oh, give it to me, give it to me. We 've never done you any harm." "But you 've harmed some one else; that is enough." He moved towards the door, but she sprang in front of him with the fierceness of a tigress protecting her young. She attacked him with teeth and nails.	The Sport Of The Gods
"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"	Winterbourne	she nodded at her attendant.<\|quote\|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</\|quote\|>said Winterbourne. "Of course I	too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<\|quote\|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</\|quote\|>said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed	dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<\|quote\|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</\|quote\|>said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care.	that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<\|quote\|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</\|quote\|>said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several	going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<\|quote\|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</\|quote\|>said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would	missed her, and now it was too late. She was "carried away" by Mr. Giovanelli. A few days after his brief interview with her mother, he encountered her in that beautiful abode of flowering desolation known as the Palace of the Caesars. The early Roman spring had filled the air with bloom and perfume, and the rugged surface of the Palatine was muffled with tender verdure. Daisy was strolling along the top of one of those great mounds of ruin that are embanked with mossy marble and paved with monumental inscriptions. It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, and feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also that Daisy had never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation of his whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<\|quote\|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</\|quote\|>said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!" The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and	Winterbourne observed. "Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed; "she goes on as if she was. But I ve made Mr. Giovanelli promise to tell me, if SHE doesn t. I should want to write to Mr. Miller about it--shouldn t you?" Winterbourne replied that he certainly should; and the state of mind of Daisy s mamma struck him as so unprecedented in the annals of parental vigilance that he gave up as utterly irrelevant the attempt to place her upon her guard. After this Daisy was never at home, and Winterbourne ceased to meet her at the houses of their common acquaintances, because, as he perceived, these shrewd people had quite made up their minds that she was going too far. They ceased to invite her; and they intimated that they desired to express to observant Europeans the great truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady, her behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her, and sometimes it annoyed him to suspect that she did not feel at all. He said to himself that she was too light and childish, too uncultivated and unreasoning, too provincial, to have reflected upon her ostracism, or even to have perceived it. Then at other moments he believed that she carried about in her elegant and irresponsible little organism a defiant, passionate, perfectly observant consciousness of the impression she produced. He asked himself whether Daisy s defiance came from the consciousness of innocence, or from her being, essentially, a young person of the reckless class. It must be admitted that holding one s self to a belief in Daisy s "innocence" came to seem to Winterbourne more and more a matter of fine-spun gallantry. As I have already had occasion to relate, he was angry at finding himself reduced to chopping logic about this young lady; he was vexed at his want of instinctive certitude as to how far her eccentricities were generic, national, and how far they were personal. From either view of them he had somehow missed her, and now it was too late. She was "carried away" by Mr. Giovanelli. A few days after his brief interview with her mother, he encountered her in that beautiful abode of flowering desolation known as the Palace of the Caesars. The early Roman spring had filled the air with bloom and perfume, and the rugged surface of the Palatine was muffled with tender verdure. Daisy was strolling along the top of one of those great mounds of ruin that are embanked with mossy marble and paved with monumental inscriptions. It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, and feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also that Daisy had never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation of his whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<\|quote\|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</\|quote\|>said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!" The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron s famous lines, out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her. Presently the sound of the woman s voice came to him distinctly in the warm night air. "Well, he looks at us as one of the old lions or tigers may have looked at the Christian martyrs!" These were the words he heard, in the familiar accent of Miss Daisy Miller. "Let us hope he is not very hungry," responded the ingenious Giovanelli. "He will have to take me first; you will serve for dessert!" Winterbourne stopped, with a sort of horror, and, it must be added, with a sort of relief. It was as if a sudden illumination had been flashed upon the ambiguity of Daisy s behavior, and the	a defiant, passionate, perfectly observant consciousness of the impression she produced. He asked himself whether Daisy s defiance came from the consciousness of innocence, or from her being, essentially, a young person of the reckless class. It must be admitted that holding one s self to a belief in Daisy s "innocence" came to seem to Winterbourne more and more a matter of fine-spun gallantry. As I have already had occasion to relate, he was angry at finding himself reduced to chopping logic about this young lady; he was vexed at his want of instinctive certitude as to how far her eccentricities were generic, national, and how far they were personal. From either view of them he had somehow missed her, and now it was too late. She was "carried away" by Mr. Giovanelli. A few days after his brief interview with her mother, he encountered her in that beautiful abode of flowering desolation known as the Palace of the Caesars. The early Roman spring had filled the air with bloom and perfume, and the rugged surface of the Palatine was muffled with tender verdure. Daisy was strolling along the top of one of those great mounds of ruin that are embanked with mossy marble and paved with monumental inscriptions. It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, and feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also that Daisy had never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation of his whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<\|quote\|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</\|quote\|>said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too,	Daisy Miller
“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”	Frank Hawden	said, turning away in disgust.<\|quote\|>“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”</\|quote\|>“Do with what?” “My love.”	no more such trash,” I said, turning away in disgust.<\|quote\|>“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”</\|quote\|>“Do with what?” “My love.” “Love!” I retorted scornfully. “There	were left alone, “I want to apologize to you. I had no right to plague you, but it all comes of the way I love you. A fellow gets jealous at the least little thing, you know.” “Bore me with no more such trash,” I said, turning away in disgust.<\|quote\|>“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”</\|quote\|>“Do with what?” “My love.” “Love!” I retorted scornfully. “There is no such thing.” “But there is, and I have found it.” “Well, you stick to it—that’s my advice to you. It will be a treasure. If you send it to my father he will get it bottled up and	sing to you,” I said brusquely, and made my exit. “Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,” called aunt Helen. “See what he wants and let him get away to his work, or your grannie will be vexed to see him loitering about all the morning.” “Miss Sybylla,” he began, when we were left alone, “I want to apologize to you. I had no right to plague you, but it all comes of the way I love you. A fellow gets jealous at the least little thing, you know.” “Bore me with no more such trash,” I said, turning away in disgust.<\|quote\|>“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”</\|quote\|>“Do with what?” “My love.” “Love!” I retorted scornfully. “There is no such thing.” “But there is, and I have found it.” “Well, you stick to it—that’s my advice to you. It will be a treasure. If you send it to my father he will get it bottled up and put it in the Goulburn museum. He has sent several things there already.” “Don’t make such a game of a poor devil. You know I can’t do that.” “Bag it up, then; put a big stone to make it sink, and pitch it in the river.” “You’ll rue this,” he	plumped down on the piano-stool and dashed into Kowalski’s galop, from that into “Gaité de Coeur” until I made the piano dance and tremble like a thing possessed. My annoyance faded, and I slowly played that saddest of waltzes, “Weber’s Last” . I became aware of a presence in the room, and, facing about, confronted Everard Grey. “How long have you been here?” I demanded sharply. “Since you began to play. Where on earth did you learn to play? Your execution is splendid. Do sing ‘Three Fishers’, please.” “Excuse me; I haven’t time now. Besides I am not competent to sing to you,” I said brusquely, and made my exit. “Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,” called aunt Helen. “See what he wants and let him get away to his work, or your grannie will be vexed to see him loitering about all the morning.” “Miss Sybylla,” he began, when we were left alone, “I want to apologize to you. I had no right to plague you, but it all comes of the way I love you. A fellow gets jealous at the least little thing, you know.” “Bore me with no more such trash,” I said, turning away in disgust.<\|quote\|>“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”</\|quote\|>“Do with what?” “My love.” “Love!” I retorted scornfully. “There is no such thing.” “But there is, and I have found it.” “Well, you stick to it—that’s my advice to you. It will be a treasure. If you send it to my father he will get it bottled up and put it in the Goulburn museum. He has sent several things there already.” “Don’t make such a game of a poor devil. You know I can’t do that.” “Bag it up, then; put a big stone to make it sink, and pitch it in the river.” “You’ll rue this,” he said savagely. “I may or may not,” I sang over my shoulder as I departed. CHAPTER TWELVE One Grand Passion I had not the opportunity of any more private interviews with Everard Grey till one morning near his departure, when we happened to be alone on the veranda. “Well, Miss Sybylla,” he began, “when I arrived I thought you and I would have been great friends; but we have not progressed at all. How do you account for that?” As he spoke he laid his slender shapely hand kindly upon my head. He was very handsome and winning, and moved	on the old tree there. I’m not a booby that will fall in love with every gussie I see. Bah, there’s no fear of that! I hate and detest men!” “I suppose you are rehearsing some more airs to show off with tonight,” sneered a voice behind me. “No, I’m realisticing; and how _dare_ you thrust your obnoxious presence before me when I wish to be alone! Haven’t I often shown—” “While a girl is disengaged, any man who is her equal has the right to pay his addresses to her if he is in earnest,” interrupted Mr Hawden. It was he who stood before me. “I am well aware of that,” I replied. “But it is a woman’s privilege to repel those attentions if distasteful to her. You seem disinclined to accord me that privilege.” Having delivered this retort, I returned to the house, leaving him standing there looking the fool he was. I do not believe in spurning the love of a blackfellow if he behaves in a manly way; but Frank Hawden was such a drivelling mawkish style of sweetheart that I had no patience with him. Aunt Helen and Everard had vacated the drawing-room, so I plumped down on the piano-stool and dashed into Kowalski’s galop, from that into “Gaité de Coeur” until I made the piano dance and tremble like a thing possessed. My annoyance faded, and I slowly played that saddest of waltzes, “Weber’s Last” . I became aware of a presence in the room, and, facing about, confronted Everard Grey. “How long have you been here?” I demanded sharply. “Since you began to play. Where on earth did you learn to play? Your execution is splendid. Do sing ‘Three Fishers’, please.” “Excuse me; I haven’t time now. Besides I am not competent to sing to you,” I said brusquely, and made my exit. “Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,” called aunt Helen. “See what he wants and let him get away to his work, or your grannie will be vexed to see him loitering about all the morning.” “Miss Sybylla,” he began, when we were left alone, “I want to apologize to you. I had no right to plague you, but it all comes of the way I love you. A fellow gets jealous at the least little thing, you know.” “Bore me with no more such trash,” I said, turning away in disgust.<\|quote\|>“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”</\|quote\|>“Do with what?” “My love.” “Love!” I retorted scornfully. “There is no such thing.” “But there is, and I have found it.” “Well, you stick to it—that’s my advice to you. It will be a treasure. If you send it to my father he will get it bottled up and put it in the Goulburn museum. He has sent several things there already.” “Don’t make such a game of a poor devil. You know I can’t do that.” “Bag it up, then; put a big stone to make it sink, and pitch it in the river.” “You’ll rue this,” he said savagely. “I may or may not,” I sang over my shoulder as I departed. CHAPTER TWELVE One Grand Passion I had not the opportunity of any more private interviews with Everard Grey till one morning near his departure, when we happened to be alone on the veranda. “Well, Miss Sybylla,” he began, “when I arrived I thought you and I would have been great friends; but we have not progressed at all. How do you account for that?” As he spoke he laid his slender shapely hand kindly upon my head. He was very handsome and winning, and moved in literary, musical, and artistic society—a man from my world, a world away. Oh, what pleasure I might have derived from companionship with him! I bit my lip to keep back the tears. Why did not social arrangements allow a man and a maid to be chums—chums as two men or two maids may be to each other, enjoying each other without thought beyond pure platonic friendship? But no; it could not be. I understood the conceit of men. Should I be very affable, I feared Everard Grey would imagine he had made a conquest of me. On the other hand, were I glum he would think the same, and that I was trying to hide my feelings behind a mask of brusquerie. I therefore steered in a bee-line between the two manners, and remarked with the greatest of indifference: “I was not aware that you expected us to be such cronies—in fact, I have never given the matter a thought.” He turned away in a piqued style. Such a beau of beaux, no doubt he was annoyed that an insignificant little country bumpkin should not be flattered by his patronage, or probably he thought me rude or ill-humoured. Two	boy, you must be dreaming! You have only seen her for an hour or two. I don’t believe in these sudden attachments.” Perhaps she here thought of one (her own) as sudden, which had not ended happily. “Everard, don’t do anything rashly. You know you are very fickle and considered a lady-killer—be merciful to my poor little Sybylla, I pray. It is just one of your passing fancies. Don’t wile her passionate young heart away and then leave her to pine and die.” “I don’t think she is that sort,” he replied laughingly. “No, she would not die, but would grow into a cynic and sceptic, which is the worst of fates. Let her alone. Flirt as much as you will with society belles who understand the game, but leave my country maiden alone. I hope to mould her into a splendid character yet.” “But, Helen, supposing I am in earnest at last, you don’t think I’d make her a bad old hubby, do you?” “She is not the girl for you. You are not the man who could ever control her. What I say may not be complimentary but it is true. Besides, she is not seventeen yet, and I do not approve of romantic young girls throwing themselves into matrimony. Let them develop their womanhood first.” “Then I expect I had better hide my attractions under a bushel during the remainder of my stay at Caddagat?” “Yes. Be as nice to the child as you like, but mind, none of those little ladies’-man attentions with which it is so easy to steal—” I waited to hear no more, but, brimming over with a mixture of emotions, tore through the garden and into the old orchard. Bees were busy, and countless bright-coloured butterflies flitted hither and thither, sipping from hundreds of trees, white or pink with bloom—their beauty was lost upon me. I stood ankle-deep in violets, where they had run wild under a gnarled old apple-tree, and gave way to my wounded vanity. “Little country maiden, indeed! There’s no need for him to bag his attractions up. If he exerted himself to the utmost of his ability, he could not make me love him. I’m not a child. I saw through him in the first hour. There’s not enough in him to win my love. I’ll show him I think no more of him than of the caterpillars on the old tree there. I’m not a booby that will fall in love with every gussie I see. Bah, there’s no fear of that! I hate and detest men!” “I suppose you are rehearsing some more airs to show off with tonight,” sneered a voice behind me. “No, I’m realisticing; and how _dare_ you thrust your obnoxious presence before me when I wish to be alone! Haven’t I often shown—” “While a girl is disengaged, any man who is her equal has the right to pay his addresses to her if he is in earnest,” interrupted Mr Hawden. It was he who stood before me. “I am well aware of that,” I replied. “But it is a woman’s privilege to repel those attentions if distasteful to her. You seem disinclined to accord me that privilege.” Having delivered this retort, I returned to the house, leaving him standing there looking the fool he was. I do not believe in spurning the love of a blackfellow if he behaves in a manly way; but Frank Hawden was such a drivelling mawkish style of sweetheart that I had no patience with him. Aunt Helen and Everard had vacated the drawing-room, so I plumped down on the piano-stool and dashed into Kowalski’s galop, from that into “Gaité de Coeur” until I made the piano dance and tremble like a thing possessed. My annoyance faded, and I slowly played that saddest of waltzes, “Weber’s Last” . I became aware of a presence in the room, and, facing about, confronted Everard Grey. “How long have you been here?” I demanded sharply. “Since you began to play. Where on earth did you learn to play? Your execution is splendid. Do sing ‘Three Fishers’, please.” “Excuse me; I haven’t time now. Besides I am not competent to sing to you,” I said brusquely, and made my exit. “Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,” called aunt Helen. “See what he wants and let him get away to his work, or your grannie will be vexed to see him loitering about all the morning.” “Miss Sybylla,” he began, when we were left alone, “I want to apologize to you. I had no right to plague you, but it all comes of the way I love you. A fellow gets jealous at the least little thing, you know.” “Bore me with no more such trash,” I said, turning away in disgust.<\|quote\|>“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”</\|quote\|>“Do with what?” “My love.” “Love!” I retorted scornfully. “There is no such thing.” “But there is, and I have found it.” “Well, you stick to it—that’s my advice to you. It will be a treasure. If you send it to my father he will get it bottled up and put it in the Goulburn museum. He has sent several things there already.” “Don’t make such a game of a poor devil. You know I can’t do that.” “Bag it up, then; put a big stone to make it sink, and pitch it in the river.” “You’ll rue this,” he said savagely. “I may or may not,” I sang over my shoulder as I departed. CHAPTER TWELVE One Grand Passion I had not the opportunity of any more private interviews with Everard Grey till one morning near his departure, when we happened to be alone on the veranda. “Well, Miss Sybylla,” he began, “when I arrived I thought you and I would have been great friends; but we have not progressed at all. How do you account for that?” As he spoke he laid his slender shapely hand kindly upon my head. He was very handsome and winning, and moved in literary, musical, and artistic society—a man from my world, a world away. Oh, what pleasure I might have derived from companionship with him! I bit my lip to keep back the tears. Why did not social arrangements allow a man and a maid to be chums—chums as two men or two maids may be to each other, enjoying each other without thought beyond pure platonic friendship? But no; it could not be. I understood the conceit of men. Should I be very affable, I feared Everard Grey would imagine he had made a conquest of me. On the other hand, were I glum he would think the same, and that I was trying to hide my feelings behind a mask of brusquerie. I therefore steered in a bee-line between the two manners, and remarked with the greatest of indifference: “I was not aware that you expected us to be such cronies—in fact, I have never given the matter a thought.” He turned away in a piqued style. Such a beau of beaux, no doubt he was annoyed that an insignificant little country bumpkin should not be flattered by his patronage, or probably he thought me rude or ill-humoured. Two mornings later uncle Jay-Jay took him to Gool-Gool _en route_ for Sydney. When departing he bade me a kindly good-bye, made me promise to write to him, and announced his intention of obtaining the opinion of some good masters are my dramatic talent and voice, when I came to Sydney as promised by my grandmother. I stood on the garden fence waving my handkerchief until the buggy passed out of sight among the messmate-trees about half a mile from the house. “Well I hope, as that dandified ape has gone—and good riddance to him—that you will pay more heed to my attentions now,” said Mr Hawden’s voice, as I was in the act of descending from the fence. “What do you mean by your attentions?” I demanded. “What do I mean! That is something like coming to business. I’ll soon explain. You know what my intentions are very well. When I am twenty-four, I will come into my property in England. It is considerable, and at the end of that time I want to marry you and take you home. By Jove! I would just like to take you home. You’d surprise some English girls I know.” “There would be more than one person surprised if I married you,” I thought to myself, and laughed till I ached with the motion. “You infernal little vixen! What are you laughing at? You’ve got no more sense than a bat if such a solemn thing only provokes your mirth.” “Solemn—why, it’s a screaming farce!” I laughed more and more. “What’s a farce?” he demanded fiercely. “The bare idea of you proposing to me.” “Why? Have I not as much right to propose as any other man?” “Man!” I laughed. “That’s where the absurdity arises. My child, if you were a man, certainly you could propose, but do you think I’d look at a boy, a child! If ever I perpetrate matrimony the participant in my degradation will be a fully developed man—not a hobbledehoy who falls in love, as he terms it, on an average about twice a week. Love! Ho!” I moved in the direction of the house. He barred my path. “You are not going to escape me like that, my fine lady. I will make you listen to me this time or you will hear more about it,” and he seized me angrily by the wrist. I cannot bear	in the first hour. There’s not enough in him to win my love. I’ll show him I think no more of him than of the caterpillars on the old tree there. I’m not a booby that will fall in love with every gussie I see. Bah, there’s no fear of that! I hate and detest men!” “I suppose you are rehearsing some more airs to show off with tonight,” sneered a voice behind me. “No, I’m realisticing; and how _dare_ you thrust your obnoxious presence before me when I wish to be alone! Haven’t I often shown—” “While a girl is disengaged, any man who is her equal has the right to pay his addresses to her if he is in earnest,” interrupted Mr Hawden. It was he who stood before me. “I am well aware of that,” I replied. “But it is a woman’s privilege to repel those attentions if distasteful to her. You seem disinclined to accord me that privilege.” Having delivered this retort, I returned to the house, leaving him standing there looking the fool he was. I do not believe in spurning the love of a blackfellow if he behaves in a manly way; but Frank Hawden was such a drivelling mawkish style of sweetheart that I had no patience with him. Aunt Helen and Everard had vacated the drawing-room, so I plumped down on the piano-stool and dashed into Kowalski’s galop, from that into “Gaité de Coeur” until I made the piano dance and tremble like a thing possessed. My annoyance faded, and I slowly played that saddest of waltzes, “Weber’s Last” . I became aware of a presence in the room, and, facing about, confronted Everard Grey. “How long have you been here?” I demanded sharply. “Since you began to play. Where on earth did you learn to play? Your execution is splendid. Do sing ‘Three Fishers’, please.” “Excuse me; I haven’t time now. Besides I am not competent to sing to you,” I said brusquely, and made my exit. “Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,” called aunt Helen. “See what he wants and let him get away to his work, or your grannie will be vexed to see him loitering about all the morning.” “Miss Sybylla,” he began, when we were left alone, “I want to apologize to you. I had no right to plague you, but it all comes of the way I love you. A fellow gets jealous at the least little thing, you know.” “Bore me with no more such trash,” I said, turning away in disgust.<\|quote\|>“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”</\|quote\|>“Do with what?” “My love.” “Love!” I retorted scornfully. “There is no such thing.” “But there is, and I have found it.” “Well, you stick to it—that’s my advice to you. It will be a treasure. If you send it to my father he will get it bottled up and put it in the Goulburn museum. He has sent several things there already.” “Don’t make such a game of a poor devil. You know I can’t do that.” “Bag it up, then; put a big stone to make it sink, and pitch it in the river.” “You’ll rue this,” he said savagely. “I may or may not,” I sang over my shoulder as I departed. CHAPTER TWELVE One Grand Passion I had not the opportunity of any more private interviews with Everard Grey till one morning near his departure, when we happened to be alone on the veranda. “Well, Miss Sybylla,” he began, “when I arrived I thought you and I would have been great friends; but we have not progressed at all. How do you account for that?” As he spoke he laid his slender shapely hand kindly upon my head. He was very handsome and winning, and moved in literary, musical, and artistic society—a man from my world, a world away. Oh, what pleasure I might have derived from companionship with him! I bit my lip to keep back the tears. Why did not social arrangements allow a man and a maid to be chums—chums as two men or two maids may be to each other, enjoying each other without thought beyond pure platonic friendship? But no; it could not be. I understood the conceit of men. Should I be very affable, I feared Everard Grey would imagine he had made a conquest of	My Brilliant Career
All the older men are linked up with their previous life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate it. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and some, perhaps, a girl--that is not much, for at our age the influence of parents is at its weakest and girls have not yet got a hold over us. Besides this there was little else--some enthusiasm, a few hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains. Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not often sad. * * Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich's boots, he is really quite as sympathetic as another who could not bear to think of such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather go barefoot over barbed wire than scheme how to get hold of them. But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich's circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich will die; it is immaterial who gets them. Why, then, should Müller not succeed to them? he has more right than a hospital orderly. When Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already on the watch. We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important for us. And good boots are scarce. * * Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to enlist, we were a class of twenty young men, many of whom proudly shaved for the first time before going to the barracks. We had no definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and occupation were as yet of too unpractical a character to furnish any scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave to life, and to the war also, an ideal and almost romantic character. We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At first astonished, then embittered, and finally indifferent, we recognized that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush, not intelligence but the system, not freedom but drill. We became soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm, but they have done everything to knock that out of us. After three weeks it was no longer incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe. With our young, awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servant--salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a thousand pettifogging details. We had fancied our task would be different, only to find we were to be trained for heroism as though we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to it. We learned in fact that some part of these things was necessary, but the rest merely show. Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions. * * By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst Frisian fishermen, peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went to No. 9 platoon under Corporal Himmelstoss. He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the camp, and was proud of it. He was a small undersized fellow with a foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years service and was in civil life a postman. He had a special dislike for Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus, and me, because he sensed a quiet defiance. I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he had some fault to find and pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty hours--with intervals of course--until they became as soft as butter and not even Himmelstoss could find anything more to do to them; under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals' Mess with a tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the barrack-square of snow with a hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant accidentally appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But the only result of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For six weeks consecutively I did guard every Sunday and was hut-orderly for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to practise on a soft, wet, newly ploughed field the	No speaker	Kantorek calls the "Iron Youth."<\|quote\|>All the older men are linked up with their previous life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate it. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and some, perhaps, a girl--that is not much, for at our age the influence of parents is at its weakest and girls have not yet got a hold over us. Besides this there was little else--some enthusiasm, a few hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains. Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not often sad. * * Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich's boots, he is really quite as sympathetic as another who could not bear to think of such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather go barefoot over barbed wire than scheme how to get hold of them. But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich's circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich will die; it is immaterial who gets them. Why, then, should Müller not succeed to them? he has more right than a hospital orderly. When Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already on the watch. We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important for us. And good boots are scarce. * * Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to enlist, we were a class of twenty young men, many of whom proudly shaved for the first time before going to the barracks. We had no definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and occupation were as yet of too unpractical a character to furnish any scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave to life, and to the war also, an ideal and almost romantic character. We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At first astonished, then embittered, and finally indifferent, we recognized that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush, not intelligence but the system, not freedom but drill. We became soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm, but they have done everything to knock that out of us. After three weeks it was no longer incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe. With our young, awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servant--salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a thousand pettifogging details. We had fancied our task would be different, only to find we were to be trained for heroism as though we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to it. We learned in fact that some part of these things was necessary, but the rest merely show. Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions. * * By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst Frisian fishermen, peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went to No. 9 platoon under Corporal Himmelstoss. He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the camp, and was proud of it. He was a small undersized fellow with a foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years service and was in civil life a postman. He had a special dislike for Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus, and me, because he sensed a quiet defiance. I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he had some fault to find and pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty hours--with intervals of course--until they became as soft as butter and not even Himmelstoss could find anything more to do to them; under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals' Mess with a tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the barrack-square of snow with a hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant accidentally appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But the only result of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For six weeks consecutively I did guard every Sunday and was hut-orderly for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to practise on a soft, wet, newly ploughed field the</\|quote\|>"Prepare to advance, advance!" and	for all of us whom Kantorek calls the "Iron Youth."<\|quote\|>All the older men are linked up with their previous life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate it. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and some, perhaps, a girl--that is not much, for at our age the influence of parents is at its weakest and girls have not yet got a hold over us. Besides this there was little else--some enthusiasm, a few hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains. Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not often sad. * * Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich's boots, he is really quite as sympathetic as another who could not bear to think of such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather go barefoot over barbed wire than scheme how to get hold of them. But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich's circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich will die; it is immaterial who gets them. Why, then, should Müller not succeed to them? he has more right than a hospital orderly. When Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already on the watch. We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important for us. And good boots are scarce. * * Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to enlist, we were a class of twenty young men, many of whom proudly shaved for the first time before going to the barracks. We had no definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and occupation were as yet of too unpractical a character to furnish any scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave to life, and to the war also, an ideal and almost romantic character. We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At first astonished, then embittered, and finally indifferent, we recognized that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush, not intelligence but the system, not freedom but drill. We became soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm, but they have done everything to knock that out of us. After three weeks it was no longer incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe. With our young, awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servant--salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a thousand pettifogging details. We had fancied our task would be different, only to find we were to be trained for heroism as though we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to it. We learned in fact that some part of these things was necessary, but the rest merely show. Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions. * * By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst Frisian fishermen, peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went to No. 9 platoon under Corporal Himmelstoss. He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the camp, and was proud of it. He was a small undersized fellow with a foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years service and was in civil life a postman. He had a special dislike for Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus, and me, because he sensed a quiet defiance. I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he had some fault to find and pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty hours--with intervals of course--until they became as soft as butter and not even Himmelstoss could find anything more to do to them; under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals' Mess with a tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the barrack-square of snow with a hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant accidentally appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But the only result of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For six weeks consecutively I did guard every Sunday and was hut-orderly for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to practise on a soft, wet, newly ploughed field the</\|quote\|>"Prepare to advance, advance!" and the "Lie down!" until I	and that without our lifting a hand. We often try to look back on it and to find an explanation, but never quite succeed. For us young men of twenty everything is extraordinarily vague, for Kropp, Müller, Leer, and me, for all of us whom Kantorek calls the "Iron Youth."<\|quote\|>All the older men are linked up with their previous life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate it. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and some, perhaps, a girl--that is not much, for at our age the influence of parents is at its weakest and girls have not yet got a hold over us. Besides this there was little else--some enthusiasm, a few hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains. Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not often sad. * * Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich's boots, he is really quite as sympathetic as another who could not bear to think of such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather go barefoot over barbed wire than scheme how to get hold of them. But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich's circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich will die; it is immaterial who gets them. Why, then, should Müller not succeed to them? he has more right than a hospital orderly. When Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already on the watch. We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important for us. And good boots are scarce. * * Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to enlist, we were a class of twenty young men, many of whom proudly shaved for the first time before going to the barracks. We had no definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and occupation were as yet of too unpractical a character to furnish any scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave to life, and to the war also, an ideal and almost romantic character. We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At first astonished, then embittered, and finally indifferent, we recognized that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush, not intelligence but the system, not freedom but drill. We became soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm, but they have done everything to knock that out of us. After three weeks it was no longer incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe. With our young, awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servant--salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a thousand pettifogging details. We had fancied our task would be different, only to find we were to be trained for heroism as though we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to it. We learned in fact that some part of these things was necessary, but the rest merely show. Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions. * * By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst Frisian fishermen, peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went to No. 9 platoon under Corporal Himmelstoss. He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the camp, and was proud of it. He was a small undersized fellow with a foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years service and was in civil life a postman. He had a special dislike for Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus, and me, because he sensed a quiet defiance. I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he had some fault to find and pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty hours--with intervals of course--until they became as soft as butter and not even Himmelstoss could find anything more to do to them; under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals' Mess with a tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the barrack-square of snow with a hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant accidentally appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But the only result of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For six weeks consecutively I did guard every Sunday and was hut-orderly for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to practise on a soft, wet, newly ploughed field the</\|quote\|>"Prepare to advance, advance!" and the "Lie down!" until I was one lump of mud and finally collapsed. Four hours later I had to report to Himmelstoss with my clothes scrubbed clean, my hands chafed and bleeding. Together with Kropp, Westhus, and Tjaden I have stood at attention in a	of a play called "Saul" and a bundle of poems. Many an evening I have worked over them--we all did something of the kind--but that has become so unreal to me that I cannot comprehend it any more. Our early life is cut off from the moment we came here, and that without our lifting a hand. We often try to look back on it and to find an explanation, but never quite succeed. For us young men of twenty everything is extraordinarily vague, for Kropp, Müller, Leer, and me, for all of us whom Kantorek calls the "Iron Youth."<\|quote\|>All the older men are linked up with their previous life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate it. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and some, perhaps, a girl--that is not much, for at our age the influence of parents is at its weakest and girls have not yet got a hold over us. Besides this there was little else--some enthusiasm, a few hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains. Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not often sad. * * Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich's boots, he is really quite as sympathetic as another who could not bear to think of such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather go barefoot over barbed wire than scheme how to get hold of them. But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich's circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich will die; it is immaterial who gets them. Why, then, should Müller not succeed to them? he has more right than a hospital orderly. When Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already on the watch. We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important for us. And good boots are scarce. * * Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to enlist, we were a class of twenty young men, many of whom proudly shaved for the first time before going to the barracks. We had no definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and occupation were as yet of too unpractical a character to furnish any scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave to life, and to the war also, an ideal and almost romantic character. We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At first astonished, then embittered, and finally indifferent, we recognized that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush, not intelligence but the system, not freedom but drill. We became soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm, but they have done everything to knock that out of us. After three weeks it was no longer incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe. With our young, awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servant--salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a thousand pettifogging details. We had fancied our task would be different, only to find we were to be trained for heroism as though we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to it. We learned in fact that some part of these things was necessary, but the rest merely show. Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions. * * By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst Frisian fishermen, peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went to No. 9 platoon under Corporal Himmelstoss. He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the camp, and was proud of it. He was a small undersized fellow with a foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years service and was in civil life a postman. He had a special dislike for Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus, and me, because he sensed a quiet defiance. I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he had some fault to find and pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty hours--with intervals of course--until they became as soft as butter and not even Himmelstoss could find anything more to do to them; under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals' Mess with a tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the barrack-square of snow with a hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant accidentally appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But the only result of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For six weeks consecutively I did guard every Sunday and was hut-orderly for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to practise on a soft, wet, newly ploughed field the</\|quote\|>"Prepare to advance, advance!" and the "Lie down!" until I was one lump of mud and finally collapsed. Four hours later I had to report to Himmelstoss with my clothes scrubbed clean, my hands chafed and bleeding. Together with Kropp, Westhus, and Tjaden I have stood at attention in a hard frost without gloves for a quarter of an hour at a stretch, while Himmelstoss watched for the slightest movement of our bare fingers on the steel barrel of the rifle. I have run eight times from the top floor of the barracks down to the courtyard in my shirt	calmed himself; we understand: he sees red, out here every man gets like that sometime. "What has Kantorek written to you?" Müller asks him. He laughs. "We are the Iron Youth." We all three smile bitterly. Kropp rails: he is glad that he can speak. Yes, that's the way they think, these hundred thousand Kantoreks! Iron Youth. Youth! We are none of us more than twenty years old. But young? Youth? That is long ago. We are old folk. CHAPTER II It is strange to think that at home in the drawer of my writing table there lies the beginning of a play called "Saul" and a bundle of poems. Many an evening I have worked over them--we all did something of the kind--but that has become so unreal to me that I cannot comprehend it any more. Our early life is cut off from the moment we came here, and that without our lifting a hand. We often try to look back on it and to find an explanation, but never quite succeed. For us young men of twenty everything is extraordinarily vague, for Kropp, Müller, Leer, and me, for all of us whom Kantorek calls the "Iron Youth."<\|quote\|>All the older men are linked up with their previous life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate it. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and some, perhaps, a girl--that is not much, for at our age the influence of parents is at its weakest and girls have not yet got a hold over us. Besides this there was little else--some enthusiasm, a few hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains. Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not often sad. * * Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich's boots, he is really quite as sympathetic as another who could not bear to think of such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather go barefoot over barbed wire than scheme how to get hold of them. But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich's circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich will die; it is immaterial who gets them. Why, then, should Müller not succeed to them? he has more right than a hospital orderly. When Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already on the watch. We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important for us. And good boots are scarce. * * Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to enlist, we were a class of twenty young men, many of whom proudly shaved for the first time before going to the barracks. We had no definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and occupation were as yet of too unpractical a character to furnish any scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave to life, and to the war also, an ideal and almost romantic character. We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At first astonished, then embittered, and finally indifferent, we recognized that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush, not intelligence but the system, not freedom but drill. We became soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm, but they have done everything to knock that out of us. After three weeks it was no longer incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe. With our young, awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servant--salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a thousand pettifogging details. We had fancied our task would be different, only to find we were to be trained for heroism as though we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to it. We learned in fact that some part of these things was necessary, but the rest merely show. Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions. * * By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst Frisian fishermen, peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went to No. 9 platoon under Corporal Himmelstoss. He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the camp, and was proud of it. He was a small undersized fellow with a foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years service and was in civil life a postman. He had a special dislike for Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus, and me, because he sensed a quiet defiance. I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he had some fault to find and pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty hours--with intervals of course--until they became as soft as butter and not even Himmelstoss could find anything more to do to them; under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals' Mess with a tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the barrack-square of snow with a hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant accidentally appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But the only result of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For six weeks consecutively I did guard every Sunday and was hut-orderly for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to practise on a soft, wet, newly ploughed field the</\|quote\|>"Prepare to advance, advance!" and the "Lie down!" until I was one lump of mud and finally collapsed. Four hours later I had to report to Himmelstoss with my clothes scrubbed clean, my hands chafed and bleeding. Together with Kropp, Westhus, and Tjaden I have stood at attention in a hard frost without gloves for a quarter of an hour at a stretch, while Himmelstoss watched for the slightest movement of our bare fingers on the steel barrel of the rifle. I have run eight times from the top floor of the barracks down to the courtyard in my shirt at two o'clock in the morning because my drawers projected three inches beyond the edge of the stool on which one had to stack all one's things. Alongside me ran the corporal, Himmelstoss, and trod on my bare toes. At bayonet-practice I had constantly to fight with Himmelstoss, I with a heavy iron weapon whilst he had a handy wooden one with which he easily struck my arms till they were black and blue. Once, indeed, I became so infuriated that I ran at him blindly and gave him a mighty jab in the stomach and knocked him down. When	Kropp viciously. I hastily intervene and give him a cigarette. He takes it. "Are you usually allowed to give it, then?" I ask him. He is annoyed. "If you don't think so, then why do you ask?" I press a couple more cigarettes into his hand. "Do us the favour----" "Well, all right," he says. Kropp goes in with him. He doesn't trust him and wants to see. We wait outside. Müller returns to the subject of the boots. "They would fit me perfectly. In these boots I get blister after blister. Do you think he will last till to-morrow after drill? If he passes out in the night, we know where the boots----" Kropp returns. "Do you think----?" he asks. "Done for," says Müller emphatically. We go back to the huts. I think of the letter that I must write to-morrow to Kemmerich's mother. I am freezing. I could do with a tot of rum. Müller pulls up some grass and chews it. Suddenly little Kropp throws his cigarette away, stamps on it savagely, and looking round him with a broken and distracted face, stammers: "Damned shit, the damned shit!" We walk on for a long time. Kropp has calmed himself; we understand: he sees red, out here every man gets like that sometime. "What has Kantorek written to you?" Müller asks him. He laughs. "We are the Iron Youth." We all three smile bitterly. Kropp rails: he is glad that he can speak. Yes, that's the way they think, these hundred thousand Kantoreks! Iron Youth. Youth! We are none of us more than twenty years old. But young? Youth? That is long ago. We are old folk. CHAPTER II It is strange to think that at home in the drawer of my writing table there lies the beginning of a play called "Saul" and a bundle of poems. Many an evening I have worked over them--we all did something of the kind--but that has become so unreal to me that I cannot comprehend it any more. Our early life is cut off from the moment we came here, and that without our lifting a hand. We often try to look back on it and to find an explanation, but never quite succeed. For us young men of twenty everything is extraordinarily vague, for Kropp, Müller, Leer, and me, for all of us whom Kantorek calls the "Iron Youth."<\|quote\|>All the older men are linked up with their previous life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate it. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and some, perhaps, a girl--that is not much, for at our age the influence of parents is at its weakest and girls have not yet got a hold over us. Besides this there was little else--some enthusiasm, a few hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains. Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not often sad. * * Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich's boots, he is really quite as sympathetic as another who could not bear to think of such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather go barefoot over barbed wire than scheme how to get hold of them. But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich's circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich will die; it is immaterial who gets them. Why, then, should Müller not succeed to them? he has more right than a hospital orderly. When Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already on the watch. We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important for us. And good boots are scarce. * * Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to enlist, we were a class of twenty young men, many of whom proudly shaved for the first time before going to the barracks. We had no definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and occupation were as yet of too unpractical a character to furnish any scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave to life, and to the war also, an ideal and almost romantic character. We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At first astonished, then embittered, and finally indifferent, we recognized that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush, not intelligence but the system, not freedom but drill. We became soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm, but they have done everything to knock that out of us. After three weeks it was no longer incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe. With our young, awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servant--salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a thousand pettifogging details. We had fancied our task would be different, only to find we were to be trained for heroism as though we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to it. We learned in fact that some part of these things was necessary, but the rest merely show. Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions. * * By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst Frisian fishermen, peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went to No. 9 platoon under Corporal Himmelstoss. He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the camp, and was proud of it. He was a small undersized fellow with a foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years service and was in civil life a postman. He had a special dislike for Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus, and me, because he sensed a quiet defiance. I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he had some fault to find and pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty hours--with intervals of course--until they became as soft as butter and not even Himmelstoss could find anything more to do to them; under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals' Mess with a tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the barrack-square of snow with a hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant accidentally appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But the only result of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For six weeks consecutively I did guard every Sunday and was hut-orderly for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to practise on a soft, wet, newly ploughed field the</\|quote\|>"Prepare to advance, advance!" and the "Lie down!" until I was one lump of mud and finally collapsed. Four hours later I had to report to Himmelstoss with my clothes scrubbed clean, my hands chafed and bleeding. Together with Kropp, Westhus, and Tjaden I have stood at attention in a hard frost without gloves for a quarter of an hour at a stretch, while Himmelstoss watched for the slightest movement of our bare fingers on the steel barrel of the rifle. I have run eight times from the top floor of the barracks down to the courtyard in my shirt at two o'clock in the morning because my drawers projected three inches beyond the edge of the stool on which one had to stack all one's things. Alongside me ran the corporal, Himmelstoss, and trod on my bare toes. At bayonet-practice I had constantly to fight with Himmelstoss, I with a heavy iron weapon whilst he had a handy wooden one with which he easily struck my arms till they were black and blue. Once, indeed, I became so infuriated that I ran at him blindly and gave him a mighty jab in the stomach and knocked him down. When he reported me the company commander laughed at him and told him he ought to keep his eyes open; he understood Himmelstoss, and apparently was not displeased at his discomfiture. I became a past master on the parallel bars and strove to surpass my instructor at physical jerks;--we have trembled at the mere sound of his voice, but this runaway post-horse never got the better of us. One Sunday as Kropp and I were lugging a latrine-bucket on a pole across the barrack-yard, Himmelstoss came by, all polished up and spry for going out. He planted himself in front of us and asked how we liked the job. In spite of ourselves we tripped and emptied the bucket over his legs. He raved, but the limit had been reached. "That means clink," he yelled. But Kropp had had enough. "There'll be an inquiry first," he said, "and then we'll unload." "Mind how you speak to a non-commissioned officer!" bawled Himmelstoss. "Have you lost your senses? You wait till you're spoken to. What will you do, anyway?" "Show you up, Corporal," said Kropp, his thumbs in line with the seams of his trousers. Himmelstoss saw what we meant and went off	says Kropp. "You would have had to wait at least three or four months for your leave." Kemmerich nods. I cannot bear to look at his hands, they are like wax. Under the nails is the dirt of the trenches, it shows through blue-black like poison. It strikes me that these nails will continue to grow like long fantastic cellar-plants long after Kemmerich breathes no more. I see the picture before me. They twist themselves into corkscrews and grow and grow, and with them the hair on the decayed skull, just like grass in a good soil, just like grass, how can it be possible---- Müller leans over. "We have brought your things, Franz." Kemmerich signs with his hand. "Put them under the bed." Müller does so. Kemmerich starts on again about the watch. How can one calm him without making him suspicious? Müller reappears with a pair of airman's boots. They are fine English boots of soft, yellow leather which reach to the knee and lace all the way--they are things to be coveted. Müller is delighted at the sight of them. He matches their soles against his own clumsy boots and says: "Will you be taking them with you then, Franz?" We all three have the same thought; even if he should get better, he would be able to use only one--they are no use to him. But as things are now it is a pity that they should stay here; the orderlies will of course grab them as soon as he is dead. "Won't you leave them with us?" Müller repeats. Kemmerich doesn't want to. They are his most prized possessions. "Well, we could exchange," suggests Müller again. "Out here one can make some use of them." Still Kemmerich is not to be moved. I tread on Müller's foot; reluctantly he puts the fine boots back again under the bed. We talk a little more and then take our leave. "Cheerio, Franz." I promise him to come back in the morning. Müller talks of doing so too. He is thinking of the lace-up boots and means to be on the spot. Kemmerich groans. He is feverish. We get hold of an orderly outside and ask him to give Kemmerich a dose of morphia. He refuses. "If we were to give morphia to everyone we would have to have tubs full----" "You only attend to officers properly," says Kropp viciously. I hastily intervene and give him a cigarette. He takes it. "Are you usually allowed to give it, then?" I ask him. He is annoyed. "If you don't think so, then why do you ask?" I press a couple more cigarettes into his hand. "Do us the favour----" "Well, all right," he says. Kropp goes in with him. He doesn't trust him and wants to see. We wait outside. Müller returns to the subject of the boots. "They would fit me perfectly. In these boots I get blister after blister. Do you think he will last till to-morrow after drill? If he passes out in the night, we know where the boots----" Kropp returns. "Do you think----?" he asks. "Done for," says Müller emphatically. We go back to the huts. I think of the letter that I must write to-morrow to Kemmerich's mother. I am freezing. I could do with a tot of rum. Müller pulls up some grass and chews it. Suddenly little Kropp throws his cigarette away, stamps on it savagely, and looking round him with a broken and distracted face, stammers: "Damned shit, the damned shit!" We walk on for a long time. Kropp has calmed himself; we understand: he sees red, out here every man gets like that sometime. "What has Kantorek written to you?" Müller asks him. He laughs. "We are the Iron Youth." We all three smile bitterly. Kropp rails: he is glad that he can speak. Yes, that's the way they think, these hundred thousand Kantoreks! Iron Youth. Youth! We are none of us more than twenty years old. But young? Youth? That is long ago. We are old folk. CHAPTER II It is strange to think that at home in the drawer of my writing table there lies the beginning of a play called "Saul" and a bundle of poems. Many an evening I have worked over them--we all did something of the kind--but that has become so unreal to me that I cannot comprehend it any more. Our early life is cut off from the moment we came here, and that without our lifting a hand. We often try to look back on it and to find an explanation, but never quite succeed. For us young men of twenty everything is extraordinarily vague, for Kropp, Müller, Leer, and me, for all of us whom Kantorek calls the "Iron Youth."<\|quote\|>All the older men are linked up with their previous life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate it. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and some, perhaps, a girl--that is not much, for at our age the influence of parents is at its weakest and girls have not yet got a hold over us. Besides this there was little else--some enthusiasm, a few hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains. Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not often sad. * * Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich's boots, he is really quite as sympathetic as another who could not bear to think of such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather go barefoot over barbed wire than scheme how to get hold of them. But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich's circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich will die; it is immaterial who gets them. Why, then, should Müller not succeed to them? he has more right than a hospital orderly. When Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already on the watch. We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important for us. And good boots are scarce. * * Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to enlist, we were a class of twenty young men, many of whom proudly shaved for the first time before going to the barracks. We had no definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and occupation were as yet of too unpractical a character to furnish any scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave to life, and to the war also, an ideal and almost romantic character. We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At first astonished, then embittered, and finally indifferent, we recognized that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush, not intelligence but the system, not freedom but drill. We became soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm, but they have done everything to knock that out of us. After three weeks it was no longer incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe. With our young, awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servant--salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a thousand pettifogging details. We had fancied our task would be different, only to find we were to be trained for heroism as though we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to it. We learned in fact that some part of these things was necessary, but the rest merely show. Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions. * * By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst Frisian fishermen, peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went to No. 9 platoon under Corporal Himmelstoss. He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the camp, and was proud of it. He was a small undersized fellow with a foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years service and was in civil life a postman. He had a special dislike for Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus, and me, because he sensed a quiet defiance. I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he had some fault to find and pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty hours--with intervals of course--until they became as soft as butter and not even Himmelstoss could find anything more to do to them; under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals' Mess with a tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the barrack-square of snow with a hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant accidentally appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But the only result of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For six weeks consecutively I did guard every Sunday and was hut-orderly for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to practise on a soft, wet, newly ploughed field the</\|quote\|>"Prepare to advance, advance!" and the "Lie down!" until I was one lump of mud and finally collapsed. Four hours later I had to report to Himmelstoss with my clothes scrubbed clean, my hands chafed and bleeding. Together with Kropp, Westhus, and Tjaden I have stood at attention in a hard frost without gloves for a quarter of an hour at a stretch, while Himmelstoss watched for the slightest movement of our bare fingers on the steel barrel of the rifle. I have run eight times from the top floor of the barracks down to the courtyard in my shirt at two o'clock in the morning because my drawers projected three inches beyond the edge of the stool on which one had to stack all one's things. Alongside me ran the corporal, Himmelstoss, and trod on my bare toes. At bayonet-practice I had constantly to fight with Himmelstoss, I with a heavy iron weapon whilst he had a handy wooden one with which he easily struck my arms till they were black and blue. Once, indeed, I became so infuriated that I ran at him blindly and gave him a mighty jab in the stomach and knocked him down. When he reported me the company commander laughed at him and told him he ought to keep his eyes open; he understood Himmelstoss, and apparently was not displeased at his discomfiture. I became a past master on the parallel bars and strove to surpass my instructor at physical jerks;--we have trembled at the mere sound of his voice, but this runaway post-horse never got the better of us. One Sunday as Kropp and I were lugging a latrine-bucket on a pole across the barrack-yard, Himmelstoss came by, all polished up and spry for going out. He planted himself in front of us and asked how we liked the job. In spite of ourselves we tripped and emptied the bucket over his legs. He raved, but the limit had been reached. "That means clink," he yelled. But Kropp had had enough. "There'll be an inquiry first," he said, "and then we'll unload." "Mind how you speak to a non-commissioned officer!" bawled Himmelstoss. "Have you lost your senses? You wait till you're spoken to. What will you do, anyway?" "Show you up, Corporal," said Kropp, his thumbs in line with the seams of his trousers. Himmelstoss saw what we meant and went off without saying a word. But before he disappeared he growled: "You'll drink this!" --but it was the end of his authority. He tried it on once more in the ploughed field with his "Prepare to advance, advance" and "Lie down." We obeyed each order, since an order's an order and has to be obeyed. But we did it so slowly that Himmelstoss became desperate. Carefully we went down on our knees, then on our hands, and so on; in the meantime, quite infuriated, he had given another command. But before we had even begun to sweat he was hoarse. After that he left us in peace. He did indeed always refer to us as swine, but there was, nevertheless, a certain respect in his tone. There were many other staff corporals, the majority of whom were more decent. But above all each of them wanted to keep his good job there at home as long as possible, and that he could do only by being strict with the recruits. Practically every conceivable polishing job in the entire camp fell to us and we often howled with rage. Many of us became ill through it; Wolf actually died of inflammation of the lung. But we would have felt ridiculous had we hauled down our colours. We became hard, suspicious, pitiless, vicious, tough--and that was good; for these attributes had been entirely lacking in us. Had we gone into the trenches without this period of training most of us would certainly have gone mad. Only thus were we prepared for what awaited us. We did not break down, but endured; our twenty years, which made many another thing so grievous, helped us in this. But by far the most important was that it awakened in us a strong, practical sense of _esprit de corps_, which in the field developed into the finest thing that arose out of the war--comradeship. * * I sit by Kemmerich's bed. He is sinking steadily. Around us is a great commotion. A hospital train has arrived and the wounded fit to be moved are being selected. The doctor passes by Kemmerich's bed without once looking at him. "Next time, Franz," I say. He raises himself on the pillow with his elbows. "They have amputated my leg." He knows it too then. I nod and answer: "You must be thankful you've come off with that." He is silent.	says Kropp viciously. I hastily intervene and give him a cigarette. He takes it. "Are you usually allowed to give it, then?" I ask him. He is annoyed. "If you don't think so, then why do you ask?" I press a couple more cigarettes into his hand. "Do us the favour----" "Well, all right," he says. Kropp goes in with him. He doesn't trust him and wants to see. We wait outside. Müller returns to the subject of the boots. "They would fit me perfectly. In these boots I get blister after blister. Do you think he will last till to-morrow after drill? If he passes out in the night, we know where the boots----" Kropp returns. "Do you think----?" he asks. "Done for," says Müller emphatically. We go back to the huts. I think of the letter that I must write to-morrow to Kemmerich's mother. I am freezing. I could do with a tot of rum. Müller pulls up some grass and chews it. Suddenly little Kropp throws his cigarette away, stamps on it savagely, and looking round him with a broken and distracted face, stammers: "Damned shit, the damned shit!" We walk on for a long time. Kropp has calmed himself; we understand: he sees red, out here every man gets like that sometime. "What has Kantorek written to you?" Müller asks him. He laughs. "We are the Iron Youth." We all three smile bitterly. Kropp rails: he is glad that he can speak. Yes, that's the way they think, these hundred thousand Kantoreks! Iron Youth. Youth! We are none of us more than twenty years old. But young? Youth? That is long ago. We are old folk. CHAPTER II It is strange to think that at home in the drawer of my writing table there lies the beginning of a play called "Saul" and a bundle of poems. Many an evening I have worked over them--we all did something of the kind--but that has become so unreal to me that I cannot comprehend it any more. Our early life is cut off from the moment we came here, and that without our lifting a hand. We often try to look back on it and to find an explanation, but never quite succeed. For us young men of twenty everything is extraordinarily vague, for Kropp, Müller, Leer, and me, for all of us whom Kantorek calls the "Iron Youth."<\|quote\|>All the older men are linked up with their previous life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate it. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and some, perhaps, a girl--that is not much, for at our age the influence of parents is at its weakest and girls have not yet got a hold over us. Besides this there was little else--some enthusiasm, a few hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains. Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not often sad. * * Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich's boots, he is really quite as sympathetic as another who could not bear to think of such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather go barefoot over barbed wire than scheme how to get hold of them. But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich's circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich will die; it is immaterial who gets them. Why, then, should Müller not succeed to them? he has more right than a hospital orderly. When Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already on the watch. We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important for us. And good boots are scarce. * * Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to enlist, we were a class of twenty young men, many of whom proudly shaved for the first time before going to the barracks. We had no definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and occupation were as yet of too unpractical a character to furnish any scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave to life, and to the war also, an ideal and almost romantic character. We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At first astonished, then embittered, and finally indifferent, we recognized that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush, not intelligence but the system, not freedom but drill. We became soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm, but they have done everything to knock that out of us. After three weeks it was no longer incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe. With our young, awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servant--salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a thousand pettifogging details. We had fancied our task would be different, only to find we were to be trained for heroism as though we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to it. We learned in fact that some part of these things was necessary, but the rest merely show. Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions. * * By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst Frisian fishermen, peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went to No. 9 platoon under Corporal Himmelstoss. He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the camp, and was proud of it. He was a small undersized fellow with a foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years service and was in civil life a postman. He had a special dislike for Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus, and me, because he sensed a quiet defiance. I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he had some fault to find and pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty hours--with intervals of course--until they became as soft as butter and not even Himmelstoss could find anything more to do to them; under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals' Mess with a tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the barrack-square of snow with a hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant accidentally appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But the only result of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For six weeks consecutively I did guard every Sunday and was hut-orderly for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to practise on a soft, wet, newly ploughed field the</\|quote\|>"Prepare to advance, advance!" and the "Lie down!" until I was one lump of mud and finally collapsed. Four hours later I had to report to Himmelstoss with my clothes scrubbed clean, my hands chafed and bleeding. Together with Kropp, Westhus, and Tjaden I have stood at attention in a hard frost without gloves for a quarter of an hour at a stretch, while Himmelstoss watched for the slightest movement of our bare fingers on the steel barrel of the rifle. I have run eight times from the top floor of the barracks down to the courtyard in my shirt at two o'clock in the morning because my drawers projected three inches beyond the edge of the stool on which one had to stack all one's things. Alongside me ran the corporal, Himmelstoss, and trod on my bare toes. At bayonet-practice I had constantly to fight with Himmelstoss, I with a heavy iron weapon whilst he had a handy wooden one with which he easily struck my arms till they were black and blue. Once, indeed, I became so infuriated that I ran at him blindly and gave him a mighty jab in the stomach and knocked him down. When he reported me the company commander laughed at him and told him he ought to keep his eyes open; he understood Himmelstoss, and apparently was not displeased at his discomfiture. I became a past master on the parallel bars and strove to surpass my instructor at physical jerks;--we have trembled at the mere sound of his voice, but this runaway post-horse never got the better of us. One Sunday as Kropp and I were lugging a latrine-bucket on a pole across the barrack-yard, Himmelstoss came by, all polished up and spry for going out. He planted himself in front of us and asked how we liked the job. In spite of ourselves we tripped and emptied the bucket over his legs. He raved, but the limit had been reached. "That means clink," he yelled. But Kropp had had enough. "There'll be an inquiry first," he said, "and then we'll unload." "Mind how you speak to a non-commissioned officer!" bawled Himmelstoss. "Have you lost your senses? You wait till	All Quiet on the Western Front
said Jem, with a groan.	No speaker	"Are we nearly there, sir?"<\|quote\|>said Jem, with a groan.</\|quote\|>"Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber.	be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?"<\|quote\|>said Jem, with a groan.</\|quote\|>"Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where	about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?"<\|quote\|>said Jem, with a groan.</\|quote\|>"Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here." "We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up." "But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself	women? Come, rouse a bit." "No, thankye, sir," said Jem, in a miserable tone. "Bit? I haven't bit anything since I've been aboard." "Then rouse up, and bite something now," cried the boatswain. "Come, my lad," he continued, turning to Don, "you've got too much stuff in you to lie about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?"<\|quote\|>said Jem, with a groan.</\|quote\|>"Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here." "We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up." "But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself you may get a run ashore at the Cape or at Singapore; but most likely you won't leave the ship till we get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?" "Yes, China. What of that?" "China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round to Plymouth or	ill. Well, all I can say is that it serves the captain and the lieutenant and all the rest of 'em jolly well right for press-ganging me." "What do you mean?" said Don, dolefully. "Why, that they took all that trouble to bring me aboard to make a sailor of me, and they'll never do it. I'm fit to go into a hospital, and that's about all I'm fit for. Sailor? Why, I can't even stand upright on the precious deck." "Well, my lads," said a hearty voice just then; "how long are you going to play at being old women? Come, rouse a bit." "No, thankye, sir," said Jem, in a miserable tone. "Bit? I haven't bit anything since I've been aboard." "Then rouse up, and bite something now," cried the boatswain. "Come, my lad," he continued, turning to Don, "you've got too much stuff in you to lie about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?"<\|quote\|>said Jem, with a groan.</\|quote\|>"Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here." "We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up." "But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself you may get a run ashore at the Cape or at Singapore; but most likely you won't leave the ship till we get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?" "Yes, China. What of that?" "China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round to Plymouth or Portsmouth, or some place like that. China?" "We're going straight away or China, my lad, to be on that station for some time." "And when are we coming back, sir?" "In about three years." "Mas' Don," said Jem, dolefully; "let's get up on deck, sir, and jump overboard, so as to make an end of it." "You'd better not," said the boatswain, laughing at Jem's miserable face. "You're in the king's service now, and you've got to work. There, rouse up, and act like a man." "But can't we send a letter home, sir?" asked Don. "Oh, yes, if you	side of the vessel, for everything around seemed to be swimming, and a peculiarly faint sensation had attacked him, such as he had never experienced before. "There, send 'em all below," said the officer, who seemed half angry, half-amused. "Pretty way this is, of manning His Majesty's ships. There, down with you. Get 'em all below." Don did not know how he got below. He had some recollection of knocking the skin off his elbows, and being half dragged into a corner of the lower deck, where, for three days, he lay in the most abjectly miserable state, listening to the sighs and groans of his equally unfortunate companions, and the remarks of Jem, who kept up in his waking moments a running commentary on the miseries of going to sea. "It's wuss than anything I ever felt or saw," he muttered. "I've been ill, and I've been in hospital, but this here's about the most terrible. I say, Mas' Don, how do you feel now?" "As if I'd give anything to have the ship stopped, for us to be set ashore." "No, no, you can't feel like that, Mas' Don, because that's exactly how I feel. I am so ill. Well, all I can say is that it serves the captain and the lieutenant and all the rest of 'em jolly well right for press-ganging me." "What do you mean?" said Don, dolefully. "Why, that they took all that trouble to bring me aboard to make a sailor of me, and they'll never do it. I'm fit to go into a hospital, and that's about all I'm fit for. Sailor? Why, I can't even stand upright on the precious deck." "Well, my lads," said a hearty voice just then; "how long are you going to play at being old women? Come, rouse a bit." "No, thankye, sir," said Jem, in a miserable tone. "Bit? I haven't bit anything since I've been aboard." "Then rouse up, and bite something now," cried the boatswain. "Come, my lad," he continued, turning to Don, "you've got too much stuff in you to lie about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?"<\|quote\|>said Jem, with a groan.</\|quote\|>"Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here." "We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up." "But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself you may get a run ashore at the Cape or at Singapore; but most likely you won't leave the ship till we get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?" "Yes, China. What of that?" "China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round to Plymouth or Portsmouth, or some place like that. China?" "We're going straight away or China, my lad, to be on that station for some time." "And when are we coming back, sir?" "In about three years." "Mas' Don," said Jem, dolefully; "let's get up on deck, sir, and jump overboard, so as to make an end of it." "You'd better not," said the boatswain, laughing at Jem's miserable face. "You're in the king's service now, and you've got to work. There, rouse up, and act like a man." "But can't we send a letter home, sir?" asked Don. "Oh, yes, if you like, at the first port we touch at, or by any ship we speak. But come, my lad, you've been sea-sick for days; don't begin to be home sick. You've been pressed as many a better fellow has been before you. The king wants men, and he must have them. Now, young as you are, show that you can act like a man." Don gave him an agonised look, but the bluff boatswain did not see it. "Here, you fellows," he cried to the rest of the sick men; "we've given you time enough now. You must get up and shake all this off. You'll all be on deck in a quarter of an hour, so look sharp." "This here's a nice game, Mas' Don. Do you know how I feel?" "No, Jem; but I know how I feel." "How's that, sir?" "That if I had been asked to serve the king I might have joined a ship; but I've been dragged here in a cruel way, and the very first time I can get ashore, I mean to stay." "Well, I felt something like that, Mas' Don; but they'd call it desertion." "Let them call it what they like,	west. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. JEM IS HUNGRY. The first time the pressed men were mustered Don was well prepared. "You leave it to me, Jem," he whispered. "I'll wait till our turn comes, and then I shall speak out to the officer and tell him how we've been treated." "You'd better make haste, then, Mas' Don, for if the thing keeps on moving like this, I sha'n't be able to stand and hear what you have to say." For a good breeze was blowing from the south coast, sufficient to make the waves curl over, and the sloop behave in rather a lively way; the more so that she had a good deal of canvas spread, and heeled over and dipped her nose sufficiently to admit a great wave from time to time to well splash the forward part of the deck. Don made no reply, for he felt white, but he attributed it to the mental excitement from which he suffered. There were thirty pressed men on deck, for the most part old sailors from the mercantile marine, and these men were drafted off into various watches, the trouble to the officers being that of arranging the fate of the landsmen, who looked wretched in the extreme. "'Pon my word, Jones," said a smart-looking, middle-aged man in uniform, whom Don took to be the first lieutenant, "about as sorry a lot of Bristol sweepings as ever I saw." "Not bad men, sir," said the petty officer addressed. "Wait till they've shaken down into their places." "Now's your time, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Now or never." Don was on the alert, but just as the officer neared them the vessel gave a sudden pitch, and of the men standing in a row the minute before, not one remained upon his feet. For it seemed as if the deck had suddenly dropped down; and as Don and Jem rolled over into the lee scuppers, they were pretty well doused by the water that came splashing over the bows, and when, amidst a shout of laughter from the sailors, the order was given for them to get up and form in line again, Jem clung tightly to Don, and said, dolefully,-- "It's of no use, Mas' Don; I can't. It's like trying to stand on running barrels; and--oh, dear me!--I do feel so precious bad." Don made no reply, but caught at the side of the vessel, for everything around seemed to be swimming, and a peculiarly faint sensation had attacked him, such as he had never experienced before. "There, send 'em all below," said the officer, who seemed half angry, half-amused. "Pretty way this is, of manning His Majesty's ships. There, down with you. Get 'em all below." Don did not know how he got below. He had some recollection of knocking the skin off his elbows, and being half dragged into a corner of the lower deck, where, for three days, he lay in the most abjectly miserable state, listening to the sighs and groans of his equally unfortunate companions, and the remarks of Jem, who kept up in his waking moments a running commentary on the miseries of going to sea. "It's wuss than anything I ever felt or saw," he muttered. "I've been ill, and I've been in hospital, but this here's about the most terrible. I say, Mas' Don, how do you feel now?" "As if I'd give anything to have the ship stopped, for us to be set ashore." "No, no, you can't feel like that, Mas' Don, because that's exactly how I feel. I am so ill. Well, all I can say is that it serves the captain and the lieutenant and all the rest of 'em jolly well right for press-ganging me." "What do you mean?" said Don, dolefully. "Why, that they took all that trouble to bring me aboard to make a sailor of me, and they'll never do it. I'm fit to go into a hospital, and that's about all I'm fit for. Sailor? Why, I can't even stand upright on the precious deck." "Well, my lads," said a hearty voice just then; "how long are you going to play at being old women? Come, rouse a bit." "No, thankye, sir," said Jem, in a miserable tone. "Bit? I haven't bit anything since I've been aboard." "Then rouse up, and bite something now," cried the boatswain. "Come, my lad," he continued, turning to Don, "you've got too much stuff in you to lie about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?"<\|quote\|>said Jem, with a groan.</\|quote\|>"Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here." "We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up." "But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself you may get a run ashore at the Cape or at Singapore; but most likely you won't leave the ship till we get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?" "Yes, China. What of that?" "China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round to Plymouth or Portsmouth, or some place like that. China?" "We're going straight away or China, my lad, to be on that station for some time." "And when are we coming back, sir?" "In about three years." "Mas' Don," said Jem, dolefully; "let's get up on deck, sir, and jump overboard, so as to make an end of it." "You'd better not," said the boatswain, laughing at Jem's miserable face. "You're in the king's service now, and you've got to work. There, rouse up, and act like a man." "But can't we send a letter home, sir?" asked Don. "Oh, yes, if you like, at the first port we touch at, or by any ship we speak. But come, my lad, you've been sea-sick for days; don't begin to be home sick. You've been pressed as many a better fellow has been before you. The king wants men, and he must have them. Now, young as you are, show that you can act like a man." Don gave him an agonised look, but the bluff boatswain did not see it. "Here, you fellows," he cried to the rest of the sick men; "we've given you time enough now. You must get up and shake all this off. You'll all be on deck in a quarter of an hour, so look sharp." "This here's a nice game, Mas' Don. Do you know how I feel?" "No, Jem; but I know how I feel." "How's that, sir?" "That if I had been asked to serve the king I might have joined a ship; but I've been dragged here in a cruel way, and the very first time I can get ashore, I mean to stay." "Well, I felt something like that, Mas' Don; but they'd call it desertion." "Let them call it what they like, Jem. They treated us like dogs, and I will not stand it. I shall leave the ship first chance. You can do as you like, but that's what I mean to do." "Oh, I shall do as you do, Mas' Don. I was never meant for a sailor, and I shall get away as soon as I can." "Shall you?" said a voice that seemed familiar; and they both turned in the direction from which it came, to see a dark figure rise from beside the bulk head, where it had lain unnoticed by the invalids, though if they had noted its presence, they would have taken it for one of their fellow-sufferers. "What's it got to do with you?" said Jem, shortly, as he scowled at the man, who now came forward sufficiently near the dim light for them to recognise the grim, sinister-looking sailor, who had played so unpleasant a part at the _rendez-vous_ where they were taken after being seized. "What's it got to do with me? Everything. So you're goin' to desert, both of you, are you? Do you know what that means?" "No; nor don't want," growled Jem. "Then I'll tell you. Flogging, for sartain, and p'r'aps stringing up at the yard-arm, as an example to others." "Ho!" said Jem; "do it? Well, you look the sort o' man as is best suited for that; and just you look here. Nex' time I ketches you spying and listening to what I say, I shall give you a worse dressing down than I give you last time, so be off." "Mutinous, threatening, and talking about deserting," said the sinister-looking sailor, with a harsh laugh, which sounded as if he had a young watchman's rattle somewhere in his chest. "Nice thing to report. I think this will do." He went off rubbing his hands softly, and mounted the ladder, Jem watching him till his legs had disappeared, when he turned sharply to Don. "Him and me's going to have a regular set-to some day, Mas' Don. He makes me feel warm, and somehow that bit of a row has done me no end o' good. Here, come on deck, and let's see if he's telling tales. Come on, lad. P'r'aps I've got a word or two to say as well." Don had not realised it before, but as he followed Jem, he suddenly woke to the fact	most abjectly miserable state, listening to the sighs and groans of his equally unfortunate companions, and the remarks of Jem, who kept up in his waking moments a running commentary on the miseries of going to sea. "It's wuss than anything I ever felt or saw," he muttered. "I've been ill, and I've been in hospital, but this here's about the most terrible. I say, Mas' Don, how do you feel now?" "As if I'd give anything to have the ship stopped, for us to be set ashore." "No, no, you can't feel like that, Mas' Don, because that's exactly how I feel. I am so ill. Well, all I can say is that it serves the captain and the lieutenant and all the rest of 'em jolly well right for press-ganging me." "What do you mean?" said Don, dolefully. "Why, that they took all that trouble to bring me aboard to make a sailor of me, and they'll never do it. I'm fit to go into a hospital, and that's about all I'm fit for. Sailor? Why, I can't even stand upright on the precious deck." "Well, my lads," said a hearty voice just then; "how long are you going to play at being old women? Come, rouse a bit." "No, thankye, sir," said Jem, in a miserable tone. "Bit? I haven't bit anything since I've been aboard." "Then rouse up, and bite something now," cried the boatswain. "Come, my lad," he continued, turning to Don, "you've got too much stuff in you to lie about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?"<\|quote\|>said Jem, with a groan.</\|quote\|>"Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here." "We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up." "But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself you may get a run ashore at the Cape or at Singapore; but most likely you won't leave the ship till we get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?" "Yes, China. What of that?" "China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round to Plymouth or Portsmouth, or some place like that. China?" "We're going straight away or China, my lad, to be on that station for some time." "And when are we coming back, sir?" "In about three years." "Mas' Don," said Jem, dolefully; "let's get up on deck, sir, and jump overboard, so as to make an end of it." "You'd better not," said the boatswain, laughing at Jem's miserable face. "You're in the king's service now, and you've got to work. There, rouse up, and act like a man." "But can't we send a letter home, sir?" asked Don. "Oh, yes, if you like, at the first port we touch at, or by any ship we speak. But come, my lad, you've been sea-sick for days; don't begin to be home sick. You've been pressed as many a better fellow has been before you. The king wants men, and he must have them. Now, young as you are, show that you can act like a man." Don gave him an agonised look, but the bluff boatswain did not see it. "Here, you fellows," he cried to the rest of the sick men; "we've given you time enough now. You must get up and shake all this off. You'll all be on deck in a quarter of an hour, so look sharp." "This here's a nice game, Mas' Don. Do you know how I feel?" "No, Jem; but I know how I feel." "How's that, sir?" "That if I	Don Lavington
"tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?"	Kosrouchan	him away. "Daughter," said he,<\|quote\|>"tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?"</\|quote\|>"Sir," replied the princess, "this	fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he,<\|quote\|>"tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?"</\|quote\|>"Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name	the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he,<\|quote\|>"tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?"</\|quote\|>"Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden	on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he,<\|quote\|>"tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?"</\|quote\|>"Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat,	play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess, "where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he,<\|quote\|>"tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?"</\|quote\|>"Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat, I will do myself the honour of relating it to you." "My daughter," replied the emperor, "my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Talking Bird." When the emperor came to the Golden Water, his eyes were fixed so steadfastly upon the fountain, that he could not take them off. At last, addressing himself to the princess, he said: "As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no	from the great world. It is not to be compared with the magnificent palaces of emperors." "I cannot perfectly agree with you in opinion," said the emperor very obligingly, "for its first appearance makes me suspect you; however, I will not pass my judgment upon it till I have seen it all; therefore be pleased to conduct me through the apartments." The princess led the emperor through all the rooms except the hall; and, after he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess, "where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he,<\|quote\|>"tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?"</\|quote\|>"Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat, I will do myself the honour of relating it to you." "My daughter," replied the emperor, "my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Talking Bird." When the emperor came to the Golden Water, his eyes were fixed so steadfastly upon the fountain, that he could not take them off. At last, addressing himself to the princess, he said: "As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no spring or communication, I conclude that it is foreign, as well as the Singing Tree." "Sir," replied the princess, "it is as your majesty conjectures; and to let you know that this water has no communication with any spring, I must inform you that the basin is one entire stone, so that the water cannot come in at the sides or underneath. But what your majesty will think most wonderful is that all this water proceeded but from one small flagon, emptied into this basin, which increased to the quantity you see, by a property peculiar to itself, and formed this fountain." "Well," said the emperor, going from the fountain, "this is enough for one time. I promise myself the pleasure to come and visit it often; but now let us go and see the Talking Bird." As he went toward the hall, the emperor perceived a prodigious number of singing birds in the trees around, filling the air with their songs and warblings, and asked why there were so many there and none on the other trees in the garden. "The reason, sir," answered the princess, "is because they come from all parts to accompany the song of the	which nobody else must have anything to do with besides yourself. This dish must be of cucumbers stuffed with these pearls;" and at the same time she opened him the box, and showed him the jewels. The chief cook, who had never heard of such a dish, started back, and showed his thoughts by his looks; which the princess penetrating, said: "I see you take me to be mad to order such a dish, which one may say with certainty was never made. I know this as well as you; but I am not mad, and give you these orders with the most perfect recollection. You must invent and do the best you can, and bring me back what pearls are left." The cook could make no reply, but took the box and retired; and afterward the princess gave directions to all the domestics to have everything in order, both in the house and gardens, to receive the emperor. Next day the two princes went to the place appointed, and as soon as the emperor of Persia arrived the chase began and lasted till the heat of the sun obliged him to leave off. While Prince Bahman stayed to conduct the emperor to their house, Prince Perviz rode before to show the way, and when he came in sight of the house, spurred his horse, to inform the princess that the emperor was approaching; but she had been told by some servants whom she had placed to give notice, and the prince found her waiting ready to receive him. When the emperor had entered the court-yard and alighted at the portico, the princess came and threw herself at his feet, and the two princes informed him she was their sister, and besought him to accept her respects. The emperor stooped to raise her, and after he had gazed some time on her beauty, struck with her fine person and dignified air, he said: "The brothers are worthy of the sister, and she worthy of them; since, if I may judge of her understanding by her person, I am not amazed that the brothers would do nothing without their sister's consent; but," added he, "I hope to be better acquainted with you, my daughter, after I have seen the house." "Sir," said the princess, "it is only a plain country residence, fit for such people as we are, who live retired from the great world. It is not to be compared with the magnificent palaces of emperors." "I cannot perfectly agree with you in opinion," said the emperor very obligingly, "for its first appearance makes me suspect you; however, I will not pass my judgment upon it till I have seen it all; therefore be pleased to conduct me through the apartments." The princess led the emperor through all the rooms except the hall; and, after he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess, "where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he,<\|quote\|>"tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?"</\|quote\|>"Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat, I will do myself the honour of relating it to you." "My daughter," replied the emperor, "my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Talking Bird." When the emperor came to the Golden Water, his eyes were fixed so steadfastly upon the fountain, that he could not take them off. At last, addressing himself to the princess, he said: "As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no spring or communication, I conclude that it is foreign, as well as the Singing Tree." "Sir," replied the princess, "it is as your majesty conjectures; and to let you know that this water has no communication with any spring, I must inform you that the basin is one entire stone, so that the water cannot come in at the sides or underneath. But what your majesty will think most wonderful is that all this water proceeded but from one small flagon, emptied into this basin, which increased to the quantity you see, by a property peculiar to itself, and formed this fountain." "Well," said the emperor, going from the fountain, "this is enough for one time. I promise myself the pleasure to come and visit it often; but now let us go and see the Talking Bird." As he went toward the hall, the emperor perceived a prodigious number of singing birds in the trees around, filling the air with their songs and warblings, and asked why there were so many there and none on the other trees in the garden. "The reason, sir," answered the princess, "is because they come from all parts to accompany the song of the Talking Bird, which your majesty may see in a cage in one of the windows of the hall we are approaching; and if you attend, you will perceive that his notes are sweeter than those of any of the other birds, even the nightingale's." The emperor went into the hall; and as the Bird continued singing, the princess raised her voice, and said, "My slave, here is the emperor, pay your compliments to him." The Bird left off singing that instant, when all the other birds ceased also, and said: "The emperor is welcome; God prosper him and prolong his life!" As the entertainment was served on the sofa near the window where the Bird was placed, the sultan replied, as he was taking his seat: "Bird, I thank you, and am overjoyed to find in you the sultan and king of birds." As soon as the emperor saw the dish of cucumbers set before him, thinking they were prepared in the best manner, he reached out his hand and took one; but when he cut it, was in extreme surprise to find it stuffed with pearls. "What novelty is this?" said he; "and with what design were these cucumbers stuffed thus with pearls, since pearls are not to be eaten?" He looked at his hosts to ask them the meaning when the Bird interrupting him, said: "Can your majesty be in such great astonishment at cucumbers stuffed with pearls, which you see with your own eyes, and yet so easily believe that the queen, your wife, gave birth to a dog, a cat, and a piece of wood?" "I believed those things," replied the emperor, "because the attendants assured me of the facts." "Those attendants, sir," replied the Bird, "were the queen's two sisters, who, envious of her happiness in being preferred by your majesty before them, to satisfy their envy and revenge, have abused your majesty's credulity. If you interrogate them, they will confess their crime. The two brothers and the sister whom you see before you are your own children, whom they exposed, and who were taken in by the intendant of your gardens, who provided nurses for them, and took care of their education." This speech presently cleared up the emperor's understanding. "Bird," cried he, "I believe the truth which you discover to me. The inclination which drew me to them told me plainly they must	object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess, "where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he,<\|quote\|>"tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?"</\|quote\|>"Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat, I will do myself the honour of relating it to you." "My daughter," replied the emperor, "my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Talking Bird." When the emperor came to the Golden Water, his eyes were fixed so steadfastly upon the fountain, that he could not take them off. At last, addressing himself to the princess, he said: "As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no spring or communication, I conclude that it is foreign, as well as the Singing Tree." "Sir," replied the princess, "it is as your majesty conjectures; and to let you know that this water has no communication with any spring, I must inform you that the basin is one entire stone, so that the water cannot come in at the sides or underneath. But what your majesty will think most wonderful is that all this water proceeded but from one small flagon, emptied into this basin, which increased to the quantity you see, by a property	Arabian Nights (1)
“Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.”	Theign	said. “At least _he_ did.”<\|quote\|>“Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.”</\|quote\|>“Oh, he speaks very well--and	talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.”<\|quote\|>“Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.”</\|quote\|>“Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It	been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.”<\|quote\|>“Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.”</\|quote\|>“Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?”	tantôt!_” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.”<\|quote\|>“Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.”</\|quote\|>“Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the	this immense debt to him!” “Oh, I shall pay Mr. Crimble!” said her father, who had turned round. The whole question appeared to have provoked in Lord John a rise of spirits and a flush of humour. “Don’t you let him stick it on.” His host, however, bethinking himself, checked him. “Go _you_ to Mr. Bender straight!” Lord John saw the point. “Yes--till he leaves. But I shall find you here, shan’t I?” he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented. “I’ll wait for you.” “Then _à tantôt!_” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.”<\|quote\|>“Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.”</\|quote\|>“Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the character under discussion could after all be summed up without searching analysis. “I consider nevertheless that there’s plenty in him.” It was a moderate claim, to which Lady Grace might assent. “He strikes me as naturally quick and--well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.” “Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.” For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too	swagger.” “A Mantovano?” Lady Grace echoed. “Why, how tremendously jolly!” Her father was struck. “Do you know the artist--of whom I had never heard?” “Yes, something of the little that _is_ known.” And she rejoiced as her knowledge came to her. “He’s a tremendous swell, because, great as he was, there are but seven proved examples----” “With this of yours,” Lord John broke in, “there are eight.” “Then why haven’t I known about him?” Lord Theign put it as if so many other people were guilty for this. His daughter was the first to plead for the vague body. “Why, I suppose in order that you should have exactly this pleasure, father.” “Oh, pleasures not desired are like acquaintances not sought--they rather bore one!” Lord Theign sighed. With which he moved away from her. Her eyes followed him an instant--then she smiled at their guest. “Is he bored at having the higher prize--if you’re sure it _is_ the higher?” “Mr. Crimble is sure--because if he isn’t,” Lord John added, “he’s a wretch.” “Well,” she returned, “as he’s certainly not a wretch it must be true. And fancy,” she exclaimed further, though as more particularly for herself, “our having suddenly incurred this immense debt to him!” “Oh, I shall pay Mr. Crimble!” said her father, who had turned round. The whole question appeared to have provoked in Lord John a rise of spirits and a flush of humour. “Don’t you let him stick it on.” His host, however, bethinking himself, checked him. “Go _you_ to Mr. Bender straight!” Lord John saw the point. “Yes--till he leaves. But I shall find you here, shan’t I?” he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented. “I’ll wait for you.” “Then _à tantôt!_” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.”<\|quote\|>“Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.”</\|quote\|>“Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the character under discussion could after all be summed up without searching analysis. “I consider nevertheless that there’s plenty in him.” It was a moderate claim, to which Lady Grace might assent. “He strikes me as naturally quick and--well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.” “Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.” For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it? “Do you desire it very particularly?” was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should like it exceedingly--if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced--of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.” “Then would you mind my waiting a little?” she asked. “I mean to be absolutely sure of myself.” After which, on his delaying to agree, she added frankly, as to help her case: “Upon my word, father, I should like to do what would please you.” But it determined in him a sharper impatience. “Ah, what would please _me!_ Don’t put it off on ‘me’! Judge absolutely for yourself” --he slightly took himself up-- “in the light of my having consented to do for him what I always _hate_ to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve deviated now you can judge. But to do so all round, of course, take--in reason!--your time.” “May I ask then,” she said,	don’t they?--to point that moral. Why look anywhere else for a sum of money that--smaller or greater--you can find with perfect ease in that extraordinarily bulging pocket?” Lord Theign, slowly pacing the hall again, threw up his hands. “Ah, with ‘perfect ease’ can scarcely be said!” “Why not?--when he absolutely thrusts his dirty dollars down your throat.” “Oh, I’m not talking of ease to _him_,” Lord Theign returned-- “I’m talking of ease to myself. I shall have to make a sacrifice.” “Why not then--for so great a convenience--gallantly make it?” “Ah, my dear chap, if you want me to sell my Sir Joshua----!” But the horror in the words said enough, and Lord John felt its chill. “I don’t make a point of that--God forbid! But there are other things to which the objection wouldn’t apply.” “You see how it applies--in the case of the Moret-to--for _him_. A mere Moretto,” said Lord Theign, “is too cheap--for a Yankee ‘on the spend.’” “Then the Mantovano wouldn’t be.” “It remains to be proved that it _is_ a Mantovano.” “Well,” said Lord John, “go into it.” “Hanged if I won’t!” his friend broke out after a moment. “It _would_ suit me. I mean” --the explanation came after a brief intensity of thought-- “the possible size of his cheque would.” “Oh,” said Lord John gaily, “I guess there’s no limit to the possible size of his cheque!” “Yes, it would suit me, it would suit me!” the elder man, standing there, audibly mused. But his air changed and a lighter question came up to him as he saw his daughter reappear at the door from the terrace. “Well, the infant horde?” he immediately put to her. Lady Grace came in, dutifully accounting for them. “They’ve marched off--in a huge procession.” “Thank goodness! And our friends?” “All playing tennis,” she said-- “save those who are sitting it out.” To which she added, as to explain her return: “Mr. Crimble has gone?” Lord John took upon him to say. “He’s in the library, to which you addressed him--making discoveries.” “Not then, I hope,” she smiled, “to our disadvantage!” “To your very great honour and glory.” Lord John clearly valued the effect he might produce. “Your Moretto of Brescia--do you know what it really and spendidly is?” And then as the girl, in her surprise, but wondered: “A Mantovano, neither more nor less. Ever so much more swagger.” “A Mantovano?” Lady Grace echoed. “Why, how tremendously jolly!” Her father was struck. “Do you know the artist--of whom I had never heard?” “Yes, something of the little that _is_ known.” And she rejoiced as her knowledge came to her. “He’s a tremendous swell, because, great as he was, there are but seven proved examples----” “With this of yours,” Lord John broke in, “there are eight.” “Then why haven’t I known about him?” Lord Theign put it as if so many other people were guilty for this. His daughter was the first to plead for the vague body. “Why, I suppose in order that you should have exactly this pleasure, father.” “Oh, pleasures not desired are like acquaintances not sought--they rather bore one!” Lord Theign sighed. With which he moved away from her. Her eyes followed him an instant--then she smiled at their guest. “Is he bored at having the higher prize--if you’re sure it _is_ the higher?” “Mr. Crimble is sure--because if he isn’t,” Lord John added, “he’s a wretch.” “Well,” she returned, “as he’s certainly not a wretch it must be true. And fancy,” she exclaimed further, though as more particularly for herself, “our having suddenly incurred this immense debt to him!” “Oh, I shall pay Mr. Crimble!” said her father, who had turned round. The whole question appeared to have provoked in Lord John a rise of spirits and a flush of humour. “Don’t you let him stick it on.” His host, however, bethinking himself, checked him. “Go _you_ to Mr. Bender straight!” Lord John saw the point. “Yes--till he leaves. But I shall find you here, shan’t I?” he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented. “I’ll wait for you.” “Then _à tantôt!_” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.”<\|quote\|>“Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.”</\|quote\|>“Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the character under discussion could after all be summed up without searching analysis. “I consider nevertheless that there’s plenty in him.” It was a moderate claim, to which Lady Grace might assent. “He strikes me as naturally quick and--well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.” “Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.” For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it? “Do you desire it very particularly?” was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should like it exceedingly--if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced--of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.” “Then would you mind my waiting a little?” she asked. “I mean to be absolutely sure of myself.” After which, on his delaying to agree, she added frankly, as to help her case: “Upon my word, father, I should like to do what would please you.” But it determined in him a sharper impatience. “Ah, what would please _me!_ Don’t put it off on ‘me’! Judge absolutely for yourself” --he slightly took himself up-- “in the light of my having consented to do for him what I always _hate_ to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve deviated now you can judge. But to do so all round, of course, take--in reason!--your time.” “May I ask then,” she said, “for still a little more?” He looked for this, verily, as if it was not in reason. “You know,” he then returned, “what he’ll feel that a sign of.” “Well, I’ll tell him what I mean.” “Then I’ll send him to you.” He glanced at his watch and was going, but after a “Thanks, father,” she had stopped him. “There’s one thing more.” An embarrassment showed in her manner, but at the cost of some effect of earnest abruptness she surmounted it. “What does your American--Mr. Bender--want?” Lord Theign plainly felt the challenge. “‘My’ American? He’s none of mine!” “Well then Lord John’s.” “He’s none of his either--more, I mean, than any one else’s. He’s every one’s American, literally--to all appearance; and I’ve not to tell _you_, surely, with the freedom of your own visitors, how people stalk in and out here.” “No, father--certainly,” she said. “You’re splendidly generous.” His eyes seemed rather sharply to ask her then how he could improve on that; but he added as if it were enough: “What the man must by this time want more than anything else is his car.” “Not then anything of ours?” she still insisted. “Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with a frown. “Are you afraid he has an eye to something of _yours?_” “Why, if we’ve a new treasure--which we certainly have if we possess a Mantovano--haven’t we all, even I, an immense interest in it?” And before he could answer, “Is _that_ exposed?” she asked. Lord Theign, a little unready, cast about at his storied halls; any illusion to the “exposure” of the objects they so solidly sheltered was obviously unpleasant to him. But then it was as if he found at a stroke both his own reassurance and his daughter’s. “How can there be a question of it when he only wants Sir Joshuas?” “He wants ours?” the girl gasped. “At absolutely any price.” “But you’re not,” she cried, “discussing it?” He hesitated as between chiding and contenting her--then he handsomely chose. “My dear child, for what do you take me?” With which he impatiently started, through the long and stately perspective, for the saloon. She sank into a chair when he had gone; she sat there some moments in a visible tension of thought, her hands clasped in her lap and her dropped eyes fixed and unperceiving; but she sprang up as Hugh Crimble, in search of	audibly mused. But his air changed and a lighter question came up to him as he saw his daughter reappear at the door from the terrace. “Well, the infant horde?” he immediately put to her. Lady Grace came in, dutifully accounting for them. “They’ve marched off--in a huge procession.” “Thank goodness! And our friends?” “All playing tennis,” she said-- “save those who are sitting it out.” To which she added, as to explain her return: “Mr. Crimble has gone?” Lord John took upon him to say. “He’s in the library, to which you addressed him--making discoveries.” “Not then, I hope,” she smiled, “to our disadvantage!” “To your very great honour and glory.” Lord John clearly valued the effect he might produce. “Your Moretto of Brescia--do you know what it really and spendidly is?” And then as the girl, in her surprise, but wondered: “A Mantovano, neither more nor less. Ever so much more swagger.” “A Mantovano?” Lady Grace echoed. “Why, how tremendously jolly!” Her father was struck. “Do you know the artist--of whom I had never heard?” “Yes, something of the little that _is_ known.” And she rejoiced as her knowledge came to her. “He’s a tremendous swell, because, great as he was, there are but seven proved examples----” “With this of yours,” Lord John broke in, “there are eight.” “Then why haven’t I known about him?” Lord Theign put it as if so many other people were guilty for this. His daughter was the first to plead for the vague body. “Why, I suppose in order that you should have exactly this pleasure, father.” “Oh, pleasures not desired are like acquaintances not sought--they rather bore one!” Lord Theign sighed. With which he moved away from her. Her eyes followed him an instant--then she smiled at their guest. “Is he bored at having the higher prize--if you’re sure it _is_ the higher?” “Mr. Crimble is sure--because if he isn’t,” Lord John added, “he’s a wretch.” “Well,” she returned, “as he’s certainly not a wretch it must be true. And fancy,” she exclaimed further, though as more particularly for herself, “our having suddenly incurred this immense debt to him!” “Oh, I shall pay Mr. Crimble!” said her father, who had turned round. The whole question appeared to have provoked in Lord John a rise of spirits and a flush of humour. “Don’t you let him stick it on.” His host, however, bethinking himself, checked him. “Go _you_ to Mr. Bender straight!” Lord John saw the point. “Yes--till he leaves. But I shall find you here, shan’t I?” he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented. “I’ll wait for you.” “Then _à tantôt!_” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.”<\|quote\|>“Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.”</\|quote\|>“Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the character under discussion could after all be summed up without searching analysis. “I consider nevertheless that there’s plenty in him.” It was a moderate claim, to which Lady Grace might assent. “He strikes me as naturally quick and--well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.” “Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.” For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it? “Do you desire it very particularly?” was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should like it exceedingly--if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced--of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.” “Then would you mind my waiting a little?” she asked. “I mean to be absolutely sure of myself.” After which, on his delaying to agree, she added frankly, as to help her case: “Upon my word, father, I should like to do what would please you.” But it determined in him a sharper impatience. “Ah, what would please _me!_ Don’t put it off on ‘me’! Judge absolutely for yourself” --he slightly took himself up-- “in the light of my having consented to do for him what I always _hate_ to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve	The Outcry
said the young hostess, rising with decision.	No speaker	a crown?" "I'll get it,"<\|quote\|>said the young hostess, rising with decision.</\|quote\|>"Cecil, give me that sovereign.	give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it,"<\|quote\|>said the young hostess, rising with decision.</\|quote\|>"Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that	I don't see and I never shall see why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver." "I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it,"<\|quote\|>said the young hostess, rising with decision.</\|quote\|>"Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out	said solemnly. "Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see." "But I don't see--" They tried to stifle her with cake. "No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver." "I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it,"<\|quote\|>said the young hostess, rising with decision.</\|quote\|>"Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?" "No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--a sovereign's worth of silver." She escaped into the kitchen.	avoid this deplorable gambling." Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle. "But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid." "Because of the fifteen shillings and the five," they said solemnly. "Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see." "But I don't see--" They tried to stifle her with cake. "No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver." "I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it,"<\|quote\|>said the young hostess, rising with decision.</\|quote\|>"Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?" "No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--a sovereign's worth of silver." She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul. "No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she returned. "I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now." Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed. "How dreadful!" she murmured, "how	any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: "But who am I to give the sovereign to?" "Let's leave it all till mother comes back," suggested Lucy. "No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts." Here Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance, and turned round. But this did not do, either. "Please--please--I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost." "Freddy owes me fifteen shillings," interposed Cecil. "So it will work out right if you give the pound to me." "Fifteen shillings," said Miss Bartlett dubiously. "How is that, Mr. Vyse?" "Because, don't you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling." Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle. "But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid." "Because of the fifteen shillings and the five," they said solemnly. "Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see." "But I don't see--" They tried to stifle her with cake. "No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver." "I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it,"<\|quote\|>said the young hostess, rising with decision.</\|quote\|>"Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?" "No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--a sovereign's worth of silver." She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul. "No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she returned. "I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now." Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed. "How dreadful!" she murmured, "how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source." "Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?" Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth." Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?" "We must think of every possibility." "Oh, it's all right." "Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know." "I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it." "To contradict it?" "No, to laugh at it." But she knew in her heart that she could not trust him, for he desired her untouched. "Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different." "Now, Charlotte!" She struck at her playfully. "You kind, anxious thing.	place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome "nerves" or any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed? But the external situation--she will face that bravely. The meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy, and George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy, and was glad that he did not seem shy either. "A nice fellow," said Mr. Beebe afterwards "He will work off his crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life gracefully." Lucy said, "He seems in better spirits. He laughs more." "Yes," replied the clergyman. "He is waking up." That was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences fell, and she entertained an image that had physical beauty. In spite of the clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival. She was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs. Honeychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o'clock, and these, with little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper lawn for tea. "I shall never forgive myself," said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain. "I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate." "Our visitors never do such dreadful things," said Lucy, while her brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: "Just what I've been trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour." "I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor," said Miss Bartlett, and looked at her frayed glove. "All right, if you'd really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to the driver." Miss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: "But who am I to give the sovereign to?" "Let's leave it all till mother comes back," suggested Lucy. "No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts." Here Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance, and turned round. But this did not do, either. "Please--please--I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost." "Freddy owes me fifteen shillings," interposed Cecil. "So it will work out right if you give the pound to me." "Fifteen shillings," said Miss Bartlett dubiously. "How is that, Mr. Vyse?" "Because, don't you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling." Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle. "But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid." "Because of the fifteen shillings and the five," they said solemnly. "Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see." "But I don't see--" They tried to stifle her with cake. "No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver." "I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it,"<\|quote\|>said the young hostess, rising with decision.</\|quote\|>"Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?" "No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--a sovereign's worth of silver." She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul. "No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she returned. "I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now." Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed. "How dreadful!" she murmured, "how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source." "Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?" Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth." Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?" "We must think of every possibility." "Oh, it's all right." "Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know." "I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it." "To contradict it?" "No, to laugh at it." But she knew in her heart that she could not trust him, for he desired her untouched. "Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different." "Now, Charlotte!" She struck at her playfully. "You kind, anxious thing. What WOULD you have me do? First you say 'Don't tell'; and then you say, 'Tell'. Which is it to be? Quick!" Miss Bartlett sighed "I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You will never forgive me." "Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don't." For the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with a teaspoon. "Dear, one moment--we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young one yet?" "Yes, I have." "What happened?" "We met at the Rectory." "What line is he taking up?" "No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won't be any nuisance, Charlotte." "Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion." Lucy paused. "Cecil said one day--and I thought it so profound--that there are two kinds of cads--the conscious and the subconscious." She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil's profundity. Through the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith's library. Her mother must have returned from the station. "Once a cad, always a cad," droned Miss Bartlett. "What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don't think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does; it makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn't admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him, and has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn't always look as if he's going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager's office at one of the big railways--not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but	and then said: "But who am I to give the sovereign to?" "Let's leave it all till mother comes back," suggested Lucy. "No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts." Here Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance, and turned round. But this did not do, either. "Please--please--I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost." "Freddy owes me fifteen shillings," interposed Cecil. "So it will work out right if you give the pound to me." "Fifteen shillings," said Miss Bartlett dubiously. "How is that, Mr. Vyse?" "Because, don't you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling." Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle. "But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid." "Because of the fifteen shillings and the five," they said solemnly. "Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see." "But I don't see--" They tried to stifle her with cake. "No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver." "I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it,"<\|quote\|>said the young hostess, rising with decision.</\|quote\|>"Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?" "No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--a sovereign's worth of silver." She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul. "No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she returned. "I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now." Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed. "How dreadful!" she murmured, "how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source." "Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?" Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth." Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?" "We must think of every possibility." "Oh, it's all right." "Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know." "I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it." "To contradict it?" "No, to	A Room With A View
"--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper,	No speaker	Robin is looking for now"<\|quote\|>"--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper,</\|quote\|>"Try under the table" "--"	idea of getting what Christopher Robin is looking for now"<\|quote\|>"--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper,</\|quote\|>"Try under the table" "--" "that I did what I	My remarks do not, of course, apply to Piglet and Roo, because they are too small. Any of you would have done the same. But it just happened to be Me. It was not, I need hardly say, with an idea of getting what Christopher Robin is looking for now"<\|quote\|>"--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper,</\|quote\|>"Try under the table" "--" "that I did what I did--but because I feel that we should all do what we can to help. I feel that we should all----" "H--hup!" said Roo accidentally. "Roo, dear!" said Kanga reproachfully. "Was it me?" asked Roo, a little surprised. "What's Eeyore talking	speak. "Friends," he said, "including oddments, it is a great pleasure, or perhaps I had better say it has been a pleasure so far, to see you at my party. What I did was nothing. Any of you--except Rabbit and Owl and Kanga--would have done the same. Oh, and Pooh. My remarks do not, of course, apply to Piglet and Roo, because they are too small. Any of you would have done the same. But it just happened to be Me. It was not, I need hardly say, with an idea of getting what Christopher Robin is looking for now"<\|quote\|>"--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper,</\|quote\|>"Try under the table" "--" "that I did what I did--but because I feel that we should all do what we can to help. I feel that we should all----" "H--hup!" said Roo accidentally. "Roo, dear!" said Kanga reproachfully. "Was it me?" asked Roo, a little surprised. "What's Eeyore talking about?" Piglet whispered to Pooh. "I don't know," said Pooh rather dolefully. "I thought this was _your_ party." "I thought it was _once_. But I suppose it isn't." "I'd sooner it was yours than Eeyore's," said Piglet. "So would I," said Pooh. "H--hup!" said Roo again. "AS--I--WAS--SAYING," said Eeyore loudly	the table with his spoon, and everybody stopped talking and was very silent, except Roo who was just finishing a loud attack of hiccups and trying to look as if it was one of Rabbit's relations. "This party," said Christopher Robin, "is a party because of what someone did, and we all know who it was, and it's his party, because of what he did, and I've got a present for him and here it is." Then he felt about a little and whispered, "Where is it?" While he was looking, Eeyore coughed in an impressive way and began to speak. "Friends," he said, "including oddments, it is a great pleasure, or perhaps I had better say it has been a pleasure so far, to see you at my party. What I did was nothing. Any of you--except Rabbit and Owl and Kanga--would have done the same. Oh, and Pooh. My remarks do not, of course, apply to Piglet and Roo, because they are too small. Any of you would have done the same. But it just happened to be Me. It was not, I need hardly say, with an idea of getting what Christopher Robin is looking for now"<\|quote\|>"--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper,</\|quote\|>"Try under the table" "--" "that I did what I did--but because I feel that we should all do what we can to help. I feel that we should all----" "H--hup!" said Roo accidentally. "Roo, dear!" said Kanga reproachfully. "Was it me?" asked Roo, a little surprised. "What's Eeyore talking about?" Piglet whispered to Pooh. "I don't know," said Pooh rather dolefully. "I thought this was _your_ party." "I thought it was _once_. But I suppose it isn't." "I'd sooner it was yours than Eeyore's," said Piglet. "So would I," said Pooh. "H--hup!" said Roo again. "AS--I--WAS--SAYING," said Eeyore loudly and sternly, "as I was saying when I was interrupted by various Loud Sounds, I feel that----" "Here it is!" cried Christopher Robin excitedly. "Pass it down to silly old Pooh. It's for Pooh." "For Pooh?" said Eeyore. "Of course it is. The best bear in all the world." "I might have known," said Eeyore. "After all, one can't complain. I have my friends. Somebody spoke to me only yesterday. And was it last week or the week before that Rabbit bumped into me and said 'Bother!' The Social Round. Always something going on." Nobody was listening, for they were	asked them the time. It was the first party to which Roo had ever been, and he was very excited. As soon as ever they had sat down he began to talk. "Hallo, Pooh!" he squeaked. "Hallo, Roo!" said Pooh. Roo jumped up and down in his seat for a little while and then began again. "Hallo, Piglet!" he squeaked. Piglet waved a paw at him, being too busy to say anything. "Hallo, Eeyore!" said Roo. Eeyore nodded gloomily at him. "It will rain soon, you see if it doesn't," he said. Roo looked to see if it didn't, and it didn't, so he said "Hallo, Owl!" "--and Owl said "Hallo, my little fellow," in a kindly way, and went on telling Christopher Robin about an accident which had nearly happened to a friend of his whom Christopher Robin didn't know, and Kanga said to Roo, "Drink up your milk first, dear, and talk afterwards." So Roo, who was drinking his milk, tried to say that he could do both at once ... and had to be patted on the back and dried for quite a long time afterwards. When they had all nearly eaten enough, Christopher Robin banged on the table with his spoon, and everybody stopped talking and was very silent, except Roo who was just finishing a loud attack of hiccups and trying to look as if it was one of Rabbit's relations. "This party," said Christopher Robin, "is a party because of what someone did, and we all know who it was, and it's his party, because of what he did, and I've got a present for him and here it is." Then he felt about a little and whispered, "Where is it?" While he was looking, Eeyore coughed in an impressive way and began to speak. "Friends," he said, "including oddments, it is a great pleasure, or perhaps I had better say it has been a pleasure so far, to see you at my party. What I did was nothing. Any of you--except Rabbit and Owl and Kanga--would have done the same. Oh, and Pooh. My remarks do not, of course, apply to Piglet and Roo, because they are too small. Any of you would have done the same. But it just happened to be Me. It was not, I need hardly say, with an idea of getting what Christopher Robin is looking for now"<\|quote\|>"--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper,</\|quote\|>"Try under the table" "--" "that I did what I did--but because I feel that we should all do what we can to help. I feel that we should all----" "H--hup!" said Roo accidentally. "Roo, dear!" said Kanga reproachfully. "Was it me?" asked Roo, a little surprised. "What's Eeyore talking about?" Piglet whispered to Pooh. "I don't know," said Pooh rather dolefully. "I thought this was _your_ party." "I thought it was _once_. But I suppose it isn't." "I'd sooner it was yours than Eeyore's," said Piglet. "So would I," said Pooh. "H--hup!" said Roo again. "AS--I--WAS--SAYING," said Eeyore loudly and sternly, "as I was saying when I was interrupted by various Loud Sounds, I feel that----" "Here it is!" cried Christopher Robin excitedly. "Pass it down to silly old Pooh. It's for Pooh." "For Pooh?" said Eeyore. "Of course it is. The best bear in all the world." "I might have known," said Eeyore. "After all, one can't complain. I have my friends. Somebody spoke to me only yesterday. And was it last week or the week before that Rabbit bumped into me and said 'Bother!' The Social Round. Always something going on." Nobody was listening, for they were all saying "Open it, Pooh," "What is it, Pooh?" "I know what it is," "No, you don't" and other helpful remarks of this sort. And of course Pooh was opening it as quickly as ever he could, but without cutting the string, because you never know when a bit of string might be Useful. At last it was undone. When Pooh saw what it was, he nearly fell down, he was so pleased. It was a Special Pencil Case. There were pencils in it marked "B" for Bear, and pencils marked "HB" for Helping Bear, and pencils marked "BB" for Brave Bear. There was a knife for sharpening the pencils, and india-rubber for rubbing out anything which you had spelt wrong, and a ruler for ruling lines for the words to walk on, and inches marked on the ruler in case you wanted to know how many inches anything was, and Blue Pencils and Red Pencils and Green Pencils for saying special things in blue and red and green. And all these lovely things were in little pockets of their own in a Special Case which shut with a click when you clicked it. And they were all for Pooh.	knew; He saved his friend from a wetting! 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- He couldn't swim, But he rescued him! (_He rescued who?_) Oh, listen, do! I am talking of Pooh-- (_Of who?_) Of Pooh! (_I'm sorry I keep forgetting_). Well, Pooh was a Bear of Enormous Brain (_Just say it again!_) Of enormous brain-- (_Of enormous what?_) Well, he ate a lot, And I don't know if he could swim or not, But he managed to float On a sort of boat (_On a sort of what?_) Well, a sort of pot-- So now let's give him three hearty cheers (_So now let's give him three hearty whiches?_) And hope he'll be with us for years and years, And grow in health and wisdom and riches! 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For who?_) For Pooh-- 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- 3 Cheers for the wonderful Winnie-the-Pooh! (_Just tell me, somebody_--WHAT DID HE DO?) While this was going on inside him, Owl was talking to Eeyore. "Eeyore," said Owl, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Very interesting," said Eeyore. "I suppose they will be sending me down the odd bits which got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don't mention it." "There is an Invitation for you." "What's that like?" "An Invitation!" "Yes, I heard you. Who dropped it?" "This isn't anything to eat, it's asking you to the party. To-morrow." Eeyore shook his head slowly. "You mean Piglet. The little fellow with the excited ears. That's Piglet. I'll tell him." "No, no!" said Owl, getting quite fussy. "It's you!" "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. Christopher Robin said 'All of them! Tell all of them.'" "All of them, except Eeyore?" "All of them," said Owl sulkily. "Ah!" said Eeyore. "A mistake, no doubt, but still, I shall come. Only don't blame _me_ if it rains." But it didn't rain. Christopher Robin had made a long table out of some long pieces of wood, and they all sat round it. Christopher Robin sat at one end, and Pooh sat at the other, and between them on one side were Owl and Eeyore and Piglet, and between them on the other side were Rabbit, and Roo and Kanga. And all Rabbit's friends and relations spread themselves about on the grass, and waited hopefully in case anybody spoke to them, or dropped anything, or asked them the time. It was the first party to which Roo had ever been, and he was very excited. As soon as ever they had sat down he began to talk. "Hallo, Pooh!" he squeaked. "Hallo, Roo!" said Pooh. Roo jumped up and down in his seat for a little while and then began again. "Hallo, Piglet!" he squeaked. Piglet waved a paw at him, being too busy to say anything. "Hallo, Eeyore!" said Roo. Eeyore nodded gloomily at him. "It will rain soon, you see if it doesn't," he said. Roo looked to see if it didn't, and it didn't, so he said "Hallo, Owl!" "--and Owl said "Hallo, my little fellow," in a kindly way, and went on telling Christopher Robin about an accident which had nearly happened to a friend of his whom Christopher Robin didn't know, and Kanga said to Roo, "Drink up your milk first, dear, and talk afterwards." So Roo, who was drinking his milk, tried to say that he could do both at once ... and had to be patted on the back and dried for quite a long time afterwards. When they had all nearly eaten enough, Christopher Robin banged on the table with his spoon, and everybody stopped talking and was very silent, except Roo who was just finishing a loud attack of hiccups and trying to look as if it was one of Rabbit's relations. "This party," said Christopher Robin, "is a party because of what someone did, and we all know who it was, and it's his party, because of what he did, and I've got a present for him and here it is." Then he felt about a little and whispered, "Where is it?" While he was looking, Eeyore coughed in an impressive way and began to speak. "Friends," he said, "including oddments, it is a great pleasure, or perhaps I had better say it has been a pleasure so far, to see you at my party. What I did was nothing. Any of you--except Rabbit and Owl and Kanga--would have done the same. Oh, and Pooh. My remarks do not, of course, apply to Piglet and Roo, because they are too small. Any of you would have done the same. But it just happened to be Me. It was not, I need hardly say, with an idea of getting what Christopher Robin is looking for now"<\|quote\|>"--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper,</\|quote\|>"Try under the table" "--" "that I did what I did--but because I feel that we should all do what we can to help. I feel that we should all----" "H--hup!" said Roo accidentally. "Roo, dear!" said Kanga reproachfully. "Was it me?" asked Roo, a little surprised. "What's Eeyore talking about?" Piglet whispered to Pooh. "I don't know," said Pooh rather dolefully. "I thought this was _your_ party." "I thought it was _once_. But I suppose it isn't." "I'd sooner it was yours than Eeyore's," said Piglet. "So would I," said Pooh. "H--hup!" said Roo again. "AS--I--WAS--SAYING," said Eeyore loudly and sternly, "as I was saying when I was interrupted by various Loud Sounds, I feel that----" "Here it is!" cried Christopher Robin excitedly. "Pass it down to silly old Pooh. It's for Pooh." "For Pooh?" said Eeyore. "Of course it is. The best bear in all the world." "I might have known," said Eeyore. "After all, one can't complain. I have my friends. Somebody spoke to me only yesterday. And was it last week or the week before that Rabbit bumped into me and said 'Bother!' The Social Round. Always something going on." Nobody was listening, for they were all saying "Open it, Pooh," "What is it, Pooh?" "I know what it is," "No, you don't" and other helpful remarks of this sort. And of course Pooh was opening it as quickly as ever he could, but without cutting the string, because you never know when a bit of string might be Useful. At last it was undone. When Pooh saw what it was, he nearly fell down, he was so pleased. It was a Special Pencil Case. There were pencils in it marked "B" for Bear, and pencils marked "HB" for Helping Bear, and pencils marked "BB" for Brave Bear. There was a knife for sharpening the pencils, and india-rubber for rubbing out anything which you had spelt wrong, and a ruler for ruling lines for the words to walk on, and inches marked on the ruler in case you wanted to know how many inches anything was, and Blue Pencils and Red Pencils and Green Pencils for saying special things in blue and red and green. And all these lovely things were in little pockets of their own in a Special Case which shut with a click when you clicked it. And they were all for Pooh. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Oh, Pooh!" said everybody else except Eeyore. "Thank-you," growled Pooh. But Eeyore was saying to himself, "This writing business. Pencils and what-not. Over-rated, if you ask me. Silly stuff. Nothing in it." Later on, when they had all said "Good-bye" and "Thank-you" to Christopher Robin, Pooh and Piglet walked home thoughtfully together in the golden evening, and for a long time they were silent. "When you wake up in the morning, Pooh," said Piglet at last, "what's the first thing you say to yourself?" "What's for breakfast?" said Pooh. "What do _you_ say, Piglet?" "I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting _to-day_?" said Piglet. Pooh nodded thoughtfully. "It's the same thing," he said. * * * * * "And what did happen?" asked Christopher Robin. "When?" "Next morning." "I don't know." "Could you think and tell me and Pooh some time?" "If you wanted it very much." "Pooh does," said Christopher Robin. He gave a deep sigh, picked his bear up by the leg and walked off to the door, trailing Winnie-the-Pooh behind him. At the door he turned and said "Coming to see me have my bath?" "I might," I said. "Was Pooh's pencil case any better than mine?" "It was just the same," I said. He nodded and went out ... and in a moment I heard Winnie-the-Pooh--_bump, bump, bump_--going up the stairs behind him.	isn't anything to eat, it's asking you to the party. To-morrow." Eeyore shook his head slowly. "You mean Piglet. The little fellow with the excited ears. That's Piglet. I'll tell him." "No, no!" said Owl, getting quite fussy. "It's you!" "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. Christopher Robin said 'All of them! Tell all of them.'" "All of them, except Eeyore?" "All of them," said Owl sulkily. "Ah!" said Eeyore. "A mistake, no doubt, but still, I shall come. Only don't blame _me_ if it rains." But it didn't rain. Christopher Robin had made a long table out of some long pieces of wood, and they all sat round it. Christopher Robin sat at one end, and Pooh sat at the other, and between them on one side were Owl and Eeyore and Piglet, and between them on the other side were Rabbit, and Roo and Kanga. And all Rabbit's friends and relations spread themselves about on the grass, and waited hopefully in case anybody spoke to them, or dropped anything, or asked them the time. It was the first party to which Roo had ever been, and he was very excited. As soon as ever they had sat down he began to talk. "Hallo, Pooh!" he squeaked. "Hallo, Roo!" said Pooh. Roo jumped up and down in his seat for a little while and then began again. "Hallo, Piglet!" he squeaked. Piglet waved a paw at him, being too busy to say anything. "Hallo, Eeyore!" said Roo. Eeyore nodded gloomily at him. "It will rain soon, you see if it doesn't," he said. Roo looked to see if it didn't, and it didn't, so he said "Hallo, Owl!" "--and Owl said "Hallo, my little fellow," in a kindly way, and went on telling Christopher Robin about an accident which had nearly happened to a friend of his whom Christopher Robin didn't know, and Kanga said to Roo, "Drink up your milk first, dear, and talk afterwards." So Roo, who was drinking his milk, tried to say that he could do both at once ... and had to be patted on the back and dried for quite a long time afterwards. When they had all nearly eaten enough, Christopher Robin banged on the table with his spoon, and everybody stopped talking and was very silent, except Roo who was just finishing a loud attack of hiccups and trying to look as if it was one of Rabbit's relations. "This party," said Christopher Robin, "is a party because of what someone did, and we all know who it was, and it's his party, because of what he did, and I've got a present for him and here it is." Then he felt about a little and whispered, "Where is it?" While he was looking, Eeyore coughed in an impressive way and began to speak. "Friends," he said, "including oddments, it is a great pleasure, or perhaps I had better say it has been a pleasure so far, to see you at my party. What I did was nothing. Any of you--except Rabbit and Owl and Kanga--would have done the same. Oh, and Pooh. My remarks do not, of course, apply to Piglet and Roo, because they are too small. Any of you would have done the same. But it just happened to be Me. It was not, I need hardly say, with an idea of getting what Christopher Robin is looking for now"<\|quote\|>"--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper,</\|quote\|>"Try under the table" "--" "that I did what I did--but because I feel that we should all do what we can to help. I feel that we should all----" "H--hup!" said Roo accidentally. "Roo, dear!" said Kanga reproachfully. "Was it me?" asked Roo, a little surprised. "What's Eeyore talking about?" Piglet whispered to Pooh. "I don't know," said Pooh rather dolefully. "I thought this was _your_ party." "I thought it was _once_. But I suppose it isn't." "I'd sooner it was yours than Eeyore's," said Piglet. "So would I," said Pooh. "H--hup!" said Roo again. "AS--I--WAS--SAYING," said Eeyore loudly and sternly, "as I was saying when I was interrupted by various Loud Sounds, I feel that----" "Here it is!" cried Christopher Robin excitedly. "Pass it down to silly old Pooh. It's for Pooh." "For Pooh?" said Eeyore. "Of course it is. The best bear in all the world." "I might have known," said Eeyore. "After all, one can't complain. I have my friends. Somebody spoke to me only yesterday. And was it last week or the week before that Rabbit bumped into me and said 'Bother!' The Social Round. Always something going on." Nobody was listening, for they were all saying "Open it, Pooh," "What is it, Pooh?" "I know what it is," "No, you don't" and other helpful remarks of this sort. And of course Pooh was opening it as quickly as ever he could, but without cutting the string, because you never know when a bit of string might be Useful. At last it was undone. When Pooh saw what it was, he nearly fell down, he was so pleased. It was a Special Pencil Case. There were pencils in it marked "B" for Bear, and pencils marked "HB" for Helping Bear, and pencils marked "BB" for Brave Bear. There was a knife for sharpening the pencils, and india-rubber for	Winnie The Pooh
"Don! Don, my boy!"	Don Lavington	he heard her tap lightly.<\|quote\|>"Don! Don, my boy!"</\|quote\|>came in low, gentle tones.	door, and as he listened he heard her tap lightly.<\|quote\|>"Don! Don, my boy!"</\|quote\|>came in low, gentle tones. For one moment the boy's	wanted, for the light footstep with the rustle of silk passed on upstairs, and Don opened the door slightly to listen. His breath came thickly with emotion as he realised where his mother had gone. It was to his bedroom door, and as he listened he heard her tap lightly.<\|quote\|>"Don! Don, my boy!"</\|quote\|>came in low, gentle tones. For one moment the boy's heart prompted him to rush up and fling himself in her arms, but again his worse half suggested that he was to be scolded and disbelieved, and mentally thrusting his fingers into his ears, he stepped out, glided down the	among the gathering of flue and dust. By that time the footsteps were at the door. "What shall I say?" Don asked himself; "she will want to know why I am here." He felt confused, and rack his brains as he would, no excuse would come. But it was not wanted, for the light footstep with the rustle of silk passed on upstairs, and Don opened the door slightly to listen. His breath came thickly with emotion as he realised where his mother had gone. It was to his bedroom door, and as he listened he heard her tap lightly.<\|quote\|>"Don! Don, my boy!"</\|quote\|>came in low, gentle tones. For one moment the boy's heart prompted him to rush up and fling himself in her arms, but again his worse half suggested that he was to be scolded and disbelieved, and mentally thrusting his fingers into his ears, he stepped out, glided down the staircase in the old boyish fashion of sliding down the banister, snatched his hat from the stand, and softly stole out to hurry down the street as hard as he could go. He had been walking swiftly some five minutes, moved by only one desire--that of getting away from the	his throat, and made his breath come short and painfully. His mother! She was coming to her room, and in another moment she would be there, and would find him with the bundle under his arm, about to run away. Quick as thought he looked sharply round, bundle in hand, when, obeying the first impulse, he was about to push it beneath the bedclothes, but cast aside the plan because he felt that it would be noticed, and quick as thought he tossed the light bundle up on the top of the great canopy of the old-fashioned bedstead, to lie among the gathering of flue and dust. By that time the footsteps were at the door. "What shall I say?" Don asked himself; "she will want to know why I am here." He felt confused, and rack his brains as he would, no excuse would come. But it was not wanted, for the light footstep with the rustle of silk passed on upstairs, and Don opened the door slightly to listen. His breath came thickly with emotion as he realised where his mother had gone. It was to his bedroom door, and as he listened he heard her tap lightly.<\|quote\|>"Don! Don, my boy!"</\|quote\|>came in low, gentle tones. For one moment the boy's heart prompted him to rush up and fling himself in her arms, but again his worse half suggested that he was to be scolded and disbelieved, and mentally thrusting his fingers into his ears, he stepped out, glided down the staircase in the old boyish fashion of sliding down the banister, snatched his hat from the stand, and softly stole out to hurry down the street as hard as he could go. He had been walking swiftly some five minutes, moved by only one desire--that of getting away from the house--when he awoke to the fact that he was going straight towards the constable's quarters and the old-fashioned lock-up where Mike must be lying, getting rid of the consequences of his holiday-making that morning. Don turned sharply round in another direction, one which led him towards the wharves where the shipping lay. While this was taking place, Jem Wimble had been banging the doors and rattling his keys as he locked up the various stores, feeling particularly proud and self-satisfied with the confidence placed in him. After this was done he had a wash at the pump, fetching a piece	outside which he did not care what happened; but now he had to pass that dining-room, and go along the passage and by the stand upon which his cocked hat hung. It was nervous work, but he went on down the first flight, running his hand slowly along the hand-balustrade, all down which he had so often slid while Kitty looked on laughing, and yet alarmed lest he should fall. And what a long time ago that seemed! He had just reached the bottom flight, and was wondering what to say if the door should open and his uncle meet him with the blue bundle under his arm, when the dining-room door did open, and he dashed back to the landing and stood in the doorway of his mother's room, listening as a step was heard upon the stairs. "Kitty!" he said to himself, as he thrust against the door, which yielded to his pressure, and he backed in softly till he could push the door to, and stand inside, watching through the crack. There was the light, soft step coming up and up, and his heart began to beat, he knew not why, till something seemed to rise in his throat, and made his breath come short and painfully. His mother! She was coming to her room, and in another moment she would be there, and would find him with the bundle under his arm, about to run away. Quick as thought he looked sharply round, bundle in hand, when, obeying the first impulse, he was about to push it beneath the bedclothes, but cast aside the plan because he felt that it would be noticed, and quick as thought he tossed the light bundle up on the top of the great canopy of the old-fashioned bedstead, to lie among the gathering of flue and dust. By that time the footsteps were at the door. "What shall I say?" Don asked himself; "she will want to know why I am here." He felt confused, and rack his brains as he would, no excuse would come. But it was not wanted, for the light footstep with the rustle of silk passed on upstairs, and Don opened the door slightly to listen. His breath came thickly with emotion as he realised where his mother had gone. It was to his bedroom door, and as he listened he heard her tap lightly.<\|quote\|>"Don! Don, my boy!"</\|quote\|>came in low, gentle tones. For one moment the boy's heart prompted him to rush up and fling himself in her arms, but again his worse half suggested that he was to be scolded and disbelieved, and mentally thrusting his fingers into his ears, he stepped out, glided down the staircase in the old boyish fashion of sliding down the banister, snatched his hat from the stand, and softly stole out to hurry down the street as hard as he could go. He had been walking swiftly some five minutes, moved by only one desire--that of getting away from the house--when he awoke to the fact that he was going straight towards the constable's quarters and the old-fashioned lock-up where Mike must be lying, getting rid of the consequences of his holiday-making that morning. Don turned sharply round in another direction, one which led him towards the wharves where the shipping lay. While this was taking place, Jem Wimble had been banging the doors and rattling his keys as he locked up the various stores, feeling particularly proud and self-satisfied with the confidence placed in him. After this was done he had a wash at the pump, fetching a piece of soap from a ledge inside the workshop where the cooper's tools were kept, and when he had duly rubbed and scrubbed and dried his face and hands, he went indoors to stare with astonishment, for his little wife was making the most of her size by sitting very upright as she finished her tea. Jem plumped himself indignantly down, and began his. This was a new annoyance. Sally had scolded times out of number, and found fault with him for being so late, but this was the first time that she had ever begun a meal without his being present, and he felt bitterly hurt. "As if I could help it," he said, half aloud. "A man has his work to do, and he must do it." "Five o'clock's tea-time, and you ought to have been here." "And if I wasn't here, it was your dooty to wait for me, marm." "Was it?" cried Sally; "then I wasn't going to. I'm not going to be ordered about and ill-treated, Jem; you always said you liked your tea ready at five o'clock. I had it ready at five o'clock, and I waited till half-past, and it's now five-and-twenty to six."	hurried out of the room. "I can't bear it," he cried to himself, as he went up to his own little chamber,-- "I can't bear it, and I will not. Every one's against me. If I stop I shall be punished, and I can't face all that to-morrow. Good-bye, mother. Some day you'll think differently, and be sorry for all this injustice, and then--" A tear moistened Don's eye as he thought of his mother and her tender, loving ways, and of what a pity it was that they ever came there to his uncle's, and it was not the tear that made Don see so blindly. "I can't stand it, and I will not," he cried, passionately. "Uncle hates me, and Mike Bannock's right, scoundrel as he is. Uncle has robbed me, and I'll go and fight for myself in the world, and when I get well off I'll come back and seize him by the throat and make him give up all he has taken." Don talked to himself a good deal more of this nonsense, and then, with his mind fully made up, he went to the chest of drawers, took out a handkerchief, spread it open upon the bed, and placed in it a couple of clean shirts and three or four pairs of stockings. "There," he said, as he tied them up tightly as small as he could, "I won't have any more. I'll go and start fair, so that I can be independent and be beholden to nobody." Tucking the bundle under his arm, he could not help feeling that it was a very prominent-looking package--the great checked blue and white handkerchief seeming to say, "This boy's going to seek his fortune!" and he wished that he was not obliged to take it. But, setting his teeth, he left the room with the drawers open, and his best suit, which he had felt disposed to take, tossed on a chair, and then began to descend. It was a glorious summer evening, and though he was in dirty, smoky Bristol, everything seemed to look bright and attractive, and to produce a sensation of low-spiritedness such as he had never felt before. He descended and passed his mother's room, and then went down more slowly, for he could hear the murmur of voices in the dining-room, which he had to pass to reach the front door, outside which he did not care what happened; but now he had to pass that dining-room, and go along the passage and by the stand upon which his cocked hat hung. It was nervous work, but he went on down the first flight, running his hand slowly along the hand-balustrade, all down which he had so often slid while Kitty looked on laughing, and yet alarmed lest he should fall. And what a long time ago that seemed! He had just reached the bottom flight, and was wondering what to say if the door should open and his uncle meet him with the blue bundle under his arm, when the dining-room door did open, and he dashed back to the landing and stood in the doorway of his mother's room, listening as a step was heard upon the stairs. "Kitty!" he said to himself, as he thrust against the door, which yielded to his pressure, and he backed in softly till he could push the door to, and stand inside, watching through the crack. There was the light, soft step coming up and up, and his heart began to beat, he knew not why, till something seemed to rise in his throat, and made his breath come short and painfully. His mother! She was coming to her room, and in another moment she would be there, and would find him with the bundle under his arm, about to run away. Quick as thought he looked sharply round, bundle in hand, when, obeying the first impulse, he was about to push it beneath the bedclothes, but cast aside the plan because he felt that it would be noticed, and quick as thought he tossed the light bundle up on the top of the great canopy of the old-fashioned bedstead, to lie among the gathering of flue and dust. By that time the footsteps were at the door. "What shall I say?" Don asked himself; "she will want to know why I am here." He felt confused, and rack his brains as he would, no excuse would come. But it was not wanted, for the light footstep with the rustle of silk passed on upstairs, and Don opened the door slightly to listen. His breath came thickly with emotion as he realised where his mother had gone. It was to his bedroom door, and as he listened he heard her tap lightly.<\|quote\|>"Don! Don, my boy!"</\|quote\|>came in low, gentle tones. For one moment the boy's heart prompted him to rush up and fling himself in her arms, but again his worse half suggested that he was to be scolded and disbelieved, and mentally thrusting his fingers into his ears, he stepped out, glided down the staircase in the old boyish fashion of sliding down the banister, snatched his hat from the stand, and softly stole out to hurry down the street as hard as he could go. He had been walking swiftly some five minutes, moved by only one desire--that of getting away from the house--when he awoke to the fact that he was going straight towards the constable's quarters and the old-fashioned lock-up where Mike must be lying, getting rid of the consequences of his holiday-making that morning. Don turned sharply round in another direction, one which led him towards the wharves where the shipping lay. While this was taking place, Jem Wimble had been banging the doors and rattling his keys as he locked up the various stores, feeling particularly proud and self-satisfied with the confidence placed in him. After this was done he had a wash at the pump, fetching a piece of soap from a ledge inside the workshop where the cooper's tools were kept, and when he had duly rubbed and scrubbed and dried his face and hands, he went indoors to stare with astonishment, for his little wife was making the most of her size by sitting very upright as she finished her tea. Jem plumped himself indignantly down, and began his. This was a new annoyance. Sally had scolded times out of number, and found fault with him for being so late, but this was the first time that she had ever begun a meal without his being present, and he felt bitterly hurt. "As if I could help it," he said, half aloud. "A man has his work to do, and he must do it." "Five o'clock's tea-time, and you ought to have been here." "And if I wasn't here, it was your dooty to wait for me, marm." "Was it?" cried Sally; "then I wasn't going to. I'm not going to be ordered about and ill-treated, Jem; you always said you liked your tea ready at five o'clock. I had it ready at five o'clock, and I waited till half-past, and it's now five-and-twenty to six." "I don't care if it's five-and-twenty to nineteen!" cried Jem angrily. "It's your dooty to wait, same as it's mine to shut up." "You might have shut up after tea." "Then I wasn't going to, marm." "Then you may have your tea by yourself, for I've done, and I'm not going to be trampled upon by you." Sally had risen in the loudness of her voice, in her temper, and in her person, for she had got up from her chair; but neither elevation was great; in fact, the personal height was very small, and there was something very kittenish and comic in her appearance, as she crossed the bright little kitchen to the door at the flight of stairs, and passing through, banged it behind her, and went up to her room. "Very well," said Jem, as he sat staring at the door; "very well, marm. So this is being married. My father used to say that if two people as is married can't agree, they ought to divide the house between 'em, but one ought to take the outside and t'other the in. That's what I'm a-going to do, only, seeing what a bit of a doll of a thing you are, and being above it, I'm going to take the outside myself. There's coffee bags enough to make a man a good bed up in the ware'us, and it won't be the first time I've shifted for myself, so I shall stop away till you fetches me back. Do you hear?" "Oh, yes, I can hear," replied Sally from the top of the stairs, Jem having shouted his last speech. "All right, then," said Jem: "so now we understands each other and can go ahead." Tightening up his lips, Jem rinsed out the slop-basin, shovelled in a good heap of sugar, and then proceeded to empty the teapot, holding the lid in its place with one fat finger the while. This done, he emptied the little milk jug also, stirred all well up together, and left it for a few minutes to cool, what time he took the cottage loaf from the white, well-scrubbed trencher, pulled it in two, took a handful of bread out of one half, and raising the lump of fresh Somersetshire butter on the point of a knife, he dabbed it into the hole he had made in the centre, shut it up	dining-room door did open, and he dashed back to the landing and stood in the doorway of his mother's room, listening as a step was heard upon the stairs. "Kitty!" he said to himself, as he thrust against the door, which yielded to his pressure, and he backed in softly till he could push the door to, and stand inside, watching through the crack. There was the light, soft step coming up and up, and his heart began to beat, he knew not why, till something seemed to rise in his throat, and made his breath come short and painfully. His mother! She was coming to her room, and in another moment she would be there, and would find him with the bundle under his arm, about to run away. Quick as thought he looked sharply round, bundle in hand, when, obeying the first impulse, he was about to push it beneath the bedclothes, but cast aside the plan because he felt that it would be noticed, and quick as thought he tossed the light bundle up on the top of the great canopy of the old-fashioned bedstead, to lie among the gathering of flue and dust. By that time the footsteps were at the door. "What shall I say?" Don asked himself; "she will want to know why I am here." He felt confused, and rack his brains as he would, no excuse would come. But it was not wanted, for the light footstep with the rustle of silk passed on upstairs, and Don opened the door slightly to listen. His breath came thickly with emotion as he realised where his mother had gone. It was to his bedroom door, and as he listened he heard her tap lightly.<\|quote\|>"Don! Don, my boy!"</\|quote\|>came in low, gentle tones. For one moment the boy's heart prompted him to rush up and fling himself in her arms, but again his worse half suggested that he was to be scolded and disbelieved, and mentally thrusting his fingers into his ears, he stepped out, glided down the staircase in the old boyish fashion of sliding down the banister, snatched his hat from the stand, and softly stole out to hurry down the street as hard as he could go. He had been walking swiftly some five minutes, moved by only one desire--that of getting away from the house--when he awoke to the fact that he was going straight towards the constable's quarters and the old-fashioned lock-up where Mike must be lying, getting rid of the consequences of his holiday-making that morning. Don turned sharply round in another direction, one which led him towards the wharves where the shipping lay. While this was taking place, Jem Wimble had been banging the doors and rattling his keys as he locked up the various stores, feeling particularly proud and self-satisfied with the confidence placed in him. After this was done he had a wash at the pump, fetching a piece of soap from a ledge inside the workshop where the cooper's tools were kept, and when he had duly rubbed and scrubbed and dried his face and hands, he went indoors to stare with astonishment, for his little wife was making the most of her size by sitting very upright as she finished her tea. Jem plumped himself indignantly down, and began his. This was a new annoyance. Sally had scolded times out of number, and found fault with him for being so late, but this was the first time that she had ever begun a meal without his being present, and he felt bitterly hurt. "As if I could help it," he said, half aloud. "A man has his work to do, and he must do it." "Five o'clock's tea-time, and you ought to have been	Don Lavington
"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more."	Kosrouchan	said he to the princess,<\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more."</\|quote\|>"Sir," answered the princess, smiling,	ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess,<\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more."</\|quote\|>"Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but	tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess,<\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more."</\|quote\|>"Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The	that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess,<\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more."</\|quote\|>"Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he, "tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful	he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess,<\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more."</\|quote\|>"Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he, "tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?" "Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is	threw herself at his feet, and the two princes informed him she was their sister, and besought him to accept her respects. The emperor stooped to raise her, and after he had gazed some time on her beauty, struck with her fine person and dignified air, he said: "The brothers are worthy of the sister, and she worthy of them; since, if I may judge of her understanding by her person, I am not amazed that the brothers would do nothing without their sister's consent; but," added he, "I hope to be better acquainted with you, my daughter, after I have seen the house." "Sir," said the princess, "it is only a plain country residence, fit for such people as we are, who live retired from the great world. It is not to be compared with the magnificent palaces of emperors." "I cannot perfectly agree with you in opinion," said the emperor very obligingly, "for its first appearance makes me suspect you; however, I will not pass my judgment upon it till I have seen it all; therefore be pleased to conduct me through the apartments." The princess led the emperor through all the rooms except the hall; and, after he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess,<\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more."</\|quote\|>"Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he, "tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?" "Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat, I will do myself the honour of relating it to you." "My daughter," replied the emperor, "my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Talking Bird." When the emperor came to the Golden Water, his eyes were fixed so steadfastly upon the fountain, that he could not take them off. At last, addressing himself to the princess, he said: "As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no spring or communication, I conclude that it is foreign, as well as the Singing Tree." "Sir," replied the princess, "it is as your majesty conjectures; and to let you know that this water has no communication with any spring, I must inform you that the basin	an account of her having consulted the Bird, as they had agreed she should, and the answer he had given her; the objection she had raised to preparing a dish of cucumbers stuffed full of pearls, and how he had told her where to find this box. The sister and brothers formed many conjectures to penetrate into what the Bird could mean by ordering them to prepare such a dish; but after much conversation, they agreed to follow his advice exactly. As soon as the princess entered the house, she called for the head cook; and after she had given him directions about the entertainment for the emperor, said to him: "Besides all this, you must dress an extraordinary dish for the emperor's own eating, which nobody else must have anything to do with besides yourself. This dish must be of cucumbers stuffed with these pearls;" and at the same time she opened him the box, and showed him the jewels. The chief cook, who had never heard of such a dish, started back, and showed his thoughts by his looks; which the princess penetrating, said: "I see you take me to be mad to order such a dish, which one may say with certainty was never made. I know this as well as you; but I am not mad, and give you these orders with the most perfect recollection. You must invent and do the best you can, and bring me back what pearls are left." The cook could make no reply, but took the box and retired; and afterward the princess gave directions to all the domestics to have everything in order, both in the house and gardens, to receive the emperor. Next day the two princes went to the place appointed, and as soon as the emperor of Persia arrived the chase began and lasted till the heat of the sun obliged him to leave off. While Prince Bahman stayed to conduct the emperor to their house, Prince Perviz rode before to show the way, and when he came in sight of the house, spurred his horse, to inform the princess that the emperor was approaching; but she had been told by some servants whom she had placed to give notice, and the prince found her waiting ready to receive him. When the emperor had entered the court-yard and alighted at the portico, the princess came and threw herself at his feet, and the two princes informed him she was their sister, and besought him to accept her respects. The emperor stooped to raise her, and after he had gazed some time on her beauty, struck with her fine person and dignified air, he said: "The brothers are worthy of the sister, and she worthy of them; since, if I may judge of her understanding by her person, I am not amazed that the brothers would do nothing without their sister's consent; but," added he, "I hope to be better acquainted with you, my daughter, after I have seen the house." "Sir," said the princess, "it is only a plain country residence, fit for such people as we are, who live retired from the great world. It is not to be compared with the magnificent palaces of emperors." "I cannot perfectly agree with you in opinion," said the emperor very obligingly, "for its first appearance makes me suspect you; however, I will not pass my judgment upon it till I have seen it all; therefore be pleased to conduct me through the apartments." The princess led the emperor through all the rooms except the hall; and, after he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess,<\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more."</\|quote\|>"Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he, "tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?" "Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat, I will do myself the honour of relating it to you." "My daughter," replied the emperor, "my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Talking Bird." When the emperor came to the Golden Water, his eyes were fixed so steadfastly upon the fountain, that he could not take them off. At last, addressing himself to the princess, he said: "As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no spring or communication, I conclude that it is foreign, as well as the Singing Tree." "Sir," replied the princess, "it is as your majesty conjectures; and to let you know that this water has no communication with any spring, I must inform you that the basin is one entire stone, so that the water cannot come in at the sides or underneath. But what your majesty will think most wonderful is that all this water proceeded but from one small flagon, emptied into this basin, which increased to the quantity you see, by a property peculiar to itself, and formed this fountain." "Well," said the emperor, going from the fountain, "this is enough for one time. I promise myself the pleasure to come and visit it often; but now let us go and see the Talking Bird." As he went toward the hall, the emperor perceived a prodigious number of singing birds in the trees around, filling the air with their songs and warblings, and asked why there were so many there and none on the other trees in the garden. "The reason, sir," answered the princess, "is because they come from all parts to accompany the song of the Talking Bird, which your majesty may see in a cage in one of the windows of the hall we are approaching; and if you attend, you will perceive that his notes are sweeter than those of any of the other birds, even the nightingale's." The emperor went into the hall; and as the Bird continued singing, the princess raised her voice, and said, "My slave, here is the emperor, pay your compliments to him." The Bird left off singing that instant, when all the other birds ceased also, and said: "The emperor is welcome; God prosper him and prolong his life!" As the entertainment was served on the sofa near the window where the Bird was placed, the sultan replied, as he was taking his seat: "Bird, I thank you, and am overjoyed to find in you the sultan and king of birds." As soon as the emperor saw the dish of cucumbers set before him, thinking they were prepared in the best manner, he reached out his hand and took one; but when he cut it, was in extreme surprise to find it stuffed with pearls. "What novelty is this?" said he; "and with what design were these cucumbers stuffed thus with pearls, since pearls are not to be eaten?" He looked at his hosts to ask them the meaning when the Bird interrupting him, said: "Can your majesty be in such great astonishment at cucumbers stuffed with pearls, which you see with your own	are, who live retired from the great world. It is not to be compared with the magnificent palaces of emperors." "I cannot perfectly agree with you in opinion," said the emperor very obligingly, "for its first appearance makes me suspect you; however, I will not pass my judgment upon it till I have seen it all; therefore be pleased to conduct me through the apartments." The princess led the emperor through all the rooms except the hall; and, after he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess,<\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more."</\|quote\|>"Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he, "tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?" "Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat, I will do myself the honour of relating it to you." "My daughter," replied the emperor, "my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Talking Bird." When the emperor came to the Golden Water, his eyes were fixed so steadfastly upon the fountain, that he could not take them off. At last, addressing himself to the princess, he said: "As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no spring or communication, I conclude that it is foreign, as well as the Singing Tree." "Sir," replied the princess, "it is as your majesty conjectures; and to let you know that this water has no communication with any spring, I must inform you that the basin is one entire stone, so that the water cannot come in at the sides or underneath. But what your majesty will think most wonderful is that all this water proceeded but from one small flagon, emptied into this basin, which increased to the quantity you see, by a property peculiar to itself, and formed this fountain." "Well," said the emperor, going from the fountain, "this is enough for one time. I promise myself the pleasure to come and visit it often; but now let us go and see the Talking Bird." As he went toward the hall, the emperor perceived a prodigious number of singing birds in the trees around, filling the air with their songs and warblings, and asked why there were so many there and none on the other trees in the garden. "The reason, sir," answered the princess, "is because they come from all parts to accompany the song of the Talking Bird, which your majesty may see in a cage in one of the windows of the hall we are approaching; and if you attend, you will perceive that his notes are sweeter than those of any of the other birds,	Arabian Nights (1)
"Wot d'ye mean?"	Bill Sikes	long, watching for _her_, Bill."<\|quote\|>"Wot d'ye mean?"</\|quote\|>asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin	with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill."<\|quote\|>"Wot d'ye mean?"</\|quote\|>asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending	his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill."<\|quote\|>"Wot d'ye mean?"</\|quote\|>asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for	who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill."<\|quote\|>"Wot d'ye mean?"</\|quote\|>asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To	replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it." "You would?" "Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me." "If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or" "I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill."<\|quote\|>"Wot d'ye mean?"</\|quote\|>asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat,	Fagin, "was to peach to blow upon us all first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with 'em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plant we've all been in, more or less of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water, but of his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?" cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. "Suppose he did all this, what then?" "What then!" replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. "If he was left alive till I came, I'd grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head." "What if I did it!" cried Fagin almost in a yell. "I, that knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!" "I don't know," replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it." "You would?" "Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me." "If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or" "I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill."<\|quote\|>"Wot d'ye mean?"</\|quote\|>asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!" cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips. "They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't." "Why why? Tell him that." "Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before," replied Noah. "What more of him?" cried Fagin. "What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that." "Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to," said Noah; "and so the first time she went to see the lady, she ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did she gave	Sikes. "There!" he said, laying the bundle on the table. "Take care of that, and do the most you can with it. It's been trouble enough to get; I thought I should have been here, three hours ago." Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright. "Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a man so for?" Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone. "Damme!" said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. "He's gone mad. I must look to myself here." "No, no," rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. "It's not you're not the person, Bill. I've no no fault to find with you." "Oh, you haven't, haven't you?" said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. "That's lucky for one of us. Which one that is, don't matter." "I've got that to tell you, Bill," said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer, "will make you worse than me." "Aye?" returned the robber with an incredulous air. "Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will think I'm lost." "Lost!" cried Fagin. "She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind, already." Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew's face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat collar in his huge hand and shook him soundly. "Speak, will you!" he said; "or if you don't, it shall be for want of breath. Open your mouth and say wot you've got to say in plain words. Out with it, you thundering old cur, out with it!" "Suppose that lad that's laying there" Fagin began. Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previously observed him. "Well!" he said, resuming his former position. "Suppose that lad," pursued Fagin, "was to peach to blow upon us all first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with 'em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plant we've all been in, more or less of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water, but of his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?" cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. "Suppose he did all this, what then?" "What then!" replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. "If he was left alive till I came, I'd grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head." "What if I did it!" cried Fagin almost in a yell. "I, that knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!" "I don't know," replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it." "You would?" "Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me." "If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or" "I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill."<\|quote\|>"Wot d'ye mean?"</\|quote\|>asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!" cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips. "They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't." "Why why? Tell him that." "Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before," replied Noah. "What more of him?" cried Fagin. "What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that." "Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to," said Noah; "and so the first time she went to see the lady, she ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did she gave him a drink of laudanum." "Hell's fire!" cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. "Let me go!" Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs. "Bill, Bill!" cried Fagin, following him hastily. "A word. Only a word." The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew came panting up. "Let me out," said Sikes. "Don't speak to me; it's not safe. Let me out, I say!" "Hear me speak a word," rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. "You won't be" "Well," replied the other. "You won't be too violent, Bill?" The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see each other's faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire in the eyes of both, which could not be mistaken. "I mean," said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise was now useless, "not too violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill, and not too bold." Sikes made no reply; but, pulling open the door, of which Fagin had turned the lock, dashed into the silent streets. Without one pause, or moment's consideration; without once turning his head to the right or left, or raising his eyes to the sky, or lowering them to the ground, but looking straight before him with savage resolution: his teeth so tightly compressed that the strained jaw seemed starting through his skin; the robber held on his headlong course, nor muttered a word, nor relaxed a muscle, until he reached his own door. He opened it, softly, with a key; strode lightly up the stairs; and entering his own room, double-locked the door, and lifting a heavy table against it, drew back the curtain of the bed. The girl was lying, half-dressed, upon it. He had roused her from her sleep, for she raised herself with a hurried and startled look. "Get up!" said the man. "It is you, Bill!" said the girl, with an expression of pleasure at his return. "It is," was the reply. "Get up." There was a candle burning, but the man hastily drew it from the candlestick, and hurled it under the grate. Seeing the faint light of early day without, the girl rose to undraw the curtain. "Let it be,"	till I came, I'd grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head." "What if I did it!" cried Fagin almost in a yell. "I, that knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!" "I don't know," replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it." "You would?" "Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me." "If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or" "I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill."<\|quote\|>"Wot d'ye mean?"</\|quote\|>asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!" cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips. "They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't." "Why why? Tell him that." "Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before," replied Noah. "What more of him?" cried Fagin. "What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that." "Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to," said Noah; "and so the first time she went to see the lady, she ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did she gave him a drink of laudanum." "Hell's fire!" cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. "Let me go!" Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs. "Bill, Bill!" cried Fagin, following him hastily. "A word. Only a word." The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew came panting up. "Let me out," said Sikes. "Don't speak to me; it's not safe. Let me out, I say!" "Hear me speak a word," rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. "You won't be" "Well," replied the other. "You won't be too violent, Bill?" The day was breaking, and there was	Oliver Twist
“I see our situation.”	Grace	more exactly stated her case.<\|quote\|>“I see our situation.”</\|quote\|>“So do I, Lady Grace!”	any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case.<\|quote\|>“I see our situation.”</\|quote\|>“So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest	one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.” He glowed with his admiration. “You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case.<\|quote\|>“I see our situation.”</\|quote\|>“So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had	end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.” He glowed with his admiration. “You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case.<\|quote\|>“I see our situation.”</\|quote\|>“So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,”	version of the prime cause of her state. “Why do you talk of it as ‘paying’--if it’s all to come back to my _being_ paid? I mean by your blest success--if you really do what you want.” “I have your word for it,” he searchingly said, “that our really pulling it off together will make up to you----?” “I should be ashamed if it didn’t, for everything!” --she took the question from his mouth. “I believe in such a cause exactly as you do--and found a lesson, at Dedborough, in your frankness and your faith.” “Then you’ll help me no end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.” He glowed with his admiration. “You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case.<\|quote\|>“I see our situation.”</\|quote\|>“So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,” she smiled, “though he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.” “He lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the people who come up to the city in the Tube.” With which Hugh had a still sharper recall of the stiff actual. “And he must be here to do	time.” “And now his time’s up?” the girl eagerly asked. “It _must_ be--and we shall see.” But Hugh postponed that question to a matter of more moment still. “The thing is that at last I’m able to tell you how I feel the trouble I’ve brought you.” It made her, quickly colouring, rest grave eyes on him. “What do you know--when I haven’t told you--about my ‘trouble’?” “Can’t I have guessed, with a ray of intelligence?” --he had his answer ready. “You’ve sought asylum with this good friend from the effects of your father’s resentment.” “‘Sought asylum’ is perhaps excessive,” Lady Grace returned-- “though it wasn’t pleasant with him after that hour, no,” she allowed. “And I couldn’t go, you see, to Kitty.” “No indeed, you couldn’t go to Kitty.” He smiled at her hard as he added: “I should have liked to see you go to Kitty! Therefore exactly is it that I’ve set you adrift--that I’ve darkened and poisoned your days. You’re paying with your comfort, with your peace, for having joined so gallantly in my grand remonstrance.” She shook her head, turning from him, but then turned back again--as if accepting, as if even relieved by, this version of the prime cause of her state. “Why do you talk of it as ‘paying’--if it’s all to come back to my _being_ paid? I mean by your blest success--if you really do what you want.” “I have your word for it,” he searchingly said, “that our really pulling it off together will make up to you----?” “I should be ashamed if it didn’t, for everything!” --she took the question from his mouth. “I believe in such a cause exactly as you do--and found a lesson, at Dedborough, in your frankness and your faith.” “Then you’ll help me no end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.” He glowed with his admiration. “You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case.<\|quote\|>“I see our situation.”</\|quote\|>“So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,” she smiled, “though he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.” “He lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the people who come up to the city in the Tube.” With which Hugh had a still sharper recall of the stiff actual. “And he must be here to do business to-day.” “You know,” Lady Grace asked, “that he’s to meet Mr. Bender?” “Lady Sandgate kindly warned me, and,” her companion saw as he glanced at the clock on the chimney, “I’ve only ten minutes, at best. The ‘Journal’ won’t have been good for him,” he added-- “you doubtless have seen the ‘Journal’?” “No” --she was vague. “We live by the ‘Morning Post.’” “That’s why our friend here didn’t speak then,” Hugh said with a better light-- “which, out of a dim consideration for her, I didn’t do, either. But they’ve a leader this morning about Lady Lappington and her Longhi, and on Bender and his hauls, and on the certainty--if we don’t do something energetic--of more and more Benders to come: such a conquering horde as invaded the old civilisation, only armed now with huge cheque-books instead of with spears and battle-axes. They refer to the rumour current--as too horrific to believe--of Lord Theign’s putting up his Moretto; with the question of how properly to qualify any such sad purpose in him should the further report prove true of a new and momentous opinion about the picture entertained by several eminent authorities.” “Of whom,” said the girl, intensely attached	a lurid light if it has all been for _that!_” “It has been--well, to keep things as I want them; and if I’ve given you precious information mightn’t you on your side--” “Estimate its value in cash?” --Hugh sharply took her up. “Ah, Lady Sandgate, I _am_ in your debt, but if you really bargain for your precious information I’d rather we assume that I haven’t enjoyed it.” She made him, however, in reply, a sign for silence; she had heard Lady Grace enter the other room from the back landing, and, reaching the nearer door, she disposed of the question with high gay bravery. “I won’t bargain with the Treasury!” --she had passed out by the time Lady Grace arrived. II As Hugh recognised in this friend’s entrance and face the light of welcome he went, full of his subject, straight to their main affair. “I haven’t been able to wait, I’ve wanted so much to tell you--I mean how I’ve just come back from Brussels, where I saw Pappen-dick, who was free and ready, by the happiest chance, to start for Verona, which he must have reached some time yesterday.” The girl’s responsive interest fairly broke into rapture. “Ah, the dear sweet thing!” “Yes, he’s a brick--but the question now hangs in the balance. Allowing him time to have got into relation with the picture, I’ve begun to expect his wire, which will probably come to my club; but my fidget, while I wait, has driven me” --he threw out and dropped his arms in expression of his soft surrender-- “well, just to do _this_: to come to you here, in my fever, at an unnatural hour and uninvited, and at least let you know I’ve ‘acted.’” “Oh, but I simply rejoice,” Lady Grace declared, “to be acting _with_ you.” “Then if you are, if you are,” the young man cried, “why everything’s beautiful and right!” “It’s all I care for and think of now,” she went on in her bright devotion, “and I’ve only wondered and hoped!” Well, Hugh found for it all a rapid, abundant lucidity. “He was away from home at first, and I had to wait--but I crossed last week, found him and settled incoming home by Paris, where I had a grand four days’ jaw with the fellows there and saw _their_ great specimen of our master: all of which has given him time.” “And now his time’s up?” the girl eagerly asked. “It _must_ be--and we shall see.” But Hugh postponed that question to a matter of more moment still. “The thing is that at last I’m able to tell you how I feel the trouble I’ve brought you.” It made her, quickly colouring, rest grave eyes on him. “What do you know--when I haven’t told you--about my ‘trouble’?” “Can’t I have guessed, with a ray of intelligence?” --he had his answer ready. “You’ve sought asylum with this good friend from the effects of your father’s resentment.” “‘Sought asylum’ is perhaps excessive,” Lady Grace returned-- “though it wasn’t pleasant with him after that hour, no,” she allowed. “And I couldn’t go, you see, to Kitty.” “No indeed, you couldn’t go to Kitty.” He smiled at her hard as he added: “I should have liked to see you go to Kitty! Therefore exactly is it that I’ve set you adrift--that I’ve darkened and poisoned your days. You’re paying with your comfort, with your peace, for having joined so gallantly in my grand remonstrance.” She shook her head, turning from him, but then turned back again--as if accepting, as if even relieved by, this version of the prime cause of her state. “Why do you talk of it as ‘paying’--if it’s all to come back to my _being_ paid? I mean by your blest success--if you really do what you want.” “I have your word for it,” he searchingly said, “that our really pulling it off together will make up to you----?” “I should be ashamed if it didn’t, for everything!” --she took the question from his mouth. “I believe in such a cause exactly as you do--and found a lesson, at Dedborough, in your frankness and your faith.” “Then you’ll help me no end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.” He glowed with his admiration. “You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case.<\|quote\|>“I see our situation.”</\|quote\|>“So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,” she smiled, “though he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.” “He lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the people who come up to the city in the Tube.” With which Hugh had a still sharper recall of the stiff actual. “And he must be here to do business to-day.” “You know,” Lady Grace asked, “that he’s to meet Mr. Bender?” “Lady Sandgate kindly warned me, and,” her companion saw as he glanced at the clock on the chimney, “I’ve only ten minutes, at best. The ‘Journal’ won’t have been good for him,” he added-- “you doubtless have seen the ‘Journal’?” “No” --she was vague. “We live by the ‘Morning Post.’” “That’s why our friend here didn’t speak then,” Hugh said with a better light-- “which, out of a dim consideration for her, I didn’t do, either. But they’ve a leader this morning about Lady Lappington and her Longhi, and on Bender and his hauls, and on the certainty--if we don’t do something energetic--of more and more Benders to come: such a conquering horde as invaded the old civilisation, only armed now with huge cheque-books instead of with spears and battle-axes. They refer to the rumour current--as too horrific to believe--of Lord Theign’s putting up his Moretto; with the question of how properly to qualify any such sad purpose in him should the further report prove true of a new and momentous opinion about the picture entertained by several eminent authorities.” “Of whom,” said the girl, intensely attached to this recital, “you’re of course seen as not the least.” “Of whom, of course, Lady Grace, I’m as yet--however I’m ‘seen’--the whole collection. But we’ve time” --he rested on that “The fat, if you’ll allow me the expression, is on the fire--which, as I see the matter, is where this particular fat _should_ be.” “Is the article, then,” his companion appealed, “very severe?” “I prefer to call it very enlightened and very intelligent--and the great thing is that it immensely ‘marks,’ as they say. It will have made a big public difference--from this day; though it’s of course aimed not so much at persons as at conditions; which it calls upon us all somehow to tackle.” “Exactly” --she was full of the saving vision; “but as the conditions are directly embodied in persons----” “Oh, of course it here and there bells the cat; which means that it bells three or four.” “Yes,” she richly brooded-- “Lady Lappington _is_ a cat!” “She will have been ‘belled,’ at any rate, with your father,” Hugh amusedly went on, “to the certainty of a row; and a row can only be good for us--I mean for _us_ in particular.” Yet he had to bethink himself. “The case depends a good deal of course on how your father _takes_ such a resounding rap.” “Oh, I know how he’ll take it!” --her perception went all the way. “In the very highest and properest spirit?” “Well, you’ll see.” She was as brave as she was clear. “Or at least I shall!” Struck with all this in her he renewed his homage. “You _are_, yes, splendid!” “I even,” she laughed, “surprise myself.” But he was already back at his calculations. “How early do the papers get to you?” “At Dedborough? Oh, quite for breakfast--which isn’t, however, very early.” “Then that’s what has caused his wire to Bender.” “But how will such talk strike _him_?” the girl asked. Hugh meanwhile, visibly, had not only followed his train of thought, he had let it lead him to certainty. “It will have moved Mr. Bender to absolute rapture.” “Rather,” Lady Grace wondered, “than have put him off?” “It will have put him prodigiously _on!_ Mr. Bender--as he said to me at Dedborough of his noble host there,” Hugh pursued-- “is ‘a very nice man’; but he’s a product of the world of advertisment, and advertisement is all he sees and	_must_ be--and we shall see.” But Hugh postponed that question to a matter of more moment still. “The thing is that at last I’m able to tell you how I feel the trouble I’ve brought you.” It made her, quickly colouring, rest grave eyes on him. “What do you know--when I haven’t told you--about my ‘trouble’?” “Can’t I have guessed, with a ray of intelligence?” --he had his answer ready. “You’ve sought asylum with this good friend from the effects of your father’s resentment.” “‘Sought asylum’ is perhaps excessive,” Lady Grace returned-- “though it wasn’t pleasant with him after that hour, no,” she allowed. “And I couldn’t go, you see, to Kitty.” “No indeed, you couldn’t go to Kitty.” He smiled at her hard as he added: “I should have liked to see you go to Kitty! Therefore exactly is it that I’ve set you adrift--that I’ve darkened and poisoned your days. You’re paying with your comfort, with your peace, for having joined so gallantly in my grand remonstrance.” She shook her head, turning from him, but then turned back again--as if accepting, as if even relieved by, this version of the prime cause of her state. “Why do you talk of it as ‘paying’--if it’s all to come back to my _being_ paid? I mean by your blest success--if you really do what you want.” “I have your word for it,” he searchingly said, “that our really pulling it off together will make up to you----?” “I should be ashamed if it didn’t, for everything!” --she took the question from his mouth. “I believe in such a cause exactly as you do--and found a lesson, at Dedborough, in your frankness and your faith.” “Then you’ll help me no end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.” He glowed with his admiration. “You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case.<\|quote\|>“I see our situation.”</\|quote\|>“So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,” she smiled, “though he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.” “He lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the people who come up to the city in the Tube.” With which Hugh had a still sharper recall of the stiff actual. “And he must be here to do business to-day.” “You know,” Lady Grace asked, “that he’s to meet Mr. Bender?” “Lady Sandgate kindly warned me, and,” her companion saw as he glanced at the clock on the chimney, “I’ve only ten minutes, at best. The ‘Journal’ won’t have been good for him,” he added-- “you doubtless have seen the ‘Journal’?” “No” --she was vague. “We live by the ‘Morning Post.’” “That’s why our friend here didn’t speak then,” Hugh said with a better light-- “which, out of a dim consideration for her, I didn’t do, either. But they’ve a leader this morning about Lady Lappington and her Longhi, and on Bender and his hauls, and on the certainty--if we don’t do something energetic--of more and more Benders to come: such a conquering horde as invaded the old civilisation, only armed now with huge cheque-books instead of with spears and battle-axes. They refer to the rumour current--as too horrific to believe--of	The Outcry
We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.	No speaker	for us to be snooty."<\|quote\|>We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.</\|quote\|>"What will we say?" Bill	said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty."<\|quote\|>We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.</\|quote\|>"What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough."	gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty."<\|quote\|>We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.</\|quote\|>"What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you	coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill. "What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty."<\|quote\|>We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.</\|quote\|>"What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not."	really have to get into town," I said. "What a pity." After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "Por ustedes?" I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us." She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill. "What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty."<\|quote\|>We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.</\|quote\|>"What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?" "It has the look of a pub," Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up	right by Tues. and is practically so now. I know her so well and try to look after her but it's not so easy. Love to all the chaps, MICHAEL. "What day of the week is it?" I asked Harris. "Wednesday, I think. Yes, quite. Wednesday. Wonderful how one loses track of the days up here in the mountains." "Yes. We've been here nearly a week." "I hope you're not thinking of leaving?" "Yes. We'll go in on the afternoon bus, I'm afraid." "What a rotten business. I had hoped we'd all have another go at the Irati together." "We have to go _into_ Pamplona. We're meeting people there." "What rotten luck for me. We've had a jolly time here at Burguete." "Come on in to Pamplona. We can play some bridge there, and there's going to be a damned fine fiesta." "I'd like to. Awfully nice of you to ask me. I'd best stop on here, though. I've not much more time to fish." "You want those big ones in the Irati." "I say, I do, you know. They're enormous trout there." "I'd like to try them once more." "Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap." "We really have to get into town," I said. "What a pity." After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "Por ustedes?" I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us." She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill. "What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty."<\|quote\|>We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.</\|quote\|>"What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?" "It has the look of a pub," Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris. "This is mine," said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. "I say. You know this does utilize well." Bill slapped him on the back. "Good old Harris." "I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson-Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know." "Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we're so fond of you." "I say, Barnes. You don't know what this all means to me." "Come on and utilize another glass," I said. "Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can't know. That's all." "Drink up, Harris." We walked back down the road	and we put one of the trout-bags in. I carried the other. "Well," said Bill, "have we got everything?" "The worms." "Your worms. Put them in there." He had the pack on his back and I put the worm-cans in one of the outside flap pockets. "You got everything now?" I looked around on the grass at the foot of the elm-trees. "Yes." We started up the road into the woods. It was a long walk home to Burguete, and it was dark when we came down across the fields to the road, and along the road between the houses of the town, their windows lighted, to the inn. We stayed five days at Burguete and had good fishing. The nights were cold and the days were hot, and there was always a breeze even in the heat of the day. It was hot enough so that it felt good to wade in a cold stream, and the sun dried you when you came out and sat on the bank. We found a stream with a pool deep enough to swim in. In the evenings we played three-handed bridge with an Englishman named Harris, who had walked over from Saint Jean Pied de Port and was stopping at the inn for the fishing. He was very pleasant and went with us twice to the Irati River. There was no word from Robert Cohn nor from Brett and Mike. CHAPTER 13 One morning I went down to breakfast and the Englishman, Harris, was already at the table. He was reading the paper through spectacles. He looked up and smiled. "Good morning," he said. "Letter for you. I stopped at the post and they gave it me with mine." The letter was at my place at the table, leaning against a coffee-cup. Harris was reading the paper again. I opened the letter. It had been forwarded from Pamplona. It was dated San Sebastian, Sunday: DEAR JAKE, We got here Friday, Brett passed out on the train, so brought her here for 3 days rest with old friends of ours. We go to Montoya Hotel Pamplona Tuesday, arriving at I don't know what hour. Will you send a note by the bus to tell us what to do to rejoin you all on Wednesday. All our love and sorry to be late, but Brett was really done in and will be quite all right by Tues. and is practically so now. I know her so well and try to look after her but it's not so easy. Love to all the chaps, MICHAEL. "What day of the week is it?" I asked Harris. "Wednesday, I think. Yes, quite. Wednesday. Wonderful how one loses track of the days up here in the mountains." "Yes. We've been here nearly a week." "I hope you're not thinking of leaving?" "Yes. We'll go in on the afternoon bus, I'm afraid." "What a rotten business. I had hoped we'd all have another go at the Irati together." "We have to go _into_ Pamplona. We're meeting people there." "What rotten luck for me. We've had a jolly time here at Burguete." "Come on in to Pamplona. We can play some bridge there, and there's going to be a damned fine fiesta." "I'd like to. Awfully nice of you to ask me. I'd best stop on here, though. I've not much more time to fish." "You want those big ones in the Irati." "I say, I do, you know. They're enormous trout there." "I'd like to try them once more." "Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap." "We really have to get into town," I said. "What a pity." After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "Por ustedes?" I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us." She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill. "What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty."<\|quote\|>We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.</\|quote\|>"What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?" "It has the look of a pub," Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris. "This is mine," said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. "I say. You know this does utilize well." Bill slapped him on the back. "Good old Harris." "I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson-Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know." "Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we're so fond of you." "I say, Barnes. You don't know what this all means to me." "Come on and utilize another glass," I said. "Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can't know. That's all." "Drink up, Harris." We walked back down the road from Roncesvalles with Harris between us. We had lunch at the inn and Harris went with us to the bus. He gave us his card, with his address in London and his club and his business address, and as we got on the bus he handed us each an envelope. I opened mine and there were a dozen flies in it. Harris had tied them himself. He tied all his own flies. "I say, Harris--" I began. "No, no!" he said. He was climbing down from the bus. "They're not first-rate flies at all. I only thought if you fished them some time it might remind you of what a good time we had." The bus started. Harris stood in front of the post-office. He waved. As we started along the road he turned and walked back toward the inn. "Say, wasn't that Harris nice?" Bill said. "I think he really did have a good time." "Harris? You bet he did." "I wish he'd come into Pamplona." "He wanted to fish." "Yes. You couldn't tell how English would mix with each other, anyway." "I suppose not." We got into Pamplona late in the afternoon and the bus stopped in front of the Hotel Montoya. Out in the plaza they were stringing electric-light wires to light the plaza for the fiesta. A few kids came up when the bus stopped, and a customs officer for the town made all the people getting down from the bus open their bundles on the sidewalk. We went into the hotel and on the stairs I met Montoya. He shook hands with us, smiling in his embarrassed way. "Your friends are here," he said. "Mr. Campbell?" "Yes. Mr. Cohn and Mr. Campbell and Lady Ashley." He smiled as though there were something I would hear about. "When did they get in?" "Yesterday. I've saved you the rooms you had." "That's fine. Did you give Mr. Campbell the room on the plaza?" "Yes. All the rooms we looked at." "Where are our friends now?" "I think they went to the pelota." "And how about the bulls?" Montoya smiled. "To-night," he said. "To-night at seven o'clock they bring in the Villar bulls, and to-morrow come the Miuras. Do you all go down?" "Oh, yes. They've never seen a desencajonada." Montoya put his hand on my shoulder. "I'll see you there." He smiled again. He always smiled as	very pleasant and went with us twice to the Irati River. There was no word from Robert Cohn nor from Brett and Mike. CHAPTER 13 One morning I went down to breakfast and the Englishman, Harris, was already at the table. He was reading the paper through spectacles. He looked up and smiled. "Good morning," he said. "Letter for you. I stopped at the post and they gave it me with mine." The letter was at my place at the table, leaning against a coffee-cup. Harris was reading the paper again. I opened the letter. It had been forwarded from Pamplona. It was dated San Sebastian, Sunday: DEAR JAKE, We got here Friday, Brett passed out on the train, so brought her here for 3 days rest with old friends of ours. We go to Montoya Hotel Pamplona Tuesday, arriving at I don't know what hour. Will you send a note by the bus to tell us what to do to rejoin you all on Wednesday. All our love and sorry to be late, but Brett was really done in and will be quite all right by Tues. and is practically so now. I know her so well and try to look after her but it's not so easy. Love to all the chaps, MICHAEL. "What day of the week is it?" I asked Harris. "Wednesday, I think. Yes, quite. Wednesday. Wonderful how one loses track of the days up here in the mountains." "Yes. We've been here nearly a week." "I hope you're not thinking of leaving?" "Yes. We'll go in on the afternoon bus, I'm afraid." "What a rotten business. I had hoped we'd all have another go at the Irati together." "We have to go _into_ Pamplona. We're meeting people there." "What rotten luck for me. We've had a jolly time here at Burguete." "Come on in to Pamplona. We can play some bridge there, and there's going to be a damned fine fiesta." "I'd like to. Awfully nice of you to ask me. I'd best stop on here, though. I've not much more time to fish." "You want those big ones in the Irati." "I say, I do, you know. They're enormous trout there." "I'd like to try them once more." "Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap." "We really have to get into town," I said. "What a pity." After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "Por ustedes?" I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us." She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill. "What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty."<\|quote\|>We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.</\|quote\|>"What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?" "It has the look of a pub," Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris. "This is mine," said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. "I say. You know this does utilize well." Bill slapped him on the back. "Good old Harris." "I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson-Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know." "Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we're so fond of you." "I say, Barnes. You don't know what this all means to me." "Come on and utilize another glass," I said. "Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can't know. That's all." "Drink up, Harris." We walked back down the road from Roncesvalles with Harris between us. We had lunch at the inn and Harris went with us to the bus. He gave us his card, with his address in London and his club and his business address, and as we got on the bus he handed us each an envelope. I opened mine and there were a dozen flies in it. Harris had tied them himself. He tied all his own flies. "I say, Harris--" I began. "No, no!" he said. He was climbing down from the bus. "They're not first-rate flies at all. I only thought if you fished them some time it might remind you of what a good time we had." The bus started. Harris stood in front of the post-office. He waved. As we started along the road he turned and walked back toward the inn. "Say, wasn't that Harris nice?" Bill said. "I think he really did have a good time." "Harris? You bet he did." "I	The Sun Also Rises
"Most certainly I am not."	Dr. Aziz	his hospital?" "You're not offended?"<\|quote\|>"Most certainly I am not."</\|quote\|>"If you are, this must	your little rotter down at his hospital?" "You're not offended?"<\|quote\|>"Most certainly I am not."</\|quote\|>"If you are, this must be cleared up later on."	the girl was still engaged to Heaslop, also I never felt . . ." "Yes, yes; but you didn't contradict what I said, so I thought it was true. Oh dear, East and West. Most misleading. Will you please put your little rotter down at his hospital?" "You're not offended?"<\|quote\|>"Most certainly I am not."</\|quote\|>"If you are, this must be cleared up later on." "It has been," he answered, dignified. "I believe absolutely what you say, and of that there need be no further question." "But the way I said it must be cleared up. I was unintentionally rude. Unreserved regrets." "The fault is	damned. Amusement indeed. Is it likely at such a time?" "Oh, I beg your pardon, I'm sure. The licentious Oriental imagination was at work," he replied, speaking gaily, but cut to the heart; for hours after his mistake he bled inwardly. "You see, Aziz, the circumstances . . . also the girl was still engaged to Heaslop, also I never felt . . ." "Yes, yes; but you didn't contradict what I said, so I thought it was true. Oh dear, East and West. Most misleading. Will you please put your little rotter down at his hospital?" "You're not offended?"<\|quote\|>"Most certainly I am not."</\|quote\|>"If you are, this must be cleared up later on." "It has been," he answered, dignified. "I believe absolutely what you say, and of that there need be no further question." "But the way I said it must be cleared up. I was unintentionally rude. Unreserved regrets." "The fault is entirely mine." Tangles like this still interrupted their intercourse. A pause in the wrong place, an intonation misunderstood, and a whole conversation went awry. Fielding had been startled, not shocked, but how convey the difference? There is always trouble when two people do not think of sex at the same	mosquitoes, but it's years before I shall meet the one that kills me. You've something else in your mind." "I've not; don't be ridiculous." "You have. You're cross with me about something or other." Any direct attack threw him out of action. Presently he said: "So you and Madamsell Adela used to amuse one another in the evening, naughty boy." Those drab and high-minded talks had scarcely made for dalliance. Fielding was so startled at the story being taken seriously, and so disliked being called a naughty boy, that he lost his head and cried: "You little rotter! Well, I'm damned. Amusement indeed. Is it likely at such a time?" "Oh, I beg your pardon, I'm sure. The licentious Oriental imagination was at work," he replied, speaking gaily, but cut to the heart; for hours after his mistake he bled inwardly. "You see, Aziz, the circumstances . . . also the girl was still engaged to Heaslop, also I never felt . . ." "Yes, yes; but you didn't contradict what I said, so I thought it was true. Oh dear, East and West. Most misleading. Will you please put your little rotter down at his hospital?" "You're not offended?"<\|quote\|>"Most certainly I am not."</\|quote\|>"If you are, this must be cleared up later on." "It has been," he answered, dignified. "I believe absolutely what you say, and of that there need be no further question." "But the way I said it must be cleared up. I was unintentionally rude. Unreserved regrets." "The fault is entirely mine." Tangles like this still interrupted their intercourse. A pause in the wrong place, an intonation misunderstood, and a whole conversation went awry. Fielding had been startled, not shocked, but how convey the difference? There is always trouble when two people do not think of sex at the same moment, always mutual resentment and surprise, even when the two people are of the same race. He began to recapitulate his feelings about Miss Quested. Aziz cut him short with: "But I believe you, I believe. Mohammed Latif shall be severely punished for inventing this." "Oh, leave it alone, like all gossip it's merely one of those half-alive things that try to crowd out real life. Take no notice, it'll vanish, like poor old Mrs. Moore's tombs." "Mohammed Latif has taken to intriguing. We are already much displeased with him. Will it satisfy you if we send him back to	shot up rather crossly. "Yes, but the scale, the scale. You always get the scale wrong, my dear fellow. A pity there is this rumour, but such a very small pity so small that we may as well talk of something else." "You mind for Miss Quested's sake, though. I can see from your face." "As far as I do mind. I travel light." "Cyril, that boastfulness about travelling light will be your ruin. It is raising up enemies against you on all sides, and makes me feel excessively uneasy." "What enemies?" Since Aziz had only himself in mind, he could not reply. Feeling a fool, he became angrier. "I have given you list after list of the people who cannot be trusted in this city. In your position I should have the sense to know I was surrounded by enemies. You observe I speak in a low voice. It is because I see your sais is new. How do I know he isn't a spy?" He lowered his voice: "Every third servant is a spy." "Now, what is the matter?" he asked, smiling. "Do you contradict my last remark?" "It simply doesn't affect me. Spies are as thick as mosquitoes, but it's years before I shall meet the one that kills me. You've something else in your mind." "I've not; don't be ridiculous." "You have. You're cross with me about something or other." Any direct attack threw him out of action. Presently he said: "So you and Madamsell Adela used to amuse one another in the evening, naughty boy." Those drab and high-minded talks had scarcely made for dalliance. Fielding was so startled at the story being taken seriously, and so disliked being called a naughty boy, that he lost his head and cried: "You little rotter! Well, I'm damned. Amusement indeed. Is it likely at such a time?" "Oh, I beg your pardon, I'm sure. The licentious Oriental imagination was at work," he replied, speaking gaily, but cut to the heart; for hours after his mistake he bled inwardly. "You see, Aziz, the circumstances . . . also the girl was still engaged to Heaslop, also I never felt . . ." "Yes, yes; but you didn't contradict what I said, so I thought it was true. Oh dear, East and West. Most misleading. Will you please put your little rotter down at his hospital?" "You're not offended?"<\|quote\|>"Most certainly I am not."</\|quote\|>"If you are, this must be cleared up later on." "It has been," he answered, dignified. "I believe absolutely what you say, and of that there need be no further question." "But the way I said it must be cleared up. I was unintentionally rude. Unreserved regrets." "The fault is entirely mine." Tangles like this still interrupted their intercourse. A pause in the wrong place, an intonation misunderstood, and a whole conversation went awry. Fielding had been startled, not shocked, but how convey the difference? There is always trouble when two people do not think of sex at the same moment, always mutual resentment and surprise, even when the two people are of the same race. He began to recapitulate his feelings about Miss Quested. Aziz cut him short with: "But I believe you, I believe. Mohammed Latif shall be severely punished for inventing this." "Oh, leave it alone, like all gossip it's merely one of those half-alive things that try to crowd out real life. Take no notice, it'll vanish, like poor old Mrs. Moore's tombs." "Mohammed Latif has taken to intriguing. We are already much displeased with him. Will it satisfy you if we send him back to his family without a present?" "We'll discuss M.L. at dinner." His eyes went clotted and hard. "Dinner. This is most unlucky I forgot. I have promised to dine with Das." "Bring Das to me." "He will have invited other friends." "You are coming to dinner with me as arranged," said Fielding, looking away. "I don't stand this. You are coming to dinner with me. You come." They had reached the hospital now. Fielding continued round the Maidan alone. He was annoyed with himself, but counted on dinner to pull things straight. At the post office he saw the Collector. Their vehicles were parked side by side while their servants competed in the interior of the building. "Good morning; so you are back," said Turton icily. "I should be glad if you will put in your appearance at the club this evening." "I have accepted re-election, sir. Do you regard it as necessary I should come? I should be glad to be excused; indeed, I have a dinner engagement this evening." "It is not a question of your feelings, but of the wish of the Lieutenant-Governor. Perhaps you will ask me whether I speak officially. I do. I shall expect you	where he could find it. But he resented him making up to this particular woman, whom he still regarded as his enemy; also, why had he not been told? What is friendship without confidences? He himself had told things sometimes regarded as shocking, and the Englishman had listened, tolerant, but surrendering nothing in return. He met Fielding at the railway station on his return, agreed to dine with him, and then started taxing him by the oblique method, outwardly merry. An avowed European scandal there was Mr. McBryde and Miss Derek. Miss Derek's faithful attachment to Chandrapore was now explained: Mr. McBryde had been caught in her room, and his wife was divorcing him. "That pure-minded fellow. However, he will blame the Indian climate. Everything is our fault really. Now, have I not discovered an important piece of news for you, Cyril?" "Not very," said Fielding, who took little interest in distant sins. "Listen to mine." Aziz' face lit up. "At the conference, it was settled. . . ." "This evening will do for schoolmastery. I should go straight to the Minto now, the cholera looks bad. We begin to have local cases as well as imported. In fact, the whole of life is somewhat sad. The new Civil Surgeon is the same as the last, but does not yet dare to be. That is all any administrative change amounts to. All my suffering has won nothing for us. But look here, Cyril, while I remember it. There's gossip about you as well as McBryde. They say that you and Miss Quested became also rather too intimate friends. To speak perfectly frankly, they say you and she have been guilty of impropriety." "They would say that." "It's all over the town, and may injure your reputation. You know, everyone is by no means your supporter. I have tried all I could to silence such a story." "Don't bother. Miss Quested has cleared out at last." "It is those who stop in the country, not those who leave it, whom such a story injures. Imagine my dismay and anxiety. I could scarcely get a wink of sleep. First my name was coupled with her and now it is yours." "Don't use such exaggerated phrases." "As what?" "As dismay and anxiety." "Have I not lived all my life in India? Do I not know what produces a bad impression here?" His voice shot up rather crossly. "Yes, but the scale, the scale. You always get the scale wrong, my dear fellow. A pity there is this rumour, but such a very small pity so small that we may as well talk of something else." "You mind for Miss Quested's sake, though. I can see from your face." "As far as I do mind. I travel light." "Cyril, that boastfulness about travelling light will be your ruin. It is raising up enemies against you on all sides, and makes me feel excessively uneasy." "What enemies?" Since Aziz had only himself in mind, he could not reply. Feeling a fool, he became angrier. "I have given you list after list of the people who cannot be trusted in this city. In your position I should have the sense to know I was surrounded by enemies. You observe I speak in a low voice. It is because I see your sais is new. How do I know he isn't a spy?" He lowered his voice: "Every third servant is a spy." "Now, what is the matter?" he asked, smiling. "Do you contradict my last remark?" "It simply doesn't affect me. Spies are as thick as mosquitoes, but it's years before I shall meet the one that kills me. You've something else in your mind." "I've not; don't be ridiculous." "You have. You're cross with me about something or other." Any direct attack threw him out of action. Presently he said: "So you and Madamsell Adela used to amuse one another in the evening, naughty boy." Those drab and high-minded talks had scarcely made for dalliance. Fielding was so startled at the story being taken seriously, and so disliked being called a naughty boy, that he lost his head and cried: "You little rotter! Well, I'm damned. Amusement indeed. Is it likely at such a time?" "Oh, I beg your pardon, I'm sure. The licentious Oriental imagination was at work," he replied, speaking gaily, but cut to the heart; for hours after his mistake he bled inwardly. "You see, Aziz, the circumstances . . . also the girl was still engaged to Heaslop, also I never felt . . ." "Yes, yes; but you didn't contradict what I said, so I thought it was true. Oh dear, East and West. Most misleading. Will you please put your little rotter down at his hospital?" "You're not offended?"<\|quote\|>"Most certainly I am not."</\|quote\|>"If you are, this must be cleared up later on." "It has been," he answered, dignified. "I believe absolutely what you say, and of that there need be no further question." "But the way I said it must be cleared up. I was unintentionally rude. Unreserved regrets." "The fault is entirely mine." Tangles like this still interrupted their intercourse. A pause in the wrong place, an intonation misunderstood, and a whole conversation went awry. Fielding had been startled, not shocked, but how convey the difference? There is always trouble when two people do not think of sex at the same moment, always mutual resentment and surprise, even when the two people are of the same race. He began to recapitulate his feelings about Miss Quested. Aziz cut him short with: "But I believe you, I believe. Mohammed Latif shall be severely punished for inventing this." "Oh, leave it alone, like all gossip it's merely one of those half-alive things that try to crowd out real life. Take no notice, it'll vanish, like poor old Mrs. Moore's tombs." "Mohammed Latif has taken to intriguing. We are already much displeased with him. Will it satisfy you if we send him back to his family without a present?" "We'll discuss M.L. at dinner." His eyes went clotted and hard. "Dinner. This is most unlucky I forgot. I have promised to dine with Das." "Bring Das to me." "He will have invited other friends." "You are coming to dinner with me as arranged," said Fielding, looking away. "I don't stand this. You are coming to dinner with me. You come." They had reached the hospital now. Fielding continued round the Maidan alone. He was annoyed with himself, but counted on dinner to pull things straight. At the post office he saw the Collector. Their vehicles were parked side by side while their servants competed in the interior of the building. "Good morning; so you are back," said Turton icily. "I should be glad if you will put in your appearance at the club this evening." "I have accepted re-election, sir. Do you regard it as necessary I should come? I should be glad to be excused; indeed, I have a dinner engagement this evening." "It is not a question of your feelings, but of the wish of the Lieutenant-Governor. Perhaps you will ask me whether I speak officially. I do. I shall expect you this evening at six. We shall not interfere with your subsequent plans." He attended the grim little function in due course. The skeletons of hospitality rattled "Have a peg, have a drink." He talked for five minutes to Mrs. Blakiston, who was the only surviving female. He talked to McBryde, who was defiant about his divorce, conscious that he had sinned as a sahib. He talked to Major Roberts, the new Civil Surgeon; and to young Milner, the new City Magistrate; but the more the club changed, the more it promised to be the same thing. "It is no good," he thought, as he returned past the mosque, "we all build upon sand; and the more modern the country gets, the worse'll be the crash. In the old eighteenth century, when cruelty and injustice raged, an invisible power repaired their ravages. Everything echoes now; there's no stopping the echo. The original sound may be harmless, but the echo is always evil." This reflection about an echo lay at the verge of Fielding's mind. He could never develop it. It belonged to the universe that he had missed or rejected. And the mosque missed it too. Like himself, those shallow arcades provided but a limited asylum. "There is no God but God" doesn't carry us far through the complexities of matter and spirit; it is only a game with words, really, a religious pun, not a religious truth. He found Aziz overtired and dispirited, and he determined not to allude to their misunderstanding until the end of the evening; it would be more acceptable then. He made a clean breast about the club said he had only gone under compulsion, and should never attend again unless the order was renewed. "In other words, probably never; for I am going quite soon to England." "I thought you might end in England," he said very quietly, then changed the conversation. Rather awkwardly they ate their dinner, then went out to sit in the Mogul garden-house. "I am only going for a little time. On official business. My service is anxious to get me away from Chandrapore for a bit. It is obliged to value me highly, but does not care for me. The situation is somewhat humorous." "What is the nature of the business? Will it leave you much spare time?" "Enough to see my friends." "I expected you to make such a	say that you and Miss Quested became also rather too intimate friends. To speak perfectly frankly, they say you and she have been guilty of impropriety." "They would say that." "It's all over the town, and may injure your reputation. You know, everyone is by no means your supporter. I have tried all I could to silence such a story." "Don't bother. Miss Quested has cleared out at last." "It is those who stop in the country, not those who leave it, whom such a story injures. Imagine my dismay and anxiety. I could scarcely get a wink of sleep. First my name was coupled with her and now it is yours." "Don't use such exaggerated phrases." "As what?" "As dismay and anxiety." "Have I not lived all my life in India? Do I not know what produces a bad impression here?" His voice shot up rather crossly. "Yes, but the scale, the scale. You always get the scale wrong, my dear fellow. A pity there is this rumour, but such a very small pity so small that we may as well talk of something else." "You mind for Miss Quested's sake, though. I can see from your face." "As far as I do mind. I travel light." "Cyril, that boastfulness about travelling light will be your ruin. It is raising up enemies against you on all sides, and makes me feel excessively uneasy." "What enemies?" Since Aziz had only himself in mind, he could not reply. Feeling a fool, he became angrier. "I have given you list after list of the people who cannot be trusted in this city. In your position I should have the sense to know I was surrounded by enemies. You observe I speak in a low voice. It is because I see your sais is new. How do I know he isn't a spy?" He lowered his voice: "Every third servant is a spy." "Now, what is the matter?" he asked, smiling. "Do you contradict my last remark?" "It simply doesn't affect me. Spies are as thick as mosquitoes, but it's years before I shall meet the one that kills me. You've something else in your mind." "I've not; don't be ridiculous." "You have. You're cross with me about something or other." Any direct attack threw him out of action. Presently he said: "So you and Madamsell Adela used to amuse one another in the evening, naughty boy." Those drab and high-minded talks had scarcely made for dalliance. Fielding was so startled at the story being taken seriously, and so disliked being called a naughty boy, that he lost his head and cried: "You little rotter! Well, I'm damned. Amusement indeed. Is it likely at such a time?" "Oh, I beg your pardon, I'm sure. The licentious Oriental imagination was at work," he replied, speaking gaily, but cut to the heart; for hours after his mistake he bled inwardly. "You see, Aziz, the circumstances . . . also the girl was still engaged to Heaslop, also I never felt . . ." "Yes, yes; but you didn't contradict what I said, so I thought it was true. Oh dear, East and West. Most misleading. Will you please put your little rotter down at his hospital?" "You're not offended?"<\|quote\|>"Most certainly I am not."</\|quote\|>"If you are, this must be cleared up later on." "It has been," he answered, dignified. "I believe absolutely what you say, and of that there need be no further question." "But the way I said it must be cleared up. I was unintentionally rude. Unreserved regrets." "The fault is entirely mine." Tangles like this still interrupted their intercourse. A pause in the wrong place, an intonation misunderstood, and a whole conversation went awry. Fielding had been startled, not shocked, but how convey the difference? There is always trouble when two people do not think of sex at the same moment, always mutual resentment and surprise, even when the two people are of the same race. He began to recapitulate his feelings about Miss Quested. Aziz cut him short with: "But I believe you, I believe. Mohammed Latif shall be severely punished for inventing this." "Oh, leave it alone, like all gossip it's merely one of those half-alive things that try to crowd out real life. Take no notice, it'll vanish, like poor old Mrs. Moore's tombs." "Mohammed Latif has taken to intriguing. We are already much displeased with him. Will it satisfy you if we send him back to his family without a present?" "We'll discuss M.L. at dinner." His eyes went clotted and hard. "Dinner. This is most unlucky I forgot. I have promised to dine with Das." "Bring Das to me." "He will have invited other friends." "You are coming to dinner with me as arranged," said Fielding, looking away. "I don't stand this. You are coming to dinner with me. You come."	A Passage To India
"Open the window, and see if he is not."	Polina Alexandrovna	he is there," she said.<\|quote\|>"Open the window, and see if he is not."</\|quote\|>She pushed me in that	beneath the window? "Yes, yes, he is there," she said.<\|quote\|>"Open the window, and see if he is not."</\|quote\|>She pushed me in that direction; yet, no sooner did	something or other which had happened recently. On the whole, she appeared to be laughing at Astley, for she kept repeating that he was waiting for her, and did I know whether, even at that moment, he was not standing beneath the window? "Yes, yes, he is there," she said.<\|quote\|>"Open the window, and see if he is not."</\|quote\|>She pushed me in that direction; yet, no sooner did I make a movement to obey her behest than she burst into laughter, and I remained beside her, and she embraced me. "Shall we go away tomorrow?" presently she asked, as though some disturbing thought had recurred to her recollection.	of a sudden she noticed my ardent gaze, and smiled slightly. The next moment, for no apparent reason, she began to talk of Astley. She continued talking and talking about him, but I could not make out all she said more particularly when she was endeavouring to tell me of something or other which had happened recently. On the whole, she appeared to be laughing at Astley, for she kept repeating that he was waiting for her, and did I know whether, even at that moment, he was not standing beneath the window? "Yes, yes, he is there," she said.<\|quote\|>"Open the window, and see if he is not."</\|quote\|>She pushed me in that direction; yet, no sooner did I make a movement to obey her behest than she burst into laughter, and I remained beside her, and she embraced me. "Shall we go away tomorrow?" presently she asked, as though some disturbing thought had recurred to her recollection. "How would it be if we were to try and overtake Grandmamma? I think we should do so at Berlin. And what think you she would have to say to us when we caught her up, and her eyes first lit upon us? What, too, about Mr. Astley? _He_ would	were trying to tell me something very quickly. At intervals, too, she would break off into the smile which I was beginning to dread. "No, no!" she kept repeating. "_You_ are my dear one; _you_ are the man I trust." Again she laid her hands upon my shoulders, and again she gazed at me as she reiterated: "You love me, you love me? Will you _always_ love me?" I could not take my eyes off her. Never before had I seen her in this mood of humility and affection. True, the mood was the outcome of hysteria; but ! All of a sudden she noticed my ardent gaze, and smiled slightly. The next moment, for no apparent reason, she began to talk of Astley. She continued talking and talking about him, but I could not make out all she said more particularly when she was endeavouring to tell me of something or other which had happened recently. On the whole, she appeared to be laughing at Astley, for she kept repeating that he was waiting for her, and did I know whether, even at that moment, he was not standing beneath the window? "Yes, yes, he is there," she said.<\|quote\|>"Open the window, and see if he is not."</\|quote\|>She pushed me in that direction; yet, no sooner did I make a movement to obey her behest than she burst into laughter, and I remained beside her, and she embraced me. "Shall we go away tomorrow?" presently she asked, as though some disturbing thought had recurred to her recollection. "How would it be if we were to try and overtake Grandmamma? I think we should do so at Berlin. And what think you she would have to say to us when we caught her up, and her eyes first lit upon us? What, too, about Mr. Astley? _He_ would not leap from the Shlangenberg for my sake! No! Of that I am very sure!" and she laughed. "Do you know where he is going next year? He says he intends to go to the North Pole for scientific investigations, and has invited me to go with him! Ha, ha, ha! He also says that we Russians know nothing, can do nothing, without European help. But he is a good fellow all the same. For instance, he does not blame the General in the matter, but declares that Mlle. Blanche that love But no; I do not know, I do	gasped between her convulsive sobs. I clasped her in my arms, kissed her hands and feet, and fell upon my knees before her. Presently the hysterical fit passed away, and, laying her hands upon my shoulders, she gazed for a while into my face, as though trying to read it something I said to her, but it was clear that she did not hear it. Her face looked so dark and despondent that I began to fear for her reason. At length she drew me towards herself a trustful smile playing over her features; and then, as suddenly, she pushed me away again as she eyed me dimly. Finally she threw herself upon me in an embrace. "You love me?" she said. "_Do_ you? you who were willing even to quarrel with the Baron at my bidding?" Then she laughed laughed as though something dear, but laughable, had recurred to her memory. Yes, she laughed and wept at the same time. What was I to do? I was like a man in a fever. I remember that she began to say something to me though _what_ I do not know, since she spoke with a feverish lisp, as though she were trying to tell me something very quickly. At intervals, too, she would break off into the smile which I was beginning to dread. "No, no!" she kept repeating. "_You_ are my dear one; _you_ are the man I trust." Again she laid her hands upon my shoulders, and again she gazed at me as she reiterated: "You love me, you love me? Will you _always_ love me?" I could not take my eyes off her. Never before had I seen her in this mood of humility and affection. True, the mood was the outcome of hysteria; but ! All of a sudden she noticed my ardent gaze, and smiled slightly. The next moment, for no apparent reason, she began to talk of Astley. She continued talking and talking about him, but I could not make out all she said more particularly when she was endeavouring to tell me of something or other which had happened recently. On the whole, she appeared to be laughing at Astley, for she kept repeating that he was waiting for her, and did I know whether, even at that moment, he was not standing beneath the window? "Yes, yes, he is there," she said.<\|quote\|>"Open the window, and see if he is not."</\|quote\|>She pushed me in that direction; yet, no sooner did I make a movement to obey her behest than she burst into laughter, and I remained beside her, and she embraced me. "Shall we go away tomorrow?" presently she asked, as though some disturbing thought had recurred to her recollection. "How would it be if we were to try and overtake Grandmamma? I think we should do so at Berlin. And what think you she would have to say to us when we caught her up, and her eyes first lit upon us? What, too, about Mr. Astley? _He_ would not leap from the Shlangenberg for my sake! No! Of that I am very sure!" and she laughed. "Do you know where he is going next year? He says he intends to go to the North Pole for scientific investigations, and has invited me to go with him! Ha, ha, ha! He also says that we Russians know nothing, can do nothing, without European help. But he is a good fellow all the same. For instance, he does not blame the General in the matter, but declares that Mlle. Blanche that love But no; I do not know, I do not know." She stopped suddenly, as though she had said her say, and was feeling bewildered. "What poor creatures these people are. How sorry I am for them, and for Grandmamma! But when are you going to kill De Griers? Surely you do not intend actually to murder him? You fool! Do you suppose that I should _allow_ you to fight De Griers? Nor shall you kill the Baron." Here she burst out laughing. "How absurd you looked when you were talking to the Burmergelms! I was watching you all the time watching you from where I was sitting. And how unwilling you were to go when I sent you! Oh, how I laughed and laughed!" Then she kissed and embraced me again; again she pressed her face to mine with tender passion. Yet I neither saw nor heard her, for my head was in a whirl.... It must have been about seven o clock in the morning when I awoke. Daylight had come, and Polina was sitting by my side a strange expression on her face, as though she had seen a vision and was unable to collect her thoughts. She too had just awoken, and was now staring	a meditative halt before my little trunk. "Shall I put the money there until tomorrow?" I asked, turning sharply round to Polina as the recollection of her returned to me. She was still in her old place still making not a sound. Yet her eyes had followed every one of my movements. Somehow in her face there was a strange expression an expression which I did not like. I think that I shall not be wrong if I say that it indicated sheer hatred. Impulsively I approached her. "Polina," I said, "here are twenty-five thousand florins fifty thousand francs, or more. Take them, and tomorrow throw them in De Griers face." She returned no answer. "Or, if you should prefer," I continued, "let me take them to him myself tomorrow yes, early tomorrow morning. Shall I?" Then all at once she burst out laughing, and laughed for a long while. With astonishment and a feeling of offence I gazed at her. Her laughter was too like the derisive merriment which she had so often indulged in of late merriment which had broken forth always at the time of my most passionate explanations. At length she ceased, and frowned at me from under her eyebrows. "I am _not_ going to take your money," she said contemptuously. "Why not?" I cried. "Why not, Polina?" "Because I am not in the habit of receiving money for nothing." "But I am offering it to you as a _friend_. In the same way I would offer you my very life." Upon this she threw me a long, questioning glance, as though she were seeking to probe me to the depths. "You are giving too much for me," she remarked with a smile. "The beloved of De Griers is not worth fifty thousand francs." "Oh Polina, how can you speak so?" I exclaimed reproachfully. "Am _I_ De Griers?" "You?" she cried with her eyes suddenly flashing. "Why, I _hate_ you! Yes, yes, I _hate_ you! I love you no more than I do De Griers." Then she buried her face in her hands, and relapsed into hysterics. I darted to her side. Somehow I had an intuition of something having happened to her which had nothing to do with myself. She was like a person temporarily insane. "Buy me, would you, would you? Would you buy me for fifty thousand francs as De Griers did?" she gasped between her convulsive sobs. I clasped her in my arms, kissed her hands and feet, and fell upon my knees before her. Presently the hysterical fit passed away, and, laying her hands upon my shoulders, she gazed for a while into my face, as though trying to read it something I said to her, but it was clear that she did not hear it. Her face looked so dark and despondent that I began to fear for her reason. At length she drew me towards herself a trustful smile playing over her features; and then, as suddenly, she pushed me away again as she eyed me dimly. Finally she threw herself upon me in an embrace. "You love me?" she said. "_Do_ you? you who were willing even to quarrel with the Baron at my bidding?" Then she laughed laughed as though something dear, but laughable, had recurred to her memory. Yes, she laughed and wept at the same time. What was I to do? I was like a man in a fever. I remember that she began to say something to me though _what_ I do not know, since she spoke with a feverish lisp, as though she were trying to tell me something very quickly. At intervals, too, she would break off into the smile which I was beginning to dread. "No, no!" she kept repeating. "_You_ are my dear one; _you_ are the man I trust." Again she laid her hands upon my shoulders, and again she gazed at me as she reiterated: "You love me, you love me? Will you _always_ love me?" I could not take my eyes off her. Never before had I seen her in this mood of humility and affection. True, the mood was the outcome of hysteria; but ! All of a sudden she noticed my ardent gaze, and smiled slightly. The next moment, for no apparent reason, she began to talk of Astley. She continued talking and talking about him, but I could not make out all she said more particularly when she was endeavouring to tell me of something or other which had happened recently. On the whole, she appeared to be laughing at Astley, for she kept repeating that he was waiting for her, and did I know whether, even at that moment, he was not standing beneath the window? "Yes, yes, he is there," she said.<\|quote\|>"Open the window, and see if he is not."</\|quote\|>She pushed me in that direction; yet, no sooner did I make a movement to obey her behest than she burst into laughter, and I remained beside her, and she embraced me. "Shall we go away tomorrow?" presently she asked, as though some disturbing thought had recurred to her recollection. "How would it be if we were to try and overtake Grandmamma? I think we should do so at Berlin. And what think you she would have to say to us when we caught her up, and her eyes first lit upon us? What, too, about Mr. Astley? _He_ would not leap from the Shlangenberg for my sake! No! Of that I am very sure!" and she laughed. "Do you know where he is going next year? He says he intends to go to the North Pole for scientific investigations, and has invited me to go with him! Ha, ha, ha! He also says that we Russians know nothing, can do nothing, without European help. But he is a good fellow all the same. For instance, he does not blame the General in the matter, but declares that Mlle. Blanche that love But no; I do not know, I do not know." She stopped suddenly, as though she had said her say, and was feeling bewildered. "What poor creatures these people are. How sorry I am for them, and for Grandmamma! But when are you going to kill De Griers? Surely you do not intend actually to murder him? You fool! Do you suppose that I should _allow_ you to fight De Griers? Nor shall you kill the Baron." Here she burst out laughing. "How absurd you looked when you were talking to the Burmergelms! I was watching you all the time watching you from where I was sitting. And how unwilling you were to go when I sent you! Oh, how I laughed and laughed!" Then she kissed and embraced me again; again she pressed her face to mine with tender passion. Yet I neither saw nor heard her, for my head was in a whirl.... It must have been about seven o clock in the morning when I awoke. Daylight had come, and Polina was sitting by my side a strange expression on her face, as though she had seen a vision and was unable to collect her thoughts. She too had just awoken, and was now staring at the money on the table. My head ached; it felt heavy. I attempted to take Polina s hand, but she pushed me from her, and leapt from the sofa. The dawn was full of mist, for rain had fallen, yet she moved to the window, opened it, and, leaning her elbows upon the window-sill, thrust out her head and shoulders to take the air. In this position did she remain for several minutes, without ever looking round at me, or listening to what I was saying. Into my head there came the uneasy thought: What is to happen now? How is it all to end? Suddenly Polina rose from the window, approached the table, and, looking at me with an expression of infinite aversion, said with lips which quivered with anger: "Well? Are you going to hand me over my fifty thousand francs?" "Polina, you say that _again, again?_" I exclaimed. "You have changed your mind, then? Ha, ha, ha! You are sorry you ever promised them?" On the table where, the previous night, I had counted the money there still was lying the packet of twenty five thousand florins. I handed it to her. "The francs are mine, then, are they? They are mine?" she inquired viciously as she balanced the money in her hands. "Yes; they have _always_ been yours," I said. "Then _take_ your fifty thousand francs!" and she hurled them full in my face. The packet burst as she did so, and the floor became strewed with bank-notes. The instant that the deed was done she rushed from the room. At that moment she cannot have been in her right mind; yet, what was the cause of her temporary aberration I cannot say. For a month past she had been unwell. Yet what had brought about this _present_ condition of mind, above all things, this outburst? Had it come of wounded pride? Had it come of despair over her decision to come to me? Had it come of the fact that, presuming too much on my good fortune, I had seemed to be intending to desert her (even as De Griers had done) when once I had given her the fifty thousand francs? But, on my honour, I had never cherished any such intention. What was at fault, I think, was her own pride, which kept urging her not to trust me, but, rather, to	I love you no more than I do De Griers." Then she buried her face in her hands, and relapsed into hysterics. I darted to her side. Somehow I had an intuition of something having happened to her which had nothing to do with myself. She was like a person temporarily insane. "Buy me, would you, would you? Would you buy me for fifty thousand francs as De Griers did?" she gasped between her convulsive sobs. I clasped her in my arms, kissed her hands and feet, and fell upon my knees before her. Presently the hysterical fit passed away, and, laying her hands upon my shoulders, she gazed for a while into my face, as though trying to read it something I said to her, but it was clear that she did not hear it. Her face looked so dark and despondent that I began to fear for her reason. At length she drew me towards herself a trustful smile playing over her features; and then, as suddenly, she pushed me away again as she eyed me dimly. Finally she threw herself upon me in an embrace. "You love me?" she said. "_Do_ you? you who were willing even to quarrel with the Baron at my bidding?" Then she laughed laughed as though something dear, but laughable, had recurred to her memory. Yes, she laughed and wept at the same time. What was I to do? I was like a man in a fever. I remember that she began to say something to me though _what_ I do not know, since she spoke with a feverish lisp, as though she were trying to tell me something very quickly. At intervals, too, she would break off into the smile which I was beginning to dread. "No, no!" she kept repeating. "_You_ are my dear one; _you_ are the man I trust." Again she laid her hands upon my shoulders, and again she gazed at me as she reiterated: "You love me, you love me? Will you _always_ love me?" I could not take my eyes off her. Never before had I seen her in this mood of humility and affection. True, the mood was the outcome of hysteria; but ! All of a sudden she noticed my ardent gaze, and smiled slightly. The next moment, for no apparent reason, she began to talk of Astley. She continued talking and talking about him, but I could not make out all she said more particularly when she was endeavouring to tell me of something or other which had happened recently. On the whole, she appeared to be laughing at Astley, for she kept repeating that he was waiting for her, and did I know whether, even at that moment, he was not standing beneath the window? "Yes, yes, he is there," she said.<\|quote\|>"Open the window, and see if he is not."</\|quote\|>She pushed me in that direction; yet, no sooner did I make a movement to obey her behest than she burst into laughter, and I remained beside her, and she embraced me. "Shall we go away tomorrow?" presently she asked, as though some disturbing thought had recurred to her recollection. "How would it be if we were to try and overtake Grandmamma? I think we should do so at Berlin. And what think you she would have to say to us when we caught her up, and her eyes first lit upon us? What, too, about Mr. Astley? _He_ would not leap from the Shlangenberg for my sake! No! Of that I am very sure!" and she laughed. "Do you know where he is going next year? He says he intends to go to the North Pole for scientific investigations, and has invited me to go with him! Ha, ha, ha! He also says that we Russians know nothing, can do nothing, without European help. But he is a good fellow all the same. For instance, he does not blame the General in the matter, but declares that Mlle. Blanche that love But no; I do not know, I do not know." She stopped suddenly, as though she had said her say, and was feeling bewildered. "What poor creatures these people are. How sorry I am for them, and for Grandmamma! But when are you going to kill De Griers? Surely you do not intend actually to murder him? You fool! Do you suppose that I should _allow_ you to fight De Griers? Nor shall you kill the Baron." Here she burst out laughing. "How absurd you looked when you were talking to the Burmergelms! I was watching you all the time	The Gambler
asked Poirot.	No speaker	see." "The rooms are locked?"<\|quote\|>asked Poirot.</\|quote\|>"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable."	Poirot everything he wants to see." "The rooms are locked?"<\|quote\|>asked Poirot.</\|quote\|>"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Then he	how to treat him." "That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly. John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me. "Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see." "The rooms are locked?"<\|quote\|>asked Poirot.</\|quote\|>"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us." We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it. [Illustration] Poirot locked the	cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so. "You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?" "Yes. I met him." John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly. "It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him." "That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly. John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me. "Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see." "The rooms are locked?"<\|quote\|>asked Poirot.</\|quote\|>"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us." We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it. [Illustration] Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He darted from one object to the other with the agility of a grasshopper. I remained by the door, fearing to obliterate any clues. Poirot, however, did not seem grateful to me for my forbearance. "What have	not develop until early the next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance, my friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In the meantime, remember it." As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked weary and haggard. "This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said. "Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?" "I comprehend perfectly." "You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon." "Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only." John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so. "You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?" "Yes. I met him." John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly. "It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him." "That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly. John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me. "Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see." "The rooms are locked?"<\|quote\|>asked Poirot.</\|quote\|>"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us." We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it. [Illustration] Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He darted from one object to the other with the agility of a grasshopper. I remained by the door, fearing to obliterate any clues. Poirot, however, did not seem grateful to me for my forbearance. "What have you, my friend," he cried, "that you remain there like how do you say it? ah, yes, the stuck pig?" I explained that I was afraid of obliterating any foot-marks. "Foot-marks? But what an idea! There has already been practically an army in the room! What foot-marks are we likely to find? No, come here and aid me in my search. I will put down my little case until I need it." He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was an ill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted up, and precipitated	would tell me why you wanted to know if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night? I have been turning it over in my mind, but I can't see how it has anything to do with the matter?" He was silent for a minute or two as we walked along, but finally he said: "I do not mind telling you though, as you know, it is not my habit to explain until the end is reached. The present contention is that Mrs. Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning, presumably administered in her coffee." "Yes?" "Well, what time was the coffee served?" "About eight o'clock." "Therefore she drank it between then and half-past eight certainly not much later. Well, strychnine is a fairly rapid poison. Its effects would be felt very soon, probably in about an hour. Yet, in Mrs. Inglethorp's case, the symptoms do not manifest themselves until five o'clock the next morning: nine hours! But a heavy meal, taken at about the same time as the poison, might retard its effects, though hardly to that extent. Still, it is a possibility to be taken into account. But, according to you, she ate very little for supper, and yet the symptoms do not develop until early the next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance, my friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In the meantime, remember it." As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked weary and haggard. "This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said. "Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?" "I comprehend perfectly." "You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon." "Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only." John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so. "You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?" "Yes. I met him." John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly. "It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him." "That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly. John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me. "Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see." "The rooms are locked?"<\|quote\|>asked Poirot.</\|quote\|>"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us." We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it. [Illustration] Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He darted from one object to the other with the agility of a grasshopper. I remained by the door, fearing to obliterate any clues. Poirot, however, did not seem grateful to me for my forbearance. "What have you, my friend," he cried, "that you remain there like how do you say it? ah, yes, the stuck pig?" I explained that I was afraid of obliterating any foot-marks. "Foot-marks? But what an idea! There has already been practically an army in the room! What foot-marks are we likely to find? No, come here and aid me in my search. I will put down my little case until I need it." He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was an ill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted up, and precipitated the despatch-case on the floor. "_Eh voil une table!_" cried Poirot. "Ah, my friend, one may live in a big house and yet have no comfort." After which piece of moralizing, he resumed his search. A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on the writing-table, engaged his attention for some time. He took out the key from the lock, and passed it to me to inspect. I saw nothing peculiar, however. It was an ordinary key of the Yale type, with a bit of twisted wire through the handle. Next, he examined the framework of the door we had broken in, assuring himself that the bolt had really been shot. Then he went to the door opposite leading into Cynthia's room. That door was also bolted, as I had stated. However, he went to the length of unbolting it, and opening and shutting it several times; this he did with the utmost precaution against making any noise. Suddenly something in the bolt itself seemed to rivet his attention. He examined it carefully, and then, nimbly whipping out a pair of small forceps from his case, he drew out some minute particle which he carefully sealed up in	am pleased with you. You have a good memory, and you have given me the facts faithfully. Of the order in which you present them, I say nothing truly, it is deplorable! But I make allowances you are upset. To that I attribute the circumstance that you have omitted one fact of paramount importance." "What is that?" I asked. "You have not told me if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night." I stared at him. Surely the war had affected the little man's brain. He was carefully engaged in brushing his coat before putting it on, and seemed wholly engrossed in the task. "I don't remember," I said. "And, anyway, I don't see" "You do not see? But it is of the first importance." "I can't see why," I said, rather nettled. "As far as I can remember, she didn't eat much. She was obviously upset, and it had taken her appetite away. That was only natural." "Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "it was only natural." He opened a drawer, and took out a small despatch-case, then turned to me. "Now I am ready. We will proceed to the ch teau, and study matters on the spot. Excuse me, _mon ami_, you dressed in haste, and your tie is on one side. Permit me." With a deft gesture, he rearranged it. "_ a y est!_ Now, shall we start?" We hurried up the village, and turned in at the lodge gates. Poirot stopped for a moment, and gazed sorrowfully over the beautiful expanse of park, still glittering with morning dew. "So beautiful, so beautiful, and yet, the poor family, plunged in sorrow, prostrated with grief." He looked at me keenly as he spoke, and I was aware that I reddened under his prolonged gaze. Was the family prostrated by grief? Was the sorrow at Mrs. Inglethorp's death so great? I realized that there was an emotional lack in the atmosphere. The dead woman had not the gift of commanding love. Her death was a shock and a distress, but she would not be passionately regretted. Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts. He nodded his head gravely. "No, you are right," he said, "it is not as though there was a blood tie. She has been kind and generous to these Cavendishes, but she was not their own mother. Blood tells always remember that blood tells." "Poirot," I said, "I wish you would tell me why you wanted to know if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night? I have been turning it over in my mind, but I can't see how it has anything to do with the matter?" He was silent for a minute or two as we walked along, but finally he said: "I do not mind telling you though, as you know, it is not my habit to explain until the end is reached. The present contention is that Mrs. Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning, presumably administered in her coffee." "Yes?" "Well, what time was the coffee served?" "About eight o'clock." "Therefore she drank it between then and half-past eight certainly not much later. Well, strychnine is a fairly rapid poison. Its effects would be felt very soon, probably in about an hour. Yet, in Mrs. Inglethorp's case, the symptoms do not manifest themselves until five o'clock the next morning: nine hours! But a heavy meal, taken at about the same time as the poison, might retard its effects, though hardly to that extent. Still, it is a possibility to be taken into account. But, according to you, she ate very little for supper, and yet the symptoms do not develop until early the next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance, my friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In the meantime, remember it." As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked weary and haggard. "This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said. "Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?" "I comprehend perfectly." "You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon." "Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only." John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so. "You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?" "Yes. I met him." John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly. "It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him." "That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly. John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me. "Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see." "The rooms are locked?"<\|quote\|>asked Poirot.</\|quote\|>"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us." We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it. [Illustration] Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He darted from one object to the other with the agility of a grasshopper. I remained by the door, fearing to obliterate any clues. Poirot, however, did not seem grateful to me for my forbearance. "What have you, my friend," he cried, "that you remain there like how do you say it? ah, yes, the stuck pig?" I explained that I was afraid of obliterating any foot-marks. "Foot-marks? But what an idea! There has already been practically an army in the room! What foot-marks are we likely to find? No, come here and aid me in my search. I will put down my little case until I need it." He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was an ill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted up, and precipitated the despatch-case on the floor. "_Eh voil une table!_" cried Poirot. "Ah, my friend, one may live in a big house and yet have no comfort." After which piece of moralizing, he resumed his search. A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on the writing-table, engaged his attention for some time. He took out the key from the lock, and passed it to me to inspect. I saw nothing peculiar, however. It was an ordinary key of the Yale type, with a bit of twisted wire through the handle. Next, he examined the framework of the door we had broken in, assuring himself that the bolt had really been shot. Then he went to the door opposite leading into Cynthia's room. That door was also bolted, as I had stated. However, he went to the length of unbolting it, and opening and shutting it several times; this he did with the utmost precaution against making any noise. Suddenly something in the bolt itself seemed to rivet his attention. He examined it carefully, and then, nimbly whipping out a pair of small forceps from his case, he drew out some minute particle which he carefully sealed up in a tiny envelope. On the chest of drawers there was a tray with a spirit lamp and a small saucepan on it. A small quantity of a dark fluid remained in the saucepan, and an empty cup and saucer that had been drunk out of stood near it. I wondered how I could have been so unobservant as to overlook this. Here was a clue worth having. Poirot delicately dipped his finger into liquid, and tasted it gingerly. He made a grimace. "Cocoa with I think rum in it." He passed on to the debris on the floor, where the table by the bed had been overturned. A reading-lamp, some books, matches, a bunch of keys, and the crushed fragments of a coffee-cup lay scattered about. "Ah, this is curious," said Poirot. "I must confess that I see nothing particularly curious about it." "You do not? Observe the lamp the chimney is broken in two places; they lie there as they fell. But see, the coffee-cup is absolutely smashed to powder." "Well," I said wearily, "I suppose someone must have stepped on it." "Exactly," said Poirot, in an odd voice. "Someone stepped on it." He rose from his knees, and walked slowly across to the mantelpiece, where he stood abstractedly fingering the ornaments, and straightening them a trick of his when he was agitated. "_Mon ami_," he said, turning to me, "somebody stepped on that cup, grinding it to powder, and the reason they did so was either because it contained strychnine or which is far more serious because it did not contain strychnine!" I made no reply. I was bewildered, but I knew that it was no good asking him to explain. In a moment or two he roused himself, and went on with his investigations. He picked up the bunch of keys from the floor, and twirling them round in his fingers finally selected one, very bright and shining, which he tried in the lock of the purple despatch-case. It fitted, and he opened the box, but after a moment's hesitation, closed and relocked it, and slipped the bunch of keys, as well as the key that had originally stood in the lock, into his own pocket. "I have no authority to go through these papers. But it should be done at once!" He then made a very careful examination of the drawers of the wash-stand. Crossing the	me keenly as he spoke, and I was aware that I reddened under his prolonged gaze. Was the family prostrated by grief? Was the sorrow at Mrs. Inglethorp's death so great? I realized that there was an emotional lack in the atmosphere. The dead woman had not the gift of commanding love. Her death was a shock and a distress, but she would not be passionately regretted. Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts. He nodded his head gravely. "No, you are right," he said, "it is not as though there was a blood tie. She has been kind and generous to these Cavendishes, but she was not their own mother. Blood tells always remember that blood tells." "Poirot," I said, "I wish you would tell me why you wanted to know if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night? I have been turning it over in my mind, but I can't see how it has anything to do with the matter?" He was silent for a minute or two as we walked along, but finally he said: "I do not mind telling you though, as you know, it is not my habit to explain until the end is reached. The present contention is that Mrs. Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning, presumably administered in her coffee." "Yes?" "Well, what time was the coffee served?" "About eight o'clock." "Therefore she drank it between then and half-past eight certainly not much later. Well, strychnine is a fairly rapid poison. Its effects would be felt very soon, probably in about an hour. Yet, in Mrs. Inglethorp's case, the symptoms do not manifest themselves until five o'clock the next morning: nine hours! But a heavy meal, taken at about the same time as the poison, might retard its effects, though hardly to that extent. Still, it is a possibility to be taken into account. But, according to you, she ate very little for supper, and yet the symptoms do not develop until early the next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance, my friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In the meantime, remember it." As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked weary and haggard. "This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said. "Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?" "I comprehend perfectly." "You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon." "Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only." John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so. "You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?" "Yes. I met him." John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly. "It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him." "That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly. John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me. "Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see." "The rooms are locked?"<\|quote\|>asked Poirot.</\|quote\|>"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us." We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it. [Illustration] Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He darted from one object to the other with the agility of a grasshopper. I remained by the door, fearing to obliterate any clues. Poirot, however, did not seem grateful to me for my forbearance. "What have you, my friend," he cried, "that you remain there like how do you say it? ah, yes, the stuck pig?" I explained that I was afraid of obliterating any foot-marks. "Foot-marks? But what an idea! There has already been practically an army in the room! What foot-marks are we likely to find? No, come here and aid me in my search. I will put down my little case until I need it." He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was an ill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted up, and precipitated the despatch-case on the floor. "_Eh voil une table!_" cried Poirot. "Ah, my friend, one may live in a big house and yet have no comfort." After which piece of moralizing, he resumed his search. A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on the writing-table, engaged his attention for some time. He took out the key from the lock, and passed it to me to inspect. I saw nothing peculiar, however. It was an ordinary key of the Yale type, with a bit of twisted wire through the handle. Next, he examined the framework of the door we had broken in, assuring himself that the bolt had really been shot. Then he went to the door opposite leading into Cynthia's room. That door was also bolted, as I had stated. However, he went to the length of unbolting it, and opening and shutting it several times; this he did with the utmost precaution against making any noise. Suddenly something in the bolt itself seemed to rivet his attention. He examined it carefully, and then, nimbly whipping out a pair of small forceps from his case, he drew out some minute particle which he carefully sealed up in a tiny envelope. On the chest of drawers there was a tray with a spirit lamp and a small saucepan on it. A small quantity of a dark fluid remained in the saucepan, and an empty cup and saucer that had been drunk out of stood near it. I wondered how I could have been so unobservant as to overlook this. Here was a clue worth having. Poirot delicately dipped his finger into liquid, and tasted it gingerly. He made a grimace. "Cocoa with I think rum in it." He passed on to the debris on the floor, where the table by the bed had been overturned. A reading-lamp, some books, matches, a bunch of keys, and the crushed fragments of a coffee-cup lay scattered about. "Ah, this is curious," said Poirot. "I must confess that I see nothing particularly curious about it." "You do not? Observe the lamp the chimney is broken in two places; they lie there as they fell. But see, the coffee-cup is absolutely smashed to	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,"	Dorian Gray	some smart women with her."<\|quote\|>"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,"</\|quote\|>said Dorian Gray, half to	s box. She has got some smart women with her."<\|quote\|>"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,"</\|quote\|>said Dorian Gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely	t let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister s box. She has got some smart women with her."<\|quote\|>"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,"</\|quote\|>said Dorian Gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then	is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn t let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister s box. She has got some smart women with her."<\|quote\|>"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,"</\|quote\|>said Dorian Gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go on to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for	she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously." "Harry, Harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. "Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn t let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister s box. She has got some smart women with her."<\|quote\|>"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,"</\|quote\|>said Dorian Gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go on to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was everything to me. Then came that dreadful night was it really only last night? when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But	"It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one s _d but_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one s old age. I suppose they don t know your name at the theatre? If they don t, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point." Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl ? Oh, Harry, I can t bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once." "I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously." "Harry, Harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. "Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn t let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister s box. She has got some smart women with her."<\|quote\|>"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,"</\|quote\|>said Dorian Gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go on to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was everything to me. Then came that dreadful night was it really only last night? when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a bit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly something happened that made me afraid. I can t tell you what it was, but it was terrible. I said I would go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My God! My God! Harry, what shall I do? You don t know the danger I am in, and there is nothing to keep me straight. She would have done that for me. She had no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her." "My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, taking a cigarette from his case and producing a gold-latten matchbox, "the only way a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible interest in life. If you had married this girl, you would have been wretched. Of course, you would have treated her kindly. One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing. But she would have soon found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman finds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy, or wears very smart bonnets that	behind and see her, after the play was over?" "Yes." "I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?" "I was brutal, Harry perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know myself better." "Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours." "I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head and smiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don t sneer at it, Harry, any more at least not before me. I want to be good. I can t bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?" "By marrying Sibyl Vane." "Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian" "Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don t say it. Don t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife." "Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man." "Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian," he said, "my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry s grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?" "It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one s _d but_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one s old age. I suppose they don t know your name at the theatre? If they don t, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point." Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl ? Oh, Harry, I can t bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once." "I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously." "Harry, Harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. "Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn t let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister s box. She has got some smart women with her."<\|quote\|>"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,"</\|quote\|>said Dorian Gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go on to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was everything to me. Then came that dreadful night was it really only last night? when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a bit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly something happened that made me afraid. I can t tell you what it was, but it was terrible. I said I would go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My God! My God! Harry, what shall I do? You don t know the danger I am in, and there is nothing to keep me straight. She would have done that for me. She had no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her." "My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, taking a cigarette from his case and producing a gold-latten matchbox, "the only way a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible interest in life. If you had married this girl, you would have been wretched. Of course, you would have treated her kindly. One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing. But she would have soon found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman finds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy, or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman s husband has to pay for. I say nothing about the social mistake, which would have been abject which, of course, I would not have allowed but I assure you that in any case the whole thing would have been an absolute failure." "I suppose it would," muttered the lad, walking up and down the room and looking horribly pale. "But I thought it was my duty. It is not my fault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was right. I remember your saying once that there is a fatality about good resolutions that they are always made too late. Mine certainly were." "Good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific laws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely _nil_. They give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions that have a certain charm for the weak. That is all that can be said for them. They are simply cheques that men draw on a bank where they have no account." "Harry," cried Dorian Gray, coming over and sitting down beside him, "why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? I don t think I am heartless. Do you?" "You have done too many foolish things during the last fortnight to be entitled to give yourself that name, Dorian," answered Lord Henry with his sweet melancholy smile. The lad frowned. "I don t like that explanation, Harry," he rejoined, "but I am glad you don t think I am heartless. I am nothing of the kind. I know I am not. And yet I must admit that this thing that has happened does not affect me as it should. It seems to me to be simply like a wonderful ending to a wonderful play. It has all the terrible beauty of a Greek tragedy, a tragedy in which I took a great part, but by which I have not been wounded." "It is an interesting question," said Lord Henry, who found an exquisite pleasure in playing on the lad s unconscious egotism, "an extremely interesting question. I fancy that the true explanation is this: It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style. They	remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian," he said, "my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry s grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?" "It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one s _d but_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one s old age. I suppose they don t know your name at the theatre? If they don t, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point." Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl ? Oh, Harry, I can t bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once." "I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously." "Harry, Harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. "Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn t let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister s box. She has got some smart women with her."<\|quote\|>"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,"</\|quote\|>said Dorian Gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go on to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was everything to me. Then came that dreadful night was it really only last night? when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a bit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly something happened that made me afraid. I can t tell you what it was, but it was terrible. I said I would go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My God! My God! Harry, what shall I do? You don t know the danger I am in, and there is nothing to keep me straight. She would have done that for me. She had no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her." "My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, taking a cigarette from his case and producing a gold-latten matchbox, "the only way a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
“This is Mr. Carraway,”	Nick	he would give his name.<\|quote\|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</\|quote\|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded	know who I was before he would give his name.<\|quote\|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</\|quote\|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I	helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.<\|quote\|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</\|quote\|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to	“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.<\|quote\|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</\|quote\|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.”	opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.<\|quote\|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</\|quote\|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d	I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.<\|quote\|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</\|quote\|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of	solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.<\|quote\|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</\|quote\|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest	a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.<\|quote\|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</\|quote\|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had	The Great Gatsby
"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?"	Anne Shirley	"I couldn't," said Marilla grimly.<\|quote\|>"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?"</\|quote\|>asked Anne wide-eyed. "No." "Oh!"	imagine you were my aunt." "I couldn't," said Marilla grimly.<\|quote\|>"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?"</\|quote\|>asked Anne wide-eyed. "No." "Oh!" Anne drew a long breath.	grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can't I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No. I'm not your aunt and I don't believe in calling people names that don't belong to them." "But we could imagine you were my aunt." "I couldn't," said Marilla grimly.<\|quote\|>"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?"</\|quote\|>asked Anne wide-eyed. "No." "Oh!" Anne drew a long breath. "Oh, Miss--Marilla, how much you miss!" "I don't believe in imagining things different from what they really are," retorted Marilla. "When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances He doesn't mean for us to imagine them away. And that reminds	in it if you're careful to speak respectfully. Everybody, young and old, in Avonlea calls me Marilla except the minister. He says Miss Cuthbert--when he thinks of it." "I'd love to call you Aunt Marilla," said Anne wistfully. "I've never had an aunt or any relation at all--not even a grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can't I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No. I'm not your aunt and I don't believe in calling people names that don't belong to them." "But we could imagine you were my aunt." "I couldn't," said Marilla grimly.<\|quote\|>"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?"</\|quote\|>asked Anne wide-eyed. "No." "Oh!" Anne drew a long breath. "Oh, Miss--Marilla, how much you miss!" "I don't believe in imagining things different from what they really are," retorted Marilla. "When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances He doesn't mean for us to imagine them away. And that reminds me. Go into the sitting room, Anne--be sure your feet are clean and don't let any flies in--and bring me out the illustrated card that's on the mantelpiece. The Lord's Prayer is on it and you'll devote your spare time this afternoon to learning it off by heart. There's to	too easily. Yes, you can stay here and we will try to do right by you. You must go to school; but it's only a fortnight till vacation so it isn't worth while for you to start before it opens again in September." "What am I to call you?" asked Anne. "Shall I always say Miss Cuthbert? Can I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No; you'll call me just plain Marilla. I'm not used to being called Miss Cuthbert and it would make me nervous." "It sounds awfully disrespectful to just say Marilla," protested Anne. "I guess there'll be nothing disrespectful in it if you're careful to speak respectfully. Everybody, young and old, in Avonlea calls me Marilla except the minister. He says Miss Cuthbert--when he thinks of it." "I'd love to call you Aunt Marilla," said Anne wistfully. "I've never had an aunt or any relation at all--not even a grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can't I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No. I'm not your aunt and I don't believe in calling people names that don't belong to them." "But we could imagine you were my aunt." "I couldn't," said Marilla grimly.<\|quote\|>"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?"</\|quote\|>asked Anne wide-eyed. "No." "Oh!" Anne drew a long breath. "Oh, Miss--Marilla, how much you miss!" "I don't believe in imagining things different from what they really are," retorted Marilla. "When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances He doesn't mean for us to imagine them away. And that reminds me. Go into the sitting room, Anne--be sure your feet are clean and don't let any flies in--and bring me out the illustrated card that's on the mantelpiece. The Lord's Prayer is on it and you'll devote your spare time this afternoon to learning it off by heart. There's to be no more of such praying as I heard last night." "I suppose I was very awkward," said Anne apologetically, "but then, you see, I'd never had any practice. You couldn't really expect a person to pray very well the first time she tried, could you? I thought out a splendid prayer after I went to bed, just as I promised you I would. It was nearly as long as a minister's and so poetical. But would you believe it? I couldn't remember one word when I woke up this morning. And I'm afraid I'll never be able to think	immovably. "Just go and do it before you ask any more questions, Anne." Anne went and attended to the dishcloth. Then she returned to Marilla and fastened imploring eyes of the latter's face. "Well," said Marilla, unable to find any excuse for deferring her explanation longer, "I suppose I might as well tell you. Matthew and I have decided to keep you--that is, if you will try to be a good little girl and show yourself grateful. Why, child, whatever is the matter?" "I'm crying," said Anne in a tone of bewilderment. "I can't think why. I'm glad as glad can be. Oh, _glad_ doesn't seem the right word at all. I was glad about the White Way and the cherry blossoms--but this! Oh, it's something more than glad. I'm so happy. I'll try to be so good. It will be uphill work, I expect, for Mrs. Thomas often told me I was desperately wicked. However, I'll do my very best. But can you tell me why I'm crying?" "I suppose it's because you're all excited and worked up," said Marilla disapprovingly. "Sit down on that chair and try to calm yourself. I'm afraid you both cry and laugh far too easily. Yes, you can stay here and we will try to do right by you. You must go to school; but it's only a fortnight till vacation so it isn't worth while for you to start before it opens again in September." "What am I to call you?" asked Anne. "Shall I always say Miss Cuthbert? Can I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No; you'll call me just plain Marilla. I'm not used to being called Miss Cuthbert and it would make me nervous." "It sounds awfully disrespectful to just say Marilla," protested Anne. "I guess there'll be nothing disrespectful in it if you're careful to speak respectfully. Everybody, young and old, in Avonlea calls me Marilla except the minister. He says Miss Cuthbert--when he thinks of it." "I'd love to call you Aunt Marilla," said Anne wistfully. "I've never had an aunt or any relation at all--not even a grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can't I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No. I'm not your aunt and I don't believe in calling people names that don't belong to them." "But we could imagine you were my aunt." "I couldn't," said Marilla grimly.<\|quote\|>"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?"</\|quote\|>asked Anne wide-eyed. "No." "Oh!" Anne drew a long breath. "Oh, Miss--Marilla, how much you miss!" "I don't believe in imagining things different from what they really are," retorted Marilla. "When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances He doesn't mean for us to imagine them away. And that reminds me. Go into the sitting room, Anne--be sure your feet are clean and don't let any flies in--and bring me out the illustrated card that's on the mantelpiece. The Lord's Prayer is on it and you'll devote your spare time this afternoon to learning it off by heart. There's to be no more of such praying as I heard last night." "I suppose I was very awkward," said Anne apologetically, "but then, you see, I'd never had any practice. You couldn't really expect a person to pray very well the first time she tried, could you? I thought out a splendid prayer after I went to bed, just as I promised you I would. It was nearly as long as a minister's and so poetical. But would you believe it? I couldn't remember one word when I woke up this morning. And I'm afraid I'll never be able to think out another one as good. Somehow, things never are so good when they're thought out a second time. Have you ever noticed that?" "Here is something for you to notice, Anne. When I tell you to do a thing I want you to obey me at once and not stand stock-still and discourse about it. Just you go and do as I bid you." Anne promptly departed for the sitting-room across the hall; she failed to return; after waiting ten minutes Marilla laid down her knitting and marched after her with a grim expression. She found Anne standing motionless before a picture hanging on the wall between the two windows, with her eyes a-star with dreams. The white and green light strained through apple trees and clustering vines outside fell over the rapt little figure with a half-unearthly radiance. "Anne, whatever are you thinking of?" demanded Marilla sharply. Anne came back to earth with a start. "That," she said, pointing to the picture--a rather vivid chromo entitled, "Christ Blessing Little Children"--" "and I was just imagining I was one of them--that I was the little girl in the blue dress, standing off by herself in the corner as if she	will," said Marilla. "Go to sleep now like a good child. Good night." "I can only say good night tonight with a clear conscience," said Anne, cuddling luxuriously down among her pillows. Marilla retreated to the kitchen, set the candle firmly on the table, and glared at Matthew. "Matthew Cuthbert, it's about time somebody adopted that child and taught her something. She's next door to a perfect heathen. Will you believe that she never said a prayer in her life till tonight? I'll send her to the manse tomorrow and borrow the Peep of the Day series, that's what I'll do. And she shall go to Sunday-school just as soon as I can get some suitable clothes made for her. I foresee that I shall have my hands full. Well, well, we can't get through this world without our share of trouble. I've had a pretty easy life of it so far, but my time has come at last and I suppose I'll just have to make the best of it." CHAPTER VIII. Anne's Bringing-up Is Begun \|FOR reasons best known to herself, Marilla did not tell Anne that she was to stay at Green Gables until the next afternoon. During the forenoon she kept the child busy with various tasks and watched over her with a keen eye while she did them. By noon she had concluded that Anne was smart and obedient, willing to work and quick to learn; her most serious shortcoming seemed to be a tendency to fall into daydreams in the middle of a task and forget all about it until such time as she was sharply recalled to earth by a reprimand or a catastrophe. When Anne had finished washing the dinner dishes she suddenly confronted Marilla with the air and expression of one desperately determined to learn the worst. Her thin little body trembled from head to foot; her face flushed and her eyes dilated until they were almost black; she clasped her hands tightly and said in an imploring voice: "Oh, please, Miss Cuthbert, won't you tell me if you are going to send me away or not? I've tried to be patient all the morning, but I really feel that I cannot bear not knowing any longer. It's a dreadful feeling. Please tell me." "You haven't scalded the dishcloth in clean hot water as I told you to do," said Marilla immovably. "Just go and do it before you ask any more questions, Anne." Anne went and attended to the dishcloth. Then she returned to Marilla and fastened imploring eyes of the latter's face. "Well," said Marilla, unable to find any excuse for deferring her explanation longer, "I suppose I might as well tell you. Matthew and I have decided to keep you--that is, if you will try to be a good little girl and show yourself grateful. Why, child, whatever is the matter?" "I'm crying," said Anne in a tone of bewilderment. "I can't think why. I'm glad as glad can be. Oh, _glad_ doesn't seem the right word at all. I was glad about the White Way and the cherry blossoms--but this! Oh, it's something more than glad. I'm so happy. I'll try to be so good. It will be uphill work, I expect, for Mrs. Thomas often told me I was desperately wicked. However, I'll do my very best. But can you tell me why I'm crying?" "I suppose it's because you're all excited and worked up," said Marilla disapprovingly. "Sit down on that chair and try to calm yourself. I'm afraid you both cry and laugh far too easily. Yes, you can stay here and we will try to do right by you. You must go to school; but it's only a fortnight till vacation so it isn't worth while for you to start before it opens again in September." "What am I to call you?" asked Anne. "Shall I always say Miss Cuthbert? Can I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No; you'll call me just plain Marilla. I'm not used to being called Miss Cuthbert and it would make me nervous." "It sounds awfully disrespectful to just say Marilla," protested Anne. "I guess there'll be nothing disrespectful in it if you're careful to speak respectfully. Everybody, young and old, in Avonlea calls me Marilla except the minister. He says Miss Cuthbert--when he thinks of it." "I'd love to call you Aunt Marilla," said Anne wistfully. "I've never had an aunt or any relation at all--not even a grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can't I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No. I'm not your aunt and I don't believe in calling people names that don't belong to them." "But we could imagine you were my aunt." "I couldn't," said Marilla grimly.<\|quote\|>"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?"</\|quote\|>asked Anne wide-eyed. "No." "Oh!" Anne drew a long breath. "Oh, Miss--Marilla, how much you miss!" "I don't believe in imagining things different from what they really are," retorted Marilla. "When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances He doesn't mean for us to imagine them away. And that reminds me. Go into the sitting room, Anne--be sure your feet are clean and don't let any flies in--and bring me out the illustrated card that's on the mantelpiece. The Lord's Prayer is on it and you'll devote your spare time this afternoon to learning it off by heart. There's to be no more of such praying as I heard last night." "I suppose I was very awkward," said Anne apologetically, "but then, you see, I'd never had any practice. You couldn't really expect a person to pray very well the first time she tried, could you? I thought out a splendid prayer after I went to bed, just as I promised you I would. It was nearly as long as a minister's and so poetical. But would you believe it? I couldn't remember one word when I woke up this morning. And I'm afraid I'll never be able to think out another one as good. Somehow, things never are so good when they're thought out a second time. Have you ever noticed that?" "Here is something for you to notice, Anne. When I tell you to do a thing I want you to obey me at once and not stand stock-still and discourse about it. Just you go and do as I bid you." Anne promptly departed for the sitting-room across the hall; she failed to return; after waiting ten minutes Marilla laid down her knitting and marched after her with a grim expression. She found Anne standing motionless before a picture hanging on the wall between the two windows, with her eyes a-star with dreams. The white and green light strained through apple trees and clustering vines outside fell over the rapt little figure with a half-unearthly radiance. "Anne, whatever are you thinking of?" demanded Marilla sharply. Anne came back to earth with a start. "That," she said, pointing to the picture--a rather vivid chromo entitled, "Christ Blessing Little Children"--" "and I was just imagining I was one of them--that I was the little girl in the blue dress, standing off by herself in the corner as if she didn't belong to anybody, like me. She looks lonely and sad, don't you think? I guess she hadn't any father or mother of her own. But she wanted to be blessed, too, so she just crept shyly up on the outside of the crowd, hoping nobody would notice her--except Him. I'm sure I know just how she felt. Her heart must have beat and her hands must have got cold, like mine did when I asked you if I could stay. She was afraid He mightn't notice her. But it's likely He did, don't you think? I've been trying to imagine it all out--her edging a little nearer all the time until she was quite close to Him; and then He would look at her and put His hand on her hair and oh, such a thrill of joy as would run over her! But I wish the artist hadn't painted Him so sorrowful looking. All His pictures are like that, if you've noticed. But I don't believe He could really have looked so sad or the children would have been afraid of Him." "Anne," said Marilla, wondering why she had not broken into this speech long before, "you shouldn't talk that way. It's irreverent--positively irreverent." Anne's eyes marveled. "Why, I felt just as reverent as could be. I'm sure I didn't mean to be irreverent." "Well I don't suppose you did--but it doesn't sound right to talk so familiarly about such things. And another thing, Anne, when I send you after something you're to bring it at once and not fall into mooning and imagining before pictures. Remember that. Take that card and come right to the kitchen. Now, sit down in the corner and learn that prayer off by heart." Anne set the card up against the jugful of apple blossoms she had brought in to decorate the dinner-table--Marilla had eyed that decoration askance, but had said nothing--propped her chin on her hands, and fell to studying it intently for several silent minutes. "I like this," she announced at length. "It's beautiful. I've heard it before--I heard the superintendent of the asylum Sunday school say it over once. But I didn't like it then. He had such a cracked voice and he prayed it so mournfully. I really felt sure he thought praying was a disagreeable duty. This isn't poetry, but it makes me feel just the same	worst. Her thin little body trembled from head to foot; her face flushed and her eyes dilated until they were almost black; she clasped her hands tightly and said in an imploring voice: "Oh, please, Miss Cuthbert, won't you tell me if you are going to send me away or not? I've tried to be patient all the morning, but I really feel that I cannot bear not knowing any longer. It's a dreadful feeling. Please tell me." "You haven't scalded the dishcloth in clean hot water as I told you to do," said Marilla immovably. "Just go and do it before you ask any more questions, Anne." Anne went and attended to the dishcloth. Then she returned to Marilla and fastened imploring eyes of the latter's face. "Well," said Marilla, unable to find any excuse for deferring her explanation longer, "I suppose I might as well tell you. Matthew and I have decided to keep you--that is, if you will try to be a good little girl and show yourself grateful. Why, child, whatever is the matter?" "I'm crying," said Anne in a tone of bewilderment. "I can't think why. I'm glad as glad can be. Oh, _glad_ doesn't seem the right word at all. I was glad about the White Way and the cherry blossoms--but this! Oh, it's something more than glad. I'm so happy. I'll try to be so good. It will be uphill work, I expect, for Mrs. Thomas often told me I was desperately wicked. However, I'll do my very best. But can you tell me why I'm crying?" "I suppose it's because you're all excited and worked up," said Marilla disapprovingly. "Sit down on that chair and try to calm yourself. I'm afraid you both cry and laugh far too easily. Yes, you can stay here and we will try to do right by you. You must go to school; but it's only a fortnight till vacation so it isn't worth while for you to start before it opens again in September." "What am I to call you?" asked Anne. "Shall I always say Miss Cuthbert? Can I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No; you'll call me just plain Marilla. I'm not used to being called Miss Cuthbert and it would make me nervous." "It sounds awfully disrespectful to just say Marilla," protested Anne. "I guess there'll be nothing disrespectful in it if you're careful to speak respectfully. Everybody, young and old, in Avonlea calls me Marilla except the minister. He says Miss Cuthbert--when he thinks of it." "I'd love to call you Aunt Marilla," said Anne wistfully. "I've never had an aunt or any relation at all--not even a grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can't I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No. I'm not your aunt and I don't believe in calling people names that don't belong to them." "But we could imagine you were my aunt." "I couldn't," said Marilla grimly.<\|quote\|>"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?"</\|quote\|>asked Anne wide-eyed. "No." "Oh!" Anne drew a long breath. "Oh, Miss--Marilla, how much you miss!" "I don't believe in imagining things different from what they really are," retorted Marilla. "When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances He doesn't mean for us to imagine them away. And that reminds me. Go into the sitting room, Anne--be sure your feet are clean and don't let any flies in--and bring me out the illustrated card that's on the mantelpiece. The Lord's Prayer is on it and you'll devote your spare time this afternoon to learning it off by heart. There's to be no more of such praying as I heard last night." "I suppose I was very awkward," said Anne apologetically, "but then, you see, I'd never had any practice. You couldn't really expect a person to pray very well the first time she tried, could you? I thought out a splendid prayer after I went to bed, just as I promised you I would. It was nearly as long as a minister's and so poetical. But would you believe it? I couldn't remember one word when I woke up this morning. And I'm afraid I'll never be able to think out another one as good. Somehow, things never are so good when they're thought out a second time. Have you ever noticed that?" "Here is something for you to notice, Anne. When I tell you to do a thing I want you to obey me at once and not stand stock-still and discourse about it. Just you go and do as I bid you." Anne promptly departed for the sitting-room across the hall; she failed to return; after waiting ten minutes Marilla laid down her knitting and marched after her with a grim expression. She found Anne standing motionless before a picture hanging on the wall between the two windows, with her eyes a-star with dreams. The white and green light strained through apple trees and clustering vines outside fell over the rapt little figure with a half-unearthly radiance. "Anne, whatever are you thinking of?" demanded Marilla sharply. Anne came back to earth with a start. "That," she said, pointing to the picture--a rather vivid chromo entitled, "Christ Blessing Little Children"--" "and I was just imagining I was	Anne Of Green Gables
"You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."	Bill Gorton	go to hell," Bill said.<\|quote\|>"You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."</\|quote\|>"Where's that beer?" Mike asked.	an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said.<\|quote\|>"You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."</\|quote\|>"Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with	Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said.<\|quote\|>"You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."</\|quote\|>"Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down	the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said.<\|quote\|>"You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."</\|quote\|>"Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can	all. Some one knocked on the door. "Come in." It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed. "Some encierro," Bill said. "Some encierro." "I say, weren't you there?" Mike asked. "Ring for some beer, Bill." "What a morning!" Bill said. He mopped off his face. "My God! what a morning! And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the human punching-bag." "What happened inside?" "Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?" "There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down." "And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said.<\|quote\|>"You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."</\|quote\|>"Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was	with a number of Muratti cigarette-stubs, shoved far back in the drawer of the bed-table that stood beside her bed in the Hotel Montoya, in Pamplona. * * * * * Back in the hotel, the night watchman was sitting on a bench inside the door. He had been there all night and was very sleepy. He stood up as I came in. Three of the waitresses came in at the same time. They had been to the morning show at the bull-ring. They went up-stairs laughing. I followed them up-stairs and went into my room. I took off my shoes and lay down on the bed. The window was open onto the balcony and the sunlight was bright in the room. I did not feel sleepy. It must have been half past three o'clock when I had gone to bed and the bands had waked me at six. My jaw was sore on both sides. I felt it with my thumb and fingers. That damn Cohn. He should have hit somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone away. He was so sure that Brett loved him. He was going to stay, and true love would conquer all. Some one knocked on the door. "Come in." It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed. "Some encierro," Bill said. "Some encierro." "I say, weren't you there?" Mike asked. "Ring for some beer, Bill." "What a morning!" Bill said. He mopped off his face. "My God! what a morning! And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the human punching-bag." "What happened inside?" "Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?" "There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down." "And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said.<\|quote\|>"You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."</\|quote\|>"Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No." "Yes." "What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good." "I'll bet she was," Bill said. "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too." "I know. He shook hands with me." "Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. The bull-fighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been damned funny." "Where did you hear all this?" "Brett. I saw her this morning." "What happened finally?" "It	put his hand on the small of his back. "Right through the back. A cornada right through the back. For fun--you understand." He shook his head and walked away, carrying the coffee-pots. Two men were going by in the street. The waiter shouted to them. They were grave-looking. One shook his head. "Muerto!" he called. The waiter nodded his head. The two men went on. They were on some errand. The waiter came over to my table. "You hear? Muerto. Dead. He's dead. With a horn through him. All for morning fun. Es muy flamenco." "It's bad." "Not for me," the waiter said. "No fun in that for me." Later in the day we learned that the man who was killed was named Vicente Girones, and came from near Tafalla. The next day in the paper we read that he was twenty-eight years old, and had a farm, a wife, and two children. He had continued to come to the fiesta each year after he was married. The next day his wife came in from Tafalla to be with the body, and the day after there was a service in the chapel of San Fermin, and the coffin was carried to the railway-station by members of the dancing and drinking society of Tafalla. The drums marched ahead, and there was music on the fifes, and behind the men who carried the coffin walked the wife and two children. . . . Behind them marched all the members of the dancing and drinking societies of Pamplona, Estella, Tafalla, and Sanguesa who could stay over for the funeral. The coffin was loaded into the baggage-car of the train, and the widow and the two children rode, sitting, all three together, in an open third-class railway-carriage. The train started with a jerk, and then ran smoothly, going down grade around the edge of the plateau and out into the fields of grain that blew in the wind on the plain on the way to Tafalla. The bull who killed Vicente Girones was named Bocanegra, was Number 118 of the bull-breeding establishment of Sanchez Tabemo, and was killed by Pedro Romero as the third bull of that same afternoon. His ear was cut by popular acclamation and given to Pedro Romero, who, in turn, gave it to Brett, who wrapped it in a handkerchief belonging to myself, and left both ear and handkerchief, along with a number of Muratti cigarette-stubs, shoved far back in the drawer of the bed-table that stood beside her bed in the Hotel Montoya, in Pamplona. * * * * * Back in the hotel, the night watchman was sitting on a bench inside the door. He had been there all night and was very sleepy. He stood up as I came in. Three of the waitresses came in at the same time. They had been to the morning show at the bull-ring. They went up-stairs laughing. I followed them up-stairs and went into my room. I took off my shoes and lay down on the bed. The window was open onto the balcony and the sunlight was bright in the room. I did not feel sleepy. It must have been half past three o'clock when I had gone to bed and the bands had waked me at six. My jaw was sore on both sides. I felt it with my thumb and fingers. That damn Cohn. He should have hit somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone away. He was so sure that Brett loved him. He was going to stay, and true love would conquer all. Some one knocked on the door. "Come in." It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed. "Some encierro," Bill said. "Some encierro." "I say, weren't you there?" Mike asked. "Ring for some beer, Bill." "What a morning!" Bill said. He mopped off his face. "My God! what a morning! And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the human punching-bag." "What happened inside?" "Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?" "There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down." "And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said.<\|quote\|>"You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."</\|quote\|>"Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No." "Yes." "What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good." "I'll bet she was," Bill said. "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too." "I know. He shook hands with me." "Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. The bull-fighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been damned funny." "Where did you hear all this?" "Brett. I saw her this morning." "What happened finally?" "It seems the bull-fighter fellow was sitting on the bed. He'd been knocked down about fifteen times, and he wanted to fight some more. Brett held him and wouldn't let him get up. He was weak, but Brett couldn't hold him, and he got up. Then Cohn said he wouldn't hit him again. Said he couldn't do it. Said it would be wicked. So the bull-fighter chap sort of rather staggered over to him. Cohn went back against the wall." "'So you won't hit me?' "'No,' "said Cohn." 'I'd be ashamed to.' "So the bull-fighter fellow hit him just as hard as he could in the face, and then sat down on the floor. He couldn't get up, Brett said. Cohn wanted to pick him up and carry him to the bed. He said if Cohn helped him he'd kill him, and he'd kill him anyway this morning if Cohn wasn't out of town. Cohn was crying, and Brett had told him off, and he wanted to shake hands. I've told you that before." "Tell the rest," Bill said. "It seems the bull-fighter chap was sitting on the floor. He was waiting to get strength enough to get up and hit Cohn again. Brett wasn't having any shaking hands, and Cohn was crying and telling her how much he loved her, and she was telling him not to be a ruddy ass. Then Cohn leaned down to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. No hard feelings, you know. All for forgiveness. And the bull-fighter chap hit him in the face again." "That's quite a kid," Bill said. "He ruined Cohn," Mike said. "You know I don't think Cohn will ever want to knock people about again." "When did you see Brett?" "This morning. She came in to get some things. She's looking after this Romero lad." He poured out another bottle of beer. "Brett's rather cut up. But she loves looking after people. That's how we came to go off together. She was looking after me." "I know," I said. "I'm rather drunk," Mike said. "I think I'll _stay_ rather drunk. This is all awfully amusing, but it's not too pleasant. It's not too pleasant for me." He drank off the beer. "I gave Brett what for, you know. I said if she would go about with Jews and bull-fighters and such people, she must expect trouble." He leaned forward. "I	bull-ring. They went up-stairs laughing. I followed them up-stairs and went into my room. I took off my shoes and lay down on the bed. The window was open onto the balcony and the sunlight was bright in the room. I did not feel sleepy. It must have been half past three o'clock when I had gone to bed and the bands had waked me at six. My jaw was sore on both sides. I felt it with my thumb and fingers. That damn Cohn. He should have hit somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone away. He was so sure that Brett loved him. He was going to stay, and true love would conquer all. Some one knocked on the door. "Come in." It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed. "Some encierro," Bill said. "Some encierro." "I say, weren't you there?" Mike asked. "Ring for some beer, Bill." "What a morning!" Bill said. He mopped off his face. "My God! what a morning! And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the human punching-bag." "What happened inside?" "Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?" "There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down." "And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said.<\|quote\|>"You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."</\|quote\|>"Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No." "Yes." "What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good." "I'll bet she was," Bill said. "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too." "I know. He shook hands with me." "Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. The bull-fighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been damned funny." "Where did you hear all this?" "Brett. I saw her this morning." "What happened finally?" "It seems the bull-fighter fellow was sitting on the bed. He'd been knocked down about fifteen times, and he wanted to fight some more. Brett held him and wouldn't let him get up. He was weak, but Brett couldn't hold him, and he got up. Then Cohn said he wouldn't hit him again. Said he couldn't do it. Said it would be wicked. So the bull-fighter chap sort of rather staggered over to him. Cohn went back against the wall." "'So you won't hit me?' "'No,' "said Cohn." 'I'd be ashamed to.' "So the bull-fighter fellow hit him just as hard as he could in the face, and then sat down on the floor. He couldn't get up, Brett said. Cohn wanted to pick him up and carry him to the bed. He said if Cohn helped him he'd kill him, and he'd kill him anyway this morning if Cohn wasn't out of town. Cohn was crying, and Brett had told him off, and he wanted to shake hands. I've told you that before." "Tell the rest," Bill said. "It seems the bull-fighter chap was	The Sun Also Rises
"it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,"	Professor De Worms	very clever fellow," he said,<\|quote\|>"it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,"</\|quote\|>and he sank his bald	him steadily. "You are a very clever fellow," he said,<\|quote\|>"it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,"</\|quote\|>and he sank his bald brow in his two hands.	say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried." The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily. "You are a very clever fellow," he said,<\|quote\|>"it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,"</\|quote\|>and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is	speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried." The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily. "You are a very clever fellow," he said,<\|quote\|>"it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,"</\|quote\|>and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is lifted." After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands "It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter." "Thank you," said Syme, "you flatter me." "Listen to me," said the other, "and remember whom we have to see tomorrow.	and drained his glass. CHAPTER IX. THE MAN IN SPECTACLES "Burgundy is a jolly thing," said the Professor sadly, as he set his glass down. "You don't look as if it were," said Syme; "you drink it as if it were medicine." "You must excuse my manner," said the Professor dismally, "my position is rather a curious one. Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can't leave off. So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can't help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried." The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily. "You are a very clever fellow," he said,<\|quote\|>"it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,"</\|quote\|>and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is lifted." After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands "It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter." "Thank you," said Syme, "you flatter me." "Listen to me," said the other, "and remember whom we have to see tomorrow. You and I are going tomorrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower. We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man. I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in goggles. He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is	a high German accent," Yes, I am wanted by the oppressed of the world. You are arresting me on the charge of being the great anarchist, Professor de Worms.' "The policeman impassively consulted a paper in his hand," No, sir,' "he said civilly," at least, not exactly, sir. I am arresting you on the charge of not being the celebrated anarchist, Professor de Worms.' "This charge, if it was criminal at all, was certainly the lighter of the two, and I went along with the man, doubtful, but not greatly dismayed. I was shown into a number of rooms, and eventually into the presence of a police officer, who explained that a serious campaign had been opened against the centres of anarchy, and that this, my successful masquerade, might be of considerable value to the public safety. He offered me a good salary and this little blue card. Though our conversation was short, he struck me as a man of very massive common sense and humour; but I cannot tell you much about him personally, because" Syme laid down his knife and fork. "I know," he said, "because you talked to him in a dark room." Professor de Worms nodded and drained his glass. CHAPTER IX. THE MAN IN SPECTACLES "Burgundy is a jolly thing," said the Professor sadly, as he set his glass down. "You don't look as if it were," said Syme; "you drink it as if it were medicine." "You must excuse my manner," said the Professor dismally, "my position is rather a curious one. Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can't leave off. So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can't help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried." The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily. "You are a very clever fellow," he said,<\|quote\|>"it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,"</\|quote\|>and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is lifted." After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands "It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter." "Thank you," said Syme, "you flatter me." "Listen to me," said the other, "and remember whom we have to see tomorrow. You and I are going tomorrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower. We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man. I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in goggles. He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is almost a redeeming trait. But the little Doctor has a brutal sanity that is more shocking than the Secretary's disease. Don't you notice his detestable virility and vitality. He bounces like an india-rubber ball. Depend on it, Sunday was not asleep (I wonder if he ever sleeps?) when he locked up all the plans of this outrage in the round, black head of Dr. Bull." "And you think," said Syme, "that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?" "Don't be an ass," said his mentor. "I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers like this, see," and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table "B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require." Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did	was. Then he tried to blast my claims intellectually. I countered that by a very simple dodge. Whenever he said something that nobody but he could understand, I replied with something which I could not even understand myself." I don't fancy,' "he said," that you could have worked out the principle that evolution is only negation, since there inheres in it the introduction of lacuna, which are an essential of differentiation.' "I replied quite scornfully," You read all that up in Pinckwerts; the notion that involution functioned eugenically was exposed long ago by Glumpe.' "It is unnecessary for me to say that there never were such people as Pinckwerts and Glumpe. But the people all round (rather to my surprise) seemed to remember them quite well, and the Professor, finding that the learned and mysterious method left him rather at the mercy of an enemy slightly deficient in scruples, fell back upon a more popular form of wit." I see,' "he sneered," you prevail like the false pig in sop.' And you fail,' "I answered, smiling," like the hedgehog in Montaigne.' "Need I say that there is no hedgehog in Montaigne?" Your claptrap comes off,' "he said;" so would your beard.' "I had no intelligent answer to this, which was quite true and rather witty. But I laughed heartily, answered," Like the Pantheist's boots,' "at random, and turned on my heel with all the honours of victory. The real Professor was thrown out, but not with violence, though one man tried very patiently to pull off his nose. He is now, I believe, received everywhere in Europe as a delightful impostor. His apparent earnestness and anger, you see, make him all the more entertaining." "Well," said Syme, "I can understand your putting on his dirty old beard for a night's practical joke, but I don't understand your never taking it off again." "That is the rest of the story," said the impersonator. "When I myself left the company, followed by reverent applause, I went limping down the dark street, hoping that I should soon be far enough away to be able to walk like a human being. To my astonishment, as I was turning the corner, I felt a touch on the shoulder, and turning, found myself under the shadow of an enormous policeman. He told me I was wanted. I struck a sort of paralytic attitude, and cried in a high German accent," Yes, I am wanted by the oppressed of the world. You are arresting me on the charge of being the great anarchist, Professor de Worms.' "The policeman impassively consulted a paper in his hand," No, sir,' "he said civilly," at least, not exactly, sir. I am arresting you on the charge of not being the celebrated anarchist, Professor de Worms.' "This charge, if it was criminal at all, was certainly the lighter of the two, and I went along with the man, doubtful, but not greatly dismayed. I was shown into a number of rooms, and eventually into the presence of a police officer, who explained that a serious campaign had been opened against the centres of anarchy, and that this, my successful masquerade, might be of considerable value to the public safety. He offered me a good salary and this little blue card. Though our conversation was short, he struck me as a man of very massive common sense and humour; but I cannot tell you much about him personally, because" Syme laid down his knife and fork. "I know," he said, "because you talked to him in a dark room." Professor de Worms nodded and drained his glass. CHAPTER IX. THE MAN IN SPECTACLES "Burgundy is a jolly thing," said the Professor sadly, as he set his glass down. "You don't look as if it were," said Syme; "you drink it as if it were medicine." "You must excuse my manner," said the Professor dismally, "my position is rather a curious one. Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can't leave off. So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can't help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried." The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily. "You are a very clever fellow," he said,<\|quote\|>"it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,"</\|quote\|>and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is lifted." After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands "It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter." "Thank you," said Syme, "you flatter me." "Listen to me," said the other, "and remember whom we have to see tomorrow. You and I are going tomorrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower. We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man. I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in goggles. He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is almost a redeeming trait. But the little Doctor has a brutal sanity that is more shocking than the Secretary's disease. Don't you notice his detestable virility and vitality. He bounces like an india-rubber ball. Depend on it, Sunday was not asleep (I wonder if he ever sleeps?) when he locked up all the plans of this outrage in the round, black head of Dr. Bull." "And you think," said Syme, "that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?" "Don't be an ass," said his mentor. "I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers like this, see," and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table "B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require." Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee. But wine and companionship had always the effect of inspiring him to a farcical ingenuity, and the Professor soon found himself struggling with the too vast energy of the new language, as it passed through the heated brain of Syme. "We must have several word-signs," said Syme seriously "words that we are likely to want, fine shades of meaning. My favourite word is coeval'. What's yours?" "Do stop playing the goat," said the Professor plaintively. "You don't know how serious this is." "Lush' too," said Syme, shaking his head sagaciously, "we must have lush' word applied to grass, don't you know?" "Do you imagine," asked the Professor furiously, "that we are going to talk to Dr. Bull about grass?" "There are several ways in which the subject could be approached," said Syme reflectively, "and the word introduced without appearing forced. We might say, Dr. Bull, as a revolutionist, you remember that a tyrant once advised us to eat grass; and indeed many of us, looking on the fresh lush grass of summer...'" "Do you understand," said the other, "that this is a tragedy?" "Perfectly," replied Syme; "always be comic in a tragedy. What the deuce else can you do? I wish this language of yours had a wider scope. I suppose we could not extend it from the fingers to the toes? That would involve pulling off our boots and socks during the conversation, which however unobtrusively performed" "Syme," said his friend with a stern simplicity, "go to bed!" Syme, however, sat up in bed for a considerable time mastering the new code. He was awakened next morning while the east was still sealed with darkness, and found his grey-bearded ally standing like a ghost beside his bed. Syme sat up in bed blinking; then slowly collected his thoughts, threw off the bed-clothes, and stood up. It seemed to him in some curious way that all the safety and sociability of the night before fell with the bedclothes off him, and he stood up in an air of cold danger. He still felt an entire trust and loyalty towards his companion; but it was the trust between two men going to the scaffold. "Well," said Syme with a forced cheerfulness as he pulled on his	I went along with the man, doubtful, but not greatly dismayed. I was shown into a number of rooms, and eventually into the presence of a police officer, who explained that a serious campaign had been opened against the centres of anarchy, and that this, my successful masquerade, might be of considerable value to the public safety. He offered me a good salary and this little blue card. Though our conversation was short, he struck me as a man of very massive common sense and humour; but I cannot tell you much about him personally, because" Syme laid down his knife and fork. "I know," he said, "because you talked to him in a dark room." Professor de Worms nodded and drained his glass. CHAPTER IX. THE MAN IN SPECTACLES "Burgundy is a jolly thing," said the Professor sadly, as he set his glass down. "You don't look as if it were," said Syme; "you drink it as if it were medicine." "You must excuse my manner," said the Professor dismally, "my position is rather a curious one. Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can't leave off. So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can't help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried." The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily. "You are a very clever fellow," he said,<\|quote\|>"it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,"</\|quote\|>and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is lifted." After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands "It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter." "Thank you," said Syme, "you flatter me." "Listen to me," said the other, "and remember whom we have to see tomorrow. You and I are going tomorrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower. We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man. I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in goggles. He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is almost a redeeming trait. But the little Doctor has a brutal sanity that is more shocking than the Secretary's disease. Don't you notice his detestable virility and vitality. He bounces like an india-rubber ball. Depend on it, Sunday was not asleep (I wonder if he ever sleeps?) when he locked up all the plans of this outrage in the round, black head of Dr. Bull." "And you think," said Syme, "that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?" "Don't be an ass," said his mentor. "I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers like this, see," and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table "B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require." Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee.	The Man Who Was Thursday
So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.	No speaker	over quite often—in the afternoons.”<\|quote\|>So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.</\|quote\|>“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted	who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.”<\|quote\|>So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.</\|quote\|>“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re	the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all. Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. “Going away?” I inquired. “No, old sport.” “I hear you fired all your servants.” “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.”<\|quote\|>So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.</\|quote\|>“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.” “I see.” He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned	had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all. Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. “Going away?” I inquired. “No, old sport.” “I hear you fired all your servants.” “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.”<\|quote\|>So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.</\|quote\|>“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.” “I see.” He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden. The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of	I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door. “Is Mr. Gatsby sick?” “Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way. “I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over.” “Who?” he demanded rudely. “Carraway.” “Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.” Abruptly he slammed the door. My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all. Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. “Going away?” I inquired. “No, old sport.” “I hear you fired all your servants.” “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.”<\|quote\|>So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.</\|quote\|>“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.” “I see.” He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden. The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocketbook slapped to the floor. “Oh, my!” she gasped. I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it at arm’s length and	milk of wonder. His heart beat faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete. Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something—an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever. VII It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door. “Is Mr. Gatsby sick?” “Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way. “I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over.” “Who?” he demanded rudely. “Carraway.” “Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.” Abruptly he slammed the door. My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all. Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. “Going away?” I inquired. “No, old sport.” “I hear you fired all your servants.” “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.”<\|quote\|>So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.</\|quote\|>“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.” “I see.” He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden. The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocketbook slapped to the floor. “Oh, my!” she gasped. I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that I had no designs upon it—but everyone near by, including the woman, suspected me just the same. “Hot!” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Some weather! … Hot! … Hot! … Hot! … Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it … ?” My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand. That anyone should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made damp the pyjama pocket over his heart! … Through the hall of the Buchanans’ house blew a faint wind, carrying the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we waited at the door. “The master’s body?” roared the butler into the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, madame, but we can’t furnish it—it’s far too hot to touch this noon!” What he really said was: “Yes … Yes … I’ll see.” He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to take our stiff straw hats. “Madame expects you in the salon!” he cried, needlessly indicating the direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the common store of	the dance?” “The dance?” He dismissed all the dances he had given with a snap of his fingers. “Old sport, the dance is unimportant.” He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say: “I never loved you.” After she had obliterated four years with that sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back to Louisville and be married from her house—just as if it were five years ago. “And she doesn’t understand,” he said. “She used to be able to understand. We’d sit for hours—” He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit rinds and discarded favours and crushed flowers. “I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” I ventured. “You can’t repeat the past.” “Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you can!” He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand. “I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before,” he said, nodding determinedly. “She’ll see.” He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was … … One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder. His heart beat faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete. Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something—an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever. VII It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door. “Is Mr. Gatsby sick?” “Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way. “I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over.” “Who?” he demanded rudely. “Carraway.” “Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.” Abruptly he slammed the door. My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all. Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. “Going away?” I inquired. “No, old sport.” “I hear you fired all your servants.” “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.”<\|quote\|>So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.</\|quote\|>“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.” “I see.” He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden. The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocketbook slapped to the floor. “Oh, my!” she gasped. I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that I had no designs upon it—but everyone near by, including the woman, suspected me just the same. “Hot!” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Some weather! … Hot! … Hot! … Hot! … Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it … ?” My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand. That anyone should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made damp the pyjama pocket over his heart! … Through the hall of the Buchanans’ house blew a faint wind, carrying the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we waited at the door. “The master’s body?” roared the butler into the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, madame, but we can’t furnish it—it’s far too hot to touch this noon!” What he really said was: “Yes … Yes … I’ll see.” He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to take our stiff straw hats. “Madame expects you in the salon!” he cried, needlessly indicating the direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the common store of life. The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols weighing down their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans. “We can’t move,” they said together. Jordan’s fingers, powdered white over their tan, rested for a moment in mine. “And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?” I inquired. Simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, at the hall telephone. Gatsby stood in the centre of the crimson carpet and gazed around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air. “The rumour is,” whispered Jordan, “that that’s Tom’s girl on the telephone.” We were silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance: “Very well, then, I won’t sell you the car at all … I’m under no obligations to you at all … and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I won’t stand that at all!” “Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically. “No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to know about it.” Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room. “Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir … Nick …” “Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy. As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth. “You know I love you,” she murmured. “You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan. Daisy looked around doubtfully. “You kiss Nick too.” “What a low, vulgar girl!” “I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms. “Come to your own mother that loves you.” The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he	go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was … … One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder. His heart beat faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete. Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something—an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever. VII It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door. “Is Mr. Gatsby sick?” “Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way. “I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over.” “Who?” he demanded rudely. “Carraway.” “Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.” Abruptly he slammed the door. My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all. Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. “Going away?” I inquired. “No, old sport.” “I hear you fired all your servants.” “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.”<\|quote\|>So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.</\|quote\|>“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.” “I see.” He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden. The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocketbook slapped to the floor. “Oh, my!” she gasped. I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that I had no designs upon it—but everyone near by, including the woman, suspected me just the same. “Hot!” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Some weather! … Hot! … Hot! … Hot! … Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it … ?” My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand. That anyone should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made damp the pyjama pocket over his heart! … Through the hall of the Buchanans’ house blew a faint wind, carrying the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we waited at the door. “The master’s body?” roared the butler into the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, madame, but we can’t furnish it—it’s far too hot to touch this noon!” What he really said was: “Yes … Yes … I’ll see.” He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to take our stiff straw hats. “Madame expects you in the salon!” he cried, needlessly indicating the direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the common store of life. The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols weighing down their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans. “We can’t move,” they said together.	The Great Gatsby
Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second.	No speaker	panted. “No friends any more!”<\|quote\|>Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second.</\|quote\|>“Well, you’re a damned ungrateful	Jake and Jim Burden,” Ántonia panted. “No friends any more!”<\|quote\|>Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second.</\|quote\|>“Well, you’re a damned ungrateful lot, the whole pack of	Jim,” he called. Mrs. Shimerda threw her hands over her head and clutched as if she were going to pull down lightning. “Law, law!” she shrieked after us. “Law for knock my Ambrosch down!” “I never like you no more, Jake and Jim Burden,” Ántonia panted. “No friends any more!”<\|quote\|>Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second.</\|quote\|>“Well, you’re a damned ungrateful lot, the whole pack of you,” he shouted back. “I guess the Burdens can get along without you. You’ve been a sight of trouble to them, anyhow!” We rode away, feeling so outraged that the fine morning was spoiled for us. I had n’t a	not take the path around the pond, but plunged through the muddy water, without even lifting their skirts. They came on, screaming and clawing the air. By this time Ambrosch had come to his senses and was sputtering with nose-bleed. Jake sprang into his saddle. “Let’s get out of this, Jim,” he called. Mrs. Shimerda threw her hands over her head and clutched as if she were going to pull down lightning. “Law, law!” she shrieked after us. “Law for knock my Ambrosch down!” “I never like you no more, Jake and Jim Burden,” Ántonia panted. “No friends any more!”<\|quote\|>Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second.</\|quote\|>“Well, you’re a damned ungrateful lot, the whole pack of you,” he shouted back. “I guess the Burdens can get along without you. You’ve been a sight of trouble to them, anyhow!” We rode away, feeling so outraged that the fine morning was spoiled for us. I had n’t a word to say, and poor Jake was white as paper and trembling all over. It made him sick to get so angry. “They ain’t the same, Jimmy,” he kept saying in a hurt tone. “These foreigners ain’t the same. You can’t trust ’em to be fair. It’s dirty to kick	caught him by the belt of his trousers and yanked him back. Ambrosch’s feet had scarcely touched the ground when he lunged out with a vicious kick at Jake’s stomach. Fortunately Jake was in such a position that he could dodge it. This was not the sort of thing country boys did when they played at fisticuffs, and Jake was furious. He landed Ambrosch a blow on the head—it sounded like the crack of an axe on a cow-pumpkin. Ambrosch dropped over, stunned. We heard squeals, and looking up saw Ántonia and her mother coming on the run. They did not take the path around the pond, but plunged through the muddy water, without even lifting their skirts. They came on, screaming and clawing the air. By this time Ambrosch had come to his senses and was sputtering with nose-bleed. Jake sprang into his saddle. “Let’s get out of this, Jim,” he called. Mrs. Shimerda threw her hands over her head and clutched as if she were going to pull down lightning. “Law, law!” she shrieked after us. “Law for knock my Ambrosch down!” “I never like you no more, Jake and Jim Burden,” Ántonia panted. “No friends any more!”<\|quote\|>Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second.</\|quote\|>“Well, you’re a damned ungrateful lot, the whole pack of you,” he shouted back. “I guess the Burdens can get along without you. You’ve been a sight of trouble to them, anyhow!” We rode away, feeling so outraged that the fine morning was spoiled for us. I had n’t a word to say, and poor Jake was white as paper and trembling all over. It made him sick to get so angry. “They ain’t the same, Jimmy,” he kept saying in a hurt tone. “These foreigners ain’t the same. You can’t trust ’em to be fair. It’s dirty to kick a feller. You heard how the women turned on you—and after all we went through on account of ’em last winter! They ain’t to be trusted. I don’t want to see you get too thick with any of ’em.” “I’ll never be friends with them again, Jake,” I declared hotly. “I believe they are all like Krajiek and Ambrosch underneath.” Grandfather heard our story with a twinkle in his eye. He advised Jake to ride to town to-morrow, go to a justice of the peace, tell him he had knocked young Shimerda down, and pay his fine. Then if Mrs.	draw-head. Ambrosch was up on the windmill tower, oiling the wheel. He came down, not very cordially. When Jake asked for the collar, he grunted and scratched his head. The collar belonged to grandfather, of course, and Jake, feeling responsible for it, flared up. “Now, don’t you say you have n’t got it, Ambrosch, because I know you have, and if you ain’t a-going to look for it, I will.” Ambrosch shrugged his shoulders and sauntered down the hill toward the stable. I could see that it was one of his mean days. Presently he returned, carrying a collar that had been badly used—trampled in the dirt and gnawed by rats until the hair was sticking out of it. “This what you want?” he asked surlily. Jake jumped off his horse. I saw a wave of red come up under the rough stubble on his face. “That ain’t the piece of harness I loaned you, Ambrosch; or if it is, you’ve used it shameful. I ain’t a-going to carry such a looking thing back to Mr. Burden.” Ambrosch dropped the collar on the ground. “All right,” he said coolly, took up his oil-can, and began to climb the mill. Jake caught him by the belt of his trousers and yanked him back. Ambrosch’s feet had scarcely touched the ground when he lunged out with a vicious kick at Jake’s stomach. Fortunately Jake was in such a position that he could dodge it. This was not the sort of thing country boys did when they played at fisticuffs, and Jake was furious. He landed Ambrosch a blow on the head—it sounded like the crack of an axe on a cow-pumpkin. Ambrosch dropped over, stunned. We heard squeals, and looking up saw Ántonia and her mother coming on the run. They did not take the path around the pond, but plunged through the muddy water, without even lifting their skirts. They came on, screaming and clawing the air. By this time Ambrosch had come to his senses and was sputtering with nose-bleed. Jake sprang into his saddle. “Let’s get out of this, Jim,” he called. Mrs. Shimerda threw her hands over her head and clutched as if she were going to pull down lightning. “Law, law!” she shrieked after us. “Law for knock my Ambrosch down!” “I never like you no more, Jake and Jim Burden,” Ántonia panted. “No friends any more!”<\|quote\|>Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second.</\|quote\|>“Well, you’re a damned ungrateful lot, the whole pack of you,” he shouted back. “I guess the Burdens can get along without you. You’ve been a sight of trouble to them, anyhow!” We rode away, feeling so outraged that the fine morning was spoiled for us. I had n’t a word to say, and poor Jake was white as paper and trembling all over. It made him sick to get so angry. “They ain’t the same, Jimmy,” he kept saying in a hurt tone. “These foreigners ain’t the same. You can’t trust ’em to be fair. It’s dirty to kick a feller. You heard how the women turned on you—and after all we went through on account of ’em last winter! They ain’t to be trusted. I don’t want to see you get too thick with any of ’em.” “I’ll never be friends with them again, Jake,” I declared hotly. “I believe they are all like Krajiek and Ambrosch underneath.” Grandfather heard our story with a twinkle in his eye. He advised Jake to ride to town to-morrow, go to a justice of the peace, tell him he had knocked young Shimerda down, and pay his fine. Then if Mrs. Shimerda was inclined to make trouble—her son was still under age—she would be forestalled. Jake said he might as well take the wagon and haul to market the pig he had been fattening. On Monday, about an hour after Jake had started, we saw Mrs. Shimerda and her Ambrosch proudly driving by, looking neither to the right nor left. As they rattled out of sight down the Black Hawk road, grandfather chuckled, saying he had rather expected she would follow the matter up. Jake paid his fine with a ten-dollar bill grandfather had given him for that purpose. But when the Shimerdas found that Jake sold his pig in town that day, Ambrosch worked it out in his shrewd head that Jake had to sell his pig to pay his fine. This theory afforded the Shimerdas great satisfaction, apparently. For weeks afterward, whenever Jake and I met Ántonia on her way to the post-office, or going along the road with her work-team, she would clap her hands and call to us in a spiteful, crowing voice:— “Jake-y, Jake-y, sell the pig and pay the slap!” Otto pretended not to be surprised at Ántonia’s behavior. He only lifted his brows and	On Sundays she helped her mother make garden or sewed all day. Grandfather was pleased with Ántonia. When we complained of her, he only smiled and said, “She will help some fellow get ahead in the world.” Nowadays Tony could talk of nothing but the prices of things, or how much she could lift and endure. She was too proud of her strength. I knew, too, that Ambrosch put upon her some chores a girl ought not to do, and that the farmhands around the country joked in a nasty way about it. Whenever I saw her come up the furrow, shouting to her beasts, sunburned, sweaty, her dress open at the neck, and her throat and chest dust-plastered, I used to think of the tone in which poor Mr. Shimerda, who could say so little, yet managed to say so much when he exclaimed, “My Án-tonia!” XVIII AFTER I began to go to the country school, I saw less of the Bohemians. We were sixteen pupils at the sod schoolhouse, and we all came on horseback and brought our dinner. My schoolmates were none of them very interesting, but I somehow felt that by making comrades of them I was getting even with Ántonia for her indifference. Since the father’s death, Ambrosch was more than ever the head of the house and he seemed to direct the feelings as well as the fortunes of his women-folk. Ántonia often quoted his opinions to me, and she let me see that she admired him, while she thought of me only as a little boy. Before the spring was over, there was a distinct coldness between us and the Shimerdas. It came about in this way. One Sunday I rode over there with Jake to get a horse-collar which Ambrosch had borrowed from him and had not returned. It was a beautiful blue morning. The buffalo-peas were blooming in pink and purple masses along the roadside, and the larks, perched on last year’s dried sunflower stalks, were singing straight at the sun, their heads thrown back and their yellow breasts a-quiver. The wind blew about us in warm, sweet gusts. We rode slowly, with a pleasant sense of Sunday indolence. We found the Shimerdas working just as if it were a week-day. Marek was cleaning out the stable, and Ántonia and her mother were making garden, off across the pond in the draw-head. Ambrosch was up on the windmill tower, oiling the wheel. He came down, not very cordially. When Jake asked for the collar, he grunted and scratched his head. The collar belonged to grandfather, of course, and Jake, feeling responsible for it, flared up. “Now, don’t you say you have n’t got it, Ambrosch, because I know you have, and if you ain’t a-going to look for it, I will.” Ambrosch shrugged his shoulders and sauntered down the hill toward the stable. I could see that it was one of his mean days. Presently he returned, carrying a collar that had been badly used—trampled in the dirt and gnawed by rats until the hair was sticking out of it. “This what you want?” he asked surlily. Jake jumped off his horse. I saw a wave of red come up under the rough stubble on his face. “That ain’t the piece of harness I loaned you, Ambrosch; or if it is, you’ve used it shameful. I ain’t a-going to carry such a looking thing back to Mr. Burden.” Ambrosch dropped the collar on the ground. “All right,” he said coolly, took up his oil-can, and began to climb the mill. Jake caught him by the belt of his trousers and yanked him back. Ambrosch’s feet had scarcely touched the ground when he lunged out with a vicious kick at Jake’s stomach. Fortunately Jake was in such a position that he could dodge it. This was not the sort of thing country boys did when they played at fisticuffs, and Jake was furious. He landed Ambrosch a blow on the head—it sounded like the crack of an axe on a cow-pumpkin. Ambrosch dropped over, stunned. We heard squeals, and looking up saw Ántonia and her mother coming on the run. They did not take the path around the pond, but plunged through the muddy water, without even lifting their skirts. They came on, screaming and clawing the air. By this time Ambrosch had come to his senses and was sputtering with nose-bleed. Jake sprang into his saddle. “Let’s get out of this, Jim,” he called. Mrs. Shimerda threw her hands over her head and clutched as if she were going to pull down lightning. “Law, law!” she shrieked after us. “Law for knock my Ambrosch down!” “I never like you no more, Jake and Jim Burden,” Ántonia panted. “No friends any more!”<\|quote\|>Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second.</\|quote\|>“Well, you’re a damned ungrateful lot, the whole pack of you,” he shouted back. “I guess the Burdens can get along without you. You’ve been a sight of trouble to them, anyhow!” We rode away, feeling so outraged that the fine morning was spoiled for us. I had n’t a word to say, and poor Jake was white as paper and trembling all over. It made him sick to get so angry. “They ain’t the same, Jimmy,” he kept saying in a hurt tone. “These foreigners ain’t the same. You can’t trust ’em to be fair. It’s dirty to kick a feller. You heard how the women turned on you—and after all we went through on account of ’em last winter! They ain’t to be trusted. I don’t want to see you get too thick with any of ’em.” “I’ll never be friends with them again, Jake,” I declared hotly. “I believe they are all like Krajiek and Ambrosch underneath.” Grandfather heard our story with a twinkle in his eye. He advised Jake to ride to town to-morrow, go to a justice of the peace, tell him he had knocked young Shimerda down, and pay his fine. Then if Mrs. Shimerda was inclined to make trouble—her son was still under age—she would be forestalled. Jake said he might as well take the wagon and haul to market the pig he had been fattening. On Monday, about an hour after Jake had started, we saw Mrs. Shimerda and her Ambrosch proudly driving by, looking neither to the right nor left. As they rattled out of sight down the Black Hawk road, grandfather chuckled, saying he had rather expected she would follow the matter up. Jake paid his fine with a ten-dollar bill grandfather had given him for that purpose. But when the Shimerdas found that Jake sold his pig in town that day, Ambrosch worked it out in his shrewd head that Jake had to sell his pig to pay his fine. This theory afforded the Shimerdas great satisfaction, apparently. For weeks afterward, whenever Jake and I met Ántonia on her way to the post-office, or going along the road with her work-team, she would clap her hands and call to us in a spiteful, crowing voice:— “Jake-y, Jake-y, sell the pig and pay the slap!” Otto pretended not to be surprised at Ántonia’s behavior. He only lifted his brows and said, “You can’t tell me anything new about a Czech; I’m an Austrian.” Grandfather was never a party to what Jake called our feud with the Shimerdas. Ambrosch and Ántonia always greeted him respectfully, and he asked them about their affairs and gave them advice as usual. He thought the future looked hopeful for them. Ambrosch was a far-seeing fellow; he soon realized that his oxen were too heavy for any work except breaking sod, and he succeeded in selling them to a newly arrived German. With the money he bought another team of horses, which grandfather selected for him. Marek was strong, and Ambrosch worked him hard; but he could never teach him to cultivate corn, I remember. The one idea that had ever got through poor Marek’s thick head was that all exertion was meritorious. He always bore down on the handles of the cultivator and drove the blades so deep into the earth that the horses were soon exhausted. In June Ambrosch went to work at Mr. Bushy’s for a week, and took Marek with him at full wages. Mrs. Shimerda then drove the second cultivator; she and Ántonia worked in the fields all day and did the chores at night. While the two women were running the place alone, one of the new horses got colic and gave them a terrible fright. Ántonia had gone down to the barn one night to see that all was well before she went to bed, and she noticed that one of the roans was swollen about the middle and stood with its head hanging. She mounted another horse, without waiting to saddle him, and hammered on our door just as we were going to bed. Grandfather answered her knock. He did not send one of his men, but rode back with her himself, taking a syringe and an old piece of carpet he kept for hot applications when our horses were sick. He found Mrs. Shimerda sitting by the horse with her lantern, groaning and wringing her hands. It took but a few moments to release the gases pent up in the poor beast, and the two women heard the rush of wind and saw the roan visibly diminish in girth. “If I lose that horse, Mr. Burden,” Ántonia exclaimed, “I never stay here till Ambrosch come home! I go drown myself in the pond before morning.” When Ambrosch	could see that it was one of his mean days. Presently he returned, carrying a collar that had been badly used—trampled in the dirt and gnawed by rats until the hair was sticking out of it. “This what you want?” he asked surlily. Jake jumped off his horse. I saw a wave of red come up under the rough stubble on his face. “That ain’t the piece of harness I loaned you, Ambrosch; or if it is, you’ve used it shameful. I ain’t a-going to carry such a looking thing back to Mr. Burden.” Ambrosch dropped the collar on the ground. “All right,” he said coolly, took up his oil-can, and began to climb the mill. Jake caught him by the belt of his trousers and yanked him back. Ambrosch’s feet had scarcely touched the ground when he lunged out with a vicious kick at Jake’s stomach. Fortunately Jake was in such a position that he could dodge it. This was not the sort of thing country boys did when they played at fisticuffs, and Jake was furious. He landed Ambrosch a blow on the head—it sounded like the crack of an axe on a cow-pumpkin. Ambrosch dropped over, stunned. We heard squeals, and looking up saw Ántonia and her mother coming on the run. They did not take the path around the pond, but plunged through the muddy water, without even lifting their skirts. They came on, screaming and clawing the air. By this time Ambrosch had come to his senses and was sputtering with nose-bleed. Jake sprang into his saddle. “Let’s get out of this, Jim,” he called. Mrs. Shimerda threw her hands over her head and clutched as if she were going to pull down lightning. “Law, law!” she shrieked after us. “Law for knock my Ambrosch down!” “I never like you no more, Jake and Jim Burden,” Ántonia panted. “No friends any more!”<\|quote\|>Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second.</\|quote\|>“Well, you’re a damned ungrateful lot, the whole pack of you,” he shouted back. “I guess the Burdens can get along without you. You’ve been a sight of trouble to them, anyhow!” We rode away, feeling so outraged that the fine morning was spoiled for us. I had n’t a word to say, and poor Jake was white as paper and trembling all over. It made him sick to get so angry. “They ain’t the same, Jimmy,” he kept saying in a hurt tone. “These foreigners ain’t the same. You can’t trust ’em to be fair. It’s dirty to kick a feller. You heard how the women turned on you—and after all we went through on account of ’em last winter! They ain’t to be trusted. I don’t want to see you get too thick with any of ’em.” “I’ll never be friends with them again, Jake,” I declared hotly. “I believe they are all like Krajiek and Ambrosch underneath.” Grandfather heard our story with a twinkle in his eye. He advised Jake to ride to town to-morrow, go to a justice of the peace, tell him he had knocked young Shimerda down, and pay his fine. Then if Mrs. Shimerda was inclined to make trouble—her son was still under age—she would be forestalled. Jake said he might as well take the wagon and haul to market the pig he had been fattening. On Monday, about an hour after Jake had started, we saw Mrs. Shimerda and her Ambrosch proudly driving by, looking neither to the right nor left. As they rattled out of sight down the Black Hawk road, grandfather chuckled, saying he had rather expected she would follow the matter up. Jake paid his fine with a ten-dollar bill grandfather had given him for that purpose. But when the Shimerdas found that Jake sold his pig in town that day, Ambrosch worked it out in his shrewd head that Jake had to sell his pig to pay his fine. This theory afforded the Shimerdas great satisfaction, apparently. For weeks afterward, whenever Jake and I met Ántonia on her way to the post-office, or going along	My Antonia
interposed Daisy.	No speaker	your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!"<\|quote\|>interposed Daisy.</\|quote\|>"Though you may be flirting,	with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!"<\|quote\|>interposed Daisy.</\|quote\|>"Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he	old married ones," Daisy declared. "Well," said Winterbourne, "when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn t exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!"<\|quote\|>interposed Daisy.</\|quote\|>"Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else." "He isn t preaching, at any rate," said Daisy with vivacity. "And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends."	flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the piano; they don t understand that sort of thing here." "I thought they understood nothing else!" exclaimed Daisy. "Not in young unmarried women." "It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women than in old married ones," Daisy declared. "Well," said Winterbourne, "when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn t exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!"<\|quote\|>interposed Daisy.</\|quote\|>"Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else." "He isn t preaching, at any rate," said Daisy with vivacity. "And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends." "Ah!" rejoined Winterbourne, "if you are in love with each other, it is another affair." She had allowed him up to this point to talk so frankly that he had no expectation of shocking her by this ejaculation; but she immediately got up, blushing visibly, and leaving him to exclaim	am not a nice girl." "You re a very nice girl; but I wish you would flirt with me, and me only," said Winterbourne. "Ah! thank you--thank you very much; you are the last man I should think of flirting with. As I have had the pleasure of informing you, you are too stiff." "You say that too often," said Winterbourne. Daisy gave a delighted laugh. "If I could have the sweet hope of making you angry, I should say it again." "Don t do that; when I am angry I m stiffer than ever. But if you won t flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the piano; they don t understand that sort of thing here." "I thought they understood nothing else!" exclaimed Daisy. "Not in young unmarried women." "It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women than in old married ones," Daisy declared. "Well," said Winterbourne, "when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn t exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!"<\|quote\|>interposed Daisy.</\|quote\|>"Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else." "He isn t preaching, at any rate," said Daisy with vivacity. "And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends." "Ah!" rejoined Winterbourne, "if you are in love with each other, it is another affair." She had allowed him up to this point to talk so frankly that he had no expectation of shocking her by this ejaculation; but she immediately got up, blushing visibly, and leaving him to exclaim mentally that little American flirts were the queerest creatures in the world. "Mr. Giovanelli, at least," she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance, "never says such very disagreeable things to me." Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy. "Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental smile. Daisy turned to Winterbourne, beginning to smile again. He was still more perplexed, for this inconsequent smile made nothing clear, though it seemed to prove, indeed, that	hear anything so cool as Mrs. Walker s wanting me to get into her carriage and drop poor Mr. Giovanelli, and under the pretext that it was proper? People have different ideas! It would have been most unkind; he had been talking about that walk for ten days." "He should not have talked about it at all," said Winterbourne; "he would never have proposed to a young lady of this country to walk about the streets with him." "About the streets?" cried Daisy with her pretty stare. "Where, then, would he have proposed to her to walk? The Pincio is not the streets, either; and I, thank goodness, am not a young lady of this country. The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne gravely. "Of course they are," she cried, giving him her little smiling stare again. "I m a fearful, frightful flirt! Did you ever hear of a nice girl that was not? But I suppose you will tell me now that I am not a nice girl." "You re a very nice girl; but I wish you would flirt with me, and me only," said Winterbourne. "Ah! thank you--thank you very much; you are the last man I should think of flirting with. As I have had the pleasure of informing you, you are too stiff." "You say that too often," said Winterbourne. Daisy gave a delighted laugh. "If I could have the sweet hope of making you angry, I should say it again." "Don t do that; when I am angry I m stiffer than ever. But if you won t flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the piano; they don t understand that sort of thing here." "I thought they understood nothing else!" exclaimed Daisy. "Not in young unmarried women." "It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women than in old married ones," Daisy declared. "Well," said Winterbourne, "when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn t exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!"<\|quote\|>interposed Daisy.</\|quote\|>"Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else." "He isn t preaching, at any rate," said Daisy with vivacity. "And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends." "Ah!" rejoined Winterbourne, "if you are in love with each other, it is another affair." She had allowed him up to this point to talk so frankly that he had no expectation of shocking her by this ejaculation; but she immediately got up, blushing visibly, and leaving him to exclaim mentally that little American flirts were the queerest creatures in the world. "Mr. Giovanelli, at least," she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance, "never says such very disagreeable things to me." Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy. "Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental smile. Daisy turned to Winterbourne, beginning to smile again. He was still more perplexed, for this inconsequent smile made nothing clear, though it seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice," Winterbourne rejoined. "I prefer weak tea!" cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the window, for the rest of the evening. There was an interesting performance at the piano, but neither of these young people gave heed to it. When Daisy came to take leave of Mrs. Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired the weakness of which she had been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her to depart with what grace she might. Winterbourne was standing near the door; he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly unconscious of any violation of the usual social forms. She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incongruous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said; "we ve	to her." Daisy came after eleven o clock; but she was not, on such an occasion, a young lady to wait to be spoken to. She rustled forward in radiant loveliness, smiling and chattering, carrying a large bouquet, and attended by Mr. Giovanelli. Everyone stopped talking and turned and looked at her. She came straight to Mrs. Walker. "I m afraid you thought I never was coming, so I sent mother off to tell you. I wanted to make Mr. Giovanelli practice some things before he came; you know he sings beautifully, and I want you to ask him to sing. This is Mr. Giovanelli; you know I introduced him to you; he s got the most lovely voice, and he knows the most charming set of songs. I made him go over them this evening on purpose; we had the greatest time at the hotel." Of all this Daisy delivered herself with the sweetest, brightest audibleness, looking now at her hostess and now round the room, while she gave a series of little pats, round her shoulders, to the edges of her dress. "Is there anyone I know?" she asked. "I think every one knows you!" said Mrs. Walker pregnantly, and she gave a very cursory greeting to Mr. Giovanelli. This gentleman bore himself gallantly. He smiled and bowed and showed his white teeth; he curled his mustaches and rolled his eyes and performed all the proper functions of a handsome Italian at an evening party. He sang very prettily half a dozen songs, though Mrs. Walker afterward declared that she had been quite unable to find out who asked him. It was apparently not Daisy who had given him his orders. Daisy sat at a distance from the piano, and though she had publicly, as it were, professed a high admiration for his singing, talked, not inaudibly, while it was going on. "It s a pity these rooms are so small; we can t dance," she said to Winterbourne, as if she had seen him five minutes before. "I am not sorry we can t dance," Winterbourne answered; "I don t dance." "Of course you don t dance; you re too stiff," said Miss Daisy. "I hope you enjoyed your drive with Mrs. Walker!" "No. I didn t enjoy it; I preferred walking with you." "We paired off: that was much better," said Daisy. "But did you ever hear anything so cool as Mrs. Walker s wanting me to get into her carriage and drop poor Mr. Giovanelli, and under the pretext that it was proper? People have different ideas! It would have been most unkind; he had been talking about that walk for ten days." "He should not have talked about it at all," said Winterbourne; "he would never have proposed to a young lady of this country to walk about the streets with him." "About the streets?" cried Daisy with her pretty stare. "Where, then, would he have proposed to her to walk? The Pincio is not the streets, either; and I, thank goodness, am not a young lady of this country. The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne gravely. "Of course they are," she cried, giving him her little smiling stare again. "I m a fearful, frightful flirt! Did you ever hear of a nice girl that was not? But I suppose you will tell me now that I am not a nice girl." "You re a very nice girl; but I wish you would flirt with me, and me only," said Winterbourne. "Ah! thank you--thank you very much; you are the last man I should think of flirting with. As I have had the pleasure of informing you, you are too stiff." "You say that too often," said Winterbourne. Daisy gave a delighted laugh. "If I could have the sweet hope of making you angry, I should say it again." "Don t do that; when I am angry I m stiffer than ever. But if you won t flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the piano; they don t understand that sort of thing here." "I thought they understood nothing else!" exclaimed Daisy. "Not in young unmarried women." "It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women than in old married ones," Daisy declared. "Well," said Winterbourne, "when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn t exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!"<\|quote\|>interposed Daisy.</\|quote\|>"Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else." "He isn t preaching, at any rate," said Daisy with vivacity. "And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends." "Ah!" rejoined Winterbourne, "if you are in love with each other, it is another affair." She had allowed him up to this point to talk so frankly that he had no expectation of shocking her by this ejaculation; but she immediately got up, blushing visibly, and leaving him to exclaim mentally that little American flirts were the queerest creatures in the world. "Mr. Giovanelli, at least," she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance, "never says such very disagreeable things to me." Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy. "Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental smile. Daisy turned to Winterbourne, beginning to smile again. He was still more perplexed, for this inconsequent smile made nothing clear, though it seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice," Winterbourne rejoined. "I prefer weak tea!" cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the window, for the rest of the evening. There was an interesting performance at the piano, but neither of these young people gave heed to it. When Daisy came to take leave of Mrs. Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired the weakness of which she had been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her to depart with what grace she might. Winterbourne was standing near the door; he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly unconscious of any violation of the usual social forms. She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incongruous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said; "we ve had a beautiful evening. You see, if I let Daisy come to parties without me, I don t want her to go away without me." Daisy turned away, looking with a pale, grave face at the circle near the door; Winterbourne saw that, for the first moment, she was too much shocked and puzzled even for indignation. He on his side was greatly touched. "That was very cruel," he said to Mrs. Walker. "She never enters my drawing room again!" replied his hostess. Since Winterbourne was not to meet her in Mrs. Walker s drawing room, he went as often as possible to Mrs. Miller s hotel. The ladies were rarely at home, but when he found them, the devoted Giovanelli was always present. Very often the brilliant little Roman was in the drawing room with Daisy alone, Mrs. Miller being apparently constantly of the opinion that discretion is the better part of surveillance. Winterbourne noted, at first with surprise, that Daisy on these occasions was never embarrassed or annoyed by his own entrance; but he very presently began to feel that she had no more surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete with Giovanelli being interrupted; she could chatter as freshly and freely with two gentlemen as with one; there was always, in her conversation, the same odd mixture of audacity and puerility. Winterbourne remarked to himself that if she was seriously interested in Giovanelli, it was very singular that she should not take more trouble to preserve the sanctity of their interviews; and he liked her the more for her innocent-looking indifference and her apparently inexhaustible good humor. He could hardly have said why, but she seemed to him a girl who would never be jealous. At the risk of exciting a somewhat derisive smile on the reader s part, I may affirm that with regard to the women who had hitherto interested him, it very often seemed to Winterbourne among the possibilities that, given certain contingencies, he should be afraid--literally afraid--of these ladies; he had a pleasant sense that he should never be afraid of Daisy Miller. It must be added that this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, or rather of his apprehension, that she would prove a very light young person. But she was	his eyes and performed all the proper functions of a handsome Italian at an evening party. He sang very prettily half a dozen songs, though Mrs. Walker afterward declared that she had been quite unable to find out who asked him. It was apparently not Daisy who had given him his orders. Daisy sat at a distance from the piano, and though she had publicly, as it were, professed a high admiration for his singing, talked, not inaudibly, while it was going on. "It s a pity these rooms are so small; we can t dance," she said to Winterbourne, as if she had seen him five minutes before. "I am not sorry we can t dance," Winterbourne answered; "I don t dance." "Of course you don t dance; you re too stiff," said Miss Daisy. "I hope you enjoyed your drive with Mrs. Walker!" "No. I didn t enjoy it; I preferred walking with you." "We paired off: that was much better," said Daisy. "But did you ever hear anything so cool as Mrs. Walker s wanting me to get into her carriage and drop poor Mr. Giovanelli, and under the pretext that it was proper? People have different ideas! It would have been most unkind; he had been talking about that walk for ten days." "He should not have talked about it at all," said Winterbourne; "he would never have proposed to a young lady of this country to walk about the streets with him." "About the streets?" cried Daisy with her pretty stare. "Where, then, would he have proposed to her to walk? The Pincio is not the streets, either; and I, thank goodness, am not a young lady of this country. The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne gravely. "Of course they are," she cried, giving him her little smiling stare again. "I m a fearful, frightful flirt! Did you ever hear of a nice girl that was not? But I suppose you will tell me now that I am not a nice girl." "You re a very nice girl; but I wish you would flirt with me, and me only," said Winterbourne. "Ah! thank you--thank you very much; you are the last man I should think of flirting with. As I have had the pleasure of informing you, you are too stiff." "You say that too often," said Winterbourne. Daisy gave a delighted laugh. "If I could have the sweet hope of making you angry, I should say it again." "Don t do that; when I am angry I m stiffer than ever. But if you won t flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the piano; they don t understand that sort of thing here." "I thought they understood nothing else!" exclaimed Daisy. "Not in young unmarried women." "It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women than in old married ones," Daisy declared. "Well," said Winterbourne, "when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn t exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!"<\|quote\|>interposed Daisy.</\|quote\|>"Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else." "He isn t preaching, at any rate," said Daisy with vivacity. "And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends." "Ah!" rejoined Winterbourne, "if you are in love with each other, it is another affair." She had allowed him up to this point to talk so frankly that he had no expectation of shocking her by this ejaculation; but she immediately got up, blushing visibly, and leaving him to exclaim mentally that little American flirts were the queerest creatures in the world. "Mr. Giovanelli, at least," she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance, "never says such very disagreeable things to me." Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy. "Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental smile. Daisy turned to Winterbourne, beginning to smile again. He was still more perplexed, for this inconsequent smile made nothing clear, though it seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice," Winterbourne rejoined. "I prefer weak tea!" cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the window, for the rest of the evening. There was an interesting performance at the piano, but neither of these young people gave heed to it. When Daisy came to take leave of Mrs. Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired the weakness of which she had been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her to depart with what grace she might. Winterbourne was standing near the door; he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly unconscious of any violation of the usual social forms. She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incongruous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said; "we ve had a beautiful evening. You see, if I let Daisy come to parties without me, I don t want her to go away without me." Daisy turned away, looking with a pale, grave face at the circle near the door; Winterbourne saw that, for the first moment, she was too much shocked and puzzled even for indignation. He on his side was greatly touched. "That was very cruel," he said to Mrs. Walker. "She never enters my drawing room again!" replied his hostess. Since Winterbourne was not to meet her in Mrs. Walker s drawing room, he went as often as possible to Mrs. Miller s hotel. The ladies	Daisy Miller
"I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again."	The Invisible Man	wreath of smoke and vanish."<\|quote\|>"I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again."</\|quote\|>"And then came a curious	watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish."<\|quote\|>"I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again."</\|quote\|>"And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow	worked with a cheap gas engine. My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish."<\|quote\|>"I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again."</\|quote\|>"And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window. A thought came into my head." Everything ready for you, "I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly.	between two radiating centres of a sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later. No, not those R ntgen vibrations I don t know that these others of mine have been described. Yet they are obvious enough. I needed two little dynamos, and these I worked with a cheap gas engine. My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish."<\|quote\|>"I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again."</\|quote\|>"And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window. A thought came into my head." Everything ready for you, "I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came in, purring the poor beast was starving and I gave her some milk. All my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she went smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself at home. The invisible rag upset her	There were the things I knew and loved. There stood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting. And now there was scarcely a difficulty left, beyond the planning of details." "I will tell you, Kemp, sooner or later, all the complicated processes. We need not go into that now. For the most part, saving certain gaps I chose to remember, they are written in cypher in those books that tramp has hidden. We must hunt him down. We must get those books again. But the essential phase was to place the transparent object whose refractive index was to be lowered between two radiating centres of a sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later. No, not those R ntgen vibrations I don t know that these others of mine have been described. Yet they are obvious enough. I needed two little dynamos, and these I worked with a cheap gas engine. My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish."<\|quote\|>"I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again."</\|quote\|>"And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window. A thought came into my head." Everything ready for you, "I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came in, purring the poor beast was starving and I gave her some milk. All my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she went smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself at home. The invisible rag upset her a bit; you should have seen her spit at it! But I made her comfortable on the pillow of my truckle-bed. And I gave her butter to get her to wash." "And you processed her?" "I processed her. But giving drugs to a cat is no joke, Kemp! And the process failed." "Failed!" "In two particulars. These were the claws and the pigment stuff, what is it? at the back of the eye in a cat. You know?" "_Tapetum_." "Yes, the _tapetum_. It didn t go. After I d given the stuff to bleach the blood and done certain other	of a town. Every way the roads ran out at last into the desecrated fields and ended in rubble heaps and rank wet weeds. I remember myself as a gaunt black figure, going along the slippery, shiny pavement, and the strange sense of detachment I felt from the squalid respectability, the sordid commercialism of the place." "I did not feel a bit sorry for my father. He seemed to me to be the victim of his own foolish sentimentality. The current cant required my attendance at his funeral, but it was really not my affair." "But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a space, for I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met." "Something moved me to turn back and talk to her. She was a very ordinary person." "It was all like a dream, that visit to the old places. I did not feel then that I was lonely, that I had come out from the world into a desolate place. I appreciated my loss of sympathy, but I put it down to the general inanity of things. Re-entering my room seemed like the recovery of reality. There were the things I knew and loved. There stood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting. And now there was scarcely a difficulty left, beyond the planning of details." "I will tell you, Kemp, sooner or later, all the complicated processes. We need not go into that now. For the most part, saving certain gaps I chose to remember, they are written in cypher in those books that tramp has hidden. We must hunt him down. We must get those books again. But the essential phase was to place the transparent object whose refractive index was to be lowered between two radiating centres of a sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later. No, not those R ntgen vibrations I don t know that these others of mine have been described. Yet they are obvious enough. I needed two little dynamos, and these I worked with a cheap gas engine. My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish."<\|quote\|>"I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again."</\|quote\|>"And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window. A thought came into my head." Everything ready for you, "I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came in, purring the poor beast was starving and I gave her some milk. All my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she went smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself at home. The invisible rag upset her a bit; you should have seen her spit at it! But I made her comfortable on the pillow of my truckle-bed. And I gave her butter to get her to wash." "And you processed her?" "I processed her. But giving drugs to a cat is no joke, Kemp! And the process failed." "Failed!" "In two particulars. These were the claws and the pigment stuff, what is it? at the back of the eye in a cat. You know?" "_Tapetum_." "Yes, the _tapetum_. It didn t go. After I d given the stuff to bleach the blood and done certain other things to her, I gave the beast opium, and put her and the pillow she was sleeping on, on the apparatus. And after all the rest had faded and vanished, there remained two little ghosts of her eyes." "Odd!" "I can t explain it. She was bandaged and clamped, of course so I had her safe; but she woke while she was still misty, and miaowed dismally, and someone came knocking. It was an old woman from downstairs, who suspected me of vivisecting a drink-sodden old creature, with only a white cat to care for in all the world. I whipped out some chloroform, applied it, and answered the door." Did I hear a cat? "she asked." My cat? "Not here, said I, very politely. She was a little doubtful and tried to peer past me into the room; strange enough to her no doubt bare walls, uncurtained windows, truckle-bed, with the gas engine vibrating, and the seethe of the radiant points, and that faint ghastly stinging of chloroform in the air. She had to be satisfied at last and went away again." "How long did it take?" asked Kemp. "Three or four hours the cat. The bones and sinews	I, a shabby, poverty-struck, hemmed-in demonstrator, teaching fools in a provincial college, might suddenly become this. I ask you, Kemp if _you_ ... Anyone, I tell you, would have flung himself upon that research. And I worked three years, and every mountain of difficulty I toiled over showed another from its summit. The infinite details! And the exasperation! A professor, a provincial professor, always prying." When are you going to publish this work of yours? "was his everlasting question. And the students, the cramped means! Three years I had of it" "And after three years of secrecy and exasperation, I found that to complete it was impossible impossible." "How?" asked Kemp. "Money," said the Invisible Man, and went again to stare out of the window. He turned around abruptly. "I robbed the old man robbed my father." "The money was not his, and he shot himself." CHAPTER XX. AT THE HOUSE IN GREAT PORTLAND STREET For a moment Kemp sat in silence, staring at the back of the headless figure at the window. Then he started, struck by a thought, rose, took the Invisible Man s arm, and turned him away from the outlook. "You are tired," he said, "and while I sit, you walk about. Have my chair." He placed himself between Griffin and the nearest window. For a space Griffin sat silent, and then he resumed abruptly: "I had left the Chesilstowe cottage already," he said, "when that happened. It was last December. I had taken a room in London, a large unfurnished room in a big ill-managed lodging-house in a slum near Great Portland Street. The room was soon full of the appliances I had bought with his money; the work was going on steadily, successfully, drawing near an end. I was like a man emerging from a thicket, and suddenly coming on some unmeaning tragedy. I went to bury him. My mind was still on this research, and I did not lift a finger to save his character. I remember the funeral, the cheap hearse, the scant ceremony, the windy frost-bitten hillside, and the old college friend of his who read the service over him a shabby, black, bent old man with a snivelling cold." "I remember walking back to the empty house, through the place that had once been a village and was now patched and tinkered by the jerry builders into the ugly likeness of a town. Every way the roads ran out at last into the desecrated fields and ended in rubble heaps and rank wet weeds. I remember myself as a gaunt black figure, going along the slippery, shiny pavement, and the strange sense of detachment I felt from the squalid respectability, the sordid commercialism of the place." "I did not feel a bit sorry for my father. He seemed to me to be the victim of his own foolish sentimentality. The current cant required my attendance at his funeral, but it was really not my affair." "But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a space, for I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met." "Something moved me to turn back and talk to her. She was a very ordinary person." "It was all like a dream, that visit to the old places. I did not feel then that I was lonely, that I had come out from the world into a desolate place. I appreciated my loss of sympathy, but I put it down to the general inanity of things. Re-entering my room seemed like the recovery of reality. There were the things I knew and loved. There stood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting. And now there was scarcely a difficulty left, beyond the planning of details." "I will tell you, Kemp, sooner or later, all the complicated processes. We need not go into that now. For the most part, saving certain gaps I chose to remember, they are written in cypher in those books that tramp has hidden. We must hunt him down. We must get those books again. But the essential phase was to place the transparent object whose refractive index was to be lowered between two radiating centres of a sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later. No, not those R ntgen vibrations I don t know that these others of mine have been described. Yet they are obvious enough. I needed two little dynamos, and these I worked with a cheap gas engine. My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish."<\|quote\|>"I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again."</\|quote\|>"And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window. A thought came into my head." Everything ready for you, "I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came in, purring the poor beast was starving and I gave her some milk. All my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she went smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself at home. The invisible rag upset her a bit; you should have seen her spit at it! But I made her comfortable on the pillow of my truckle-bed. And I gave her butter to get her to wash." "And you processed her?" "I processed her. But giving drugs to a cat is no joke, Kemp! And the process failed." "Failed!" "In two particulars. These were the claws and the pigment stuff, what is it? at the back of the eye in a cat. You know?" "_Tapetum_." "Yes, the _tapetum_. It didn t go. After I d given the stuff to bleach the blood and done certain other things to her, I gave the beast opium, and put her and the pillow she was sleeping on, on the apparatus. And after all the rest had faded and vanished, there remained two little ghosts of her eyes." "Odd!" "I can t explain it. She was bandaged and clamped, of course so I had her safe; but she woke while she was still misty, and miaowed dismally, and someone came knocking. It was an old woman from downstairs, who suspected me of vivisecting a drink-sodden old creature, with only a white cat to care for in all the world. I whipped out some chloroform, applied it, and answered the door." Did I hear a cat? "she asked." My cat? "Not here, said I, very politely. She was a little doubtful and tried to peer past me into the room; strange enough to her no doubt bare walls, uncurtained windows, truckle-bed, with the gas engine vibrating, and the seethe of the radiant points, and that faint ghastly stinging of chloroform in the air. She had to be satisfied at last and went away again." "How long did it take?" asked Kemp. "Three or four hours the cat. The bones and sinews and the fat were the last to go, and the tips of the coloured hairs. And, as I say, the back part of the eye, tough, iridescent stuff it is, wouldn t go at all." "It was night outside long before the business was over, and nothing was to be seen but the dim eyes and the claws. I stopped the gas engine, felt for and stroked the beast, which was still insensible, and then, being tired, left it sleeping on the invisible pillow and went to bed. I found it hard to sleep. I lay awake thinking weak aimless stuff, going over the experiment over and over again, or dreaming feverishly of things growing misty and vanishing about me, until everything, the ground I stood on, vanished, and so I came to that sickly falling nightmare one gets. About two, the cat began miaowing about the room. I tried to hush it by talking to it, and then I decided to turn it out. I remember the shock I had when striking a light there were just the round eyes shining green and nothing round them. I would have given it milk, but I hadn t any. It wouldn t be quiet, it just sat down and miaowed at the door. I tried to catch it, with an idea of putting it out of the window, but it wouldn t be caught, it vanished. Then it began miaowing in different parts of the room. At last I opened the window and made a bustle. I suppose it went out at last. I never saw any more of it." "Then Heaven knows why I fell thinking of my father s funeral again, and the dismal windy hillside, until the day had come. I found sleeping was hopeless, and, locking my door after me, wandered out into the morning streets." "You don t mean to say there s an invisible cat at large!" said Kemp. "If it hasn t been killed," said the Invisible Man. "Why not?" "Why not?" said Kemp. "I didn t mean to interrupt." "It s very probably been killed," said the Invisible Man. "It was alive four days after, I know, and down a grating in Great Titchfield Street; because I saw a crowd round the place, trying to see whence the miaowing came." He was silent for the best part of a minute. Then he resumed	going along the slippery, shiny pavement, and the strange sense of detachment I felt from the squalid respectability, the sordid commercialism of the place." "I did not feel a bit sorry for my father. He seemed to me to be the victim of his own foolish sentimentality. The current cant required my attendance at his funeral, but it was really not my affair." "But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a space, for I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met." "Something moved me to turn back and talk to her. She was a very ordinary person." "It was all like a dream, that visit to the old places. I did not feel then that I was lonely, that I had come out from the world into a desolate place. I appreciated my loss of sympathy, but I put it down to the general inanity of things. Re-entering my room seemed like the recovery of reality. There were the things I knew and loved. There stood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting. And now there was scarcely a difficulty left, beyond the planning of details." "I will tell you, Kemp, sooner or later, all the complicated processes. We need not go into that now. For the most part, saving certain gaps I chose to remember, they are written in cypher in those books that tramp has hidden. We must hunt him down. We must get those books again. But the essential phase was to place the transparent object whose refractive index was to be lowered between two radiating centres of a sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later. No, not those R ntgen vibrations I don t know that these others of mine have been described. Yet they are obvious enough. I needed two little dynamos, and these I worked with a cheap gas engine. My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish."<\|quote\|>"I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again."</\|quote\|>"And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window. A thought came into my head." Everything ready for you, "I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came in, purring the poor beast was starving and I gave her some milk. All my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she went smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself at home. The invisible rag upset her a bit; you should have seen her spit at it! But I made her comfortable on the pillow of my truckle-bed. And I gave her butter to get her to wash." "And you processed her?" "I processed her. But giving drugs to a cat is no joke, Kemp! And the process failed." "Failed!" "In two particulars. These were the claws and the pigment stuff, what is it? at the back of the eye in a cat. You know?" "_Tapetum_." "Yes, the _tapetum_. It didn t go. After I d given the stuff to bleach the blood and done certain other things to her, I gave the beast opium, and put her and the pillow she was sleeping on, on the apparatus. And after all the rest had faded and vanished, there remained two little ghosts of her eyes." "Odd!" "I can t explain it. She was bandaged and clamped, of course so I had her safe; but she woke while she was still misty, and miaowed dismally, and someone came knocking. It was an old woman from downstairs, who suspected me of vivisecting a drink-sodden old creature, with only a white cat to care for in all the world. I whipped out some chloroform, applied it, and answered the door." Did I hear a cat? "she asked." My cat? "Not here, said I, very politely. She was a little doubtful and tried to peer past me into the room; strange enough to her no doubt bare walls, uncurtained windows, truckle-bed, with the gas engine vibrating, and the seethe of the radiant points, and that faint ghastly stinging of chloroform in the air. She had to be satisfied at last and went away again." "How long did it take?" asked Kemp. "Three or four hours the cat. The bones and sinews and the fat were the last to go, and the tips of the coloured hairs. And, as I say, the back part of the eye, tough, iridescent stuff it is, wouldn t go at all." "It was night outside long before the business was over, and nothing was to be seen but the dim eyes and the claws. I stopped the gas engine, felt for and stroked the beast, which was still insensible, and then, being tired, left it sleeping on the invisible pillow and went to bed. I found it hard to sleep. I lay awake thinking weak aimless stuff, going over the experiment over and over again, or dreaming feverishly of things growing misty and vanishing about me, until everything, the ground I stood on, vanished, and so I came to that sickly falling nightmare one gets. About two, the cat began miaowing about the room. I tried to hush it by talking to it, and then I decided to turn it out. I remember the shock I had when striking a light there were just the	The Invisible Man
"Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."	Mr. Herriton	such an ass," he thought.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."</\|quote\|>"Isn t it disheartening?" said	t know I was still such an ass," he thought.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."</\|quote\|>"Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read	grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."</\|quote\|>"Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send	failed." Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."</\|quote\|>"Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not	was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said. "We have failed." Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."</\|quote\|>"Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perverse reason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poor Caroline. She will be equally distressed." She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Her face was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round her eyes. "The impudence!" she shouted. "The cursed impudence! Oh, I m swearing. I don t care. That beastly woman--how dare she interfere--I ll--Philip, dear, I m sorry. It s no good. You must go." "Go where? Do sit down. What s happened?" This outburst of violence from his elegant ladylike mother pained	be incidental expenses," said Philip cautiously. Then he turned to Miss Abbott and said, "Do you suppose we shall have difficulty with the man?" "It depends," she replied, with equal caution. "From what you saw of him, should you conclude that he would make an affectionate parent?" "I don t go by what I saw of him, but by what I know of him." "Well, what do you conclude from that?" "That he is a thoroughly wicked man." "Yet thoroughly wicked men have loved their children. Look at Rodrigo Borgia, for example." "I have also seen examples of that in my district." With this remark the admirable young woman rose, and returned to keep up her Italian. She puzzled Philip extremely. He could understand enthusiasm, but she did not seem the least enthusiastic. He could understand pure cussedness, but it did not seem to be that either. Apparently she was deriving neither amusement nor profit from the struggle. Why, then, had she undertaken it? Perhaps she was not sincere. Perhaps, on the whole, that was most likely. She must be professing one thing and aiming at another. What the other thing could be he did not stop to consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said. "We have failed." Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."</\|quote\|>"Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perverse reason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poor Caroline. She will be equally distressed." She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Her face was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round her eyes. "The impudence!" she shouted. "The cursed impudence! Oh, I m swearing. I don t care. That beastly woman--how dare she interfere--I ll--Philip, dear, I m sorry. It s no good. You must go." "Go where? Do sit down. What s happened?" This outburst of violence from his elegant ladylike mother pained him dreadfully. He had not known that it was in her. "She won t accept--won t accept the letter as final. You must go to Monteriano!" "I won t!" he shouted back. "I ve been and I ve failed. I ll never see the place again. I hate Italy." "If you don t go, she will." "Abbott?" "Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to write; she said it was too late! Too late! The child, if you please--Irma s brother--to live with her, to be brought up by her and her father at our very gates, to go to school like a gentleman, she paying. Oh, you re a man! It doesn t matter for you. You can laugh. But I know what people say; and that woman goes to Italy this evening." He seemed to be inspired. "Then let her go! Let her mess with Italy by herself. She ll come to grief somehow. Italy s too dangerous, too--" "Stop that nonsense, Philip. I will not be disgraced by her. I WILL have the child. Pay all we ve got for it. I will have it." "Let her go to Italy!" he cried. "Let her meddle	found it even contemptible. But it was not a place of sin, and at Sawston, either with the Herritons or with herself, the baby should grow up. As soon as it was inevitable, Mrs. Herriton wrote a letter for Waters and Adamson to send to Gino--the oddest letter; Philip saw a copy of it afterwards. Its ostensible purpose was to complain of the picture postcards. Right at the end, in a few nonchalant sentences, she offered to adopt the child, provided that Gino would undertake never to come near it, and would surrender some of Lilia s money for its education. "What do you think of it?" she asked her son. "It would not do to let him know that we are anxious for it." "Certainly he will never suppose that." "But what effect will the letter have on him?" "When he gets it he will do a sum. If it is less expensive in the long run to part with a little money and to be clear of the baby, he will part with it. If he would lose, he will adopt the tone of the loving father." "Dear, you re shockingly cynical." After a pause she added, "How would the sum work out?" "I don t know, I m sure. But if you wanted to ensure the baby being posted by return, you should have sent a little sum to HIM. Oh, I m not cynical--at least I only go by what I know of him. But I am weary of the whole show. Weary of Italy. Weary, weary, weary. Sawston s a kind, pitiful place, isn t it? I will go walk in it and seek comfort." He smiled as he spoke, for the sake of not appearing serious. When he had left her she began to smile also. It was to the Abbotts that he walked. Mr. Abbott offered him tea, and Caroline, who was keeping up her Italian in the next room, came in to pour it out. He told them that his mother had written to Signor Carella, and they both uttered fervent wishes for her success. "Very fine of Mrs. Herriton, very fine indeed," said Mr. Abbott, who, like every one else, knew nothing of his daughter s exasperating behaviour. "I m afraid it will mean a lot of expense. She will get nothing out of Italy without paying." "There are sure to be incidental expenses," said Philip cautiously. Then he turned to Miss Abbott and said, "Do you suppose we shall have difficulty with the man?" "It depends," she replied, with equal caution. "From what you saw of him, should you conclude that he would make an affectionate parent?" "I don t go by what I saw of him, but by what I know of him." "Well, what do you conclude from that?" "That he is a thoroughly wicked man." "Yet thoroughly wicked men have loved their children. Look at Rodrigo Borgia, for example." "I have also seen examples of that in my district." With this remark the admirable young woman rose, and returned to keep up her Italian. She puzzled Philip extremely. He could understand enthusiasm, but she did not seem the least enthusiastic. He could understand pure cussedness, but it did not seem to be that either. Apparently she was deriving neither amusement nor profit from the struggle. Why, then, had she undertaken it? Perhaps she was not sincere. Perhaps, on the whole, that was most likely. She must be professing one thing and aiming at another. What the other thing could be he did not stop to consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said. "We have failed." Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."</\|quote\|>"Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perverse reason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poor Caroline. She will be equally distressed." She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Her face was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round her eyes. "The impudence!" she shouted. "The cursed impudence! Oh, I m swearing. I don t care. That beastly woman--how dare she interfere--I ll--Philip, dear, I m sorry. It s no good. You must go." "Go where? Do sit down. What s happened?" This outburst of violence from his elegant ladylike mother pained him dreadfully. He had not known that it was in her. "She won t accept--won t accept the letter as final. You must go to Monteriano!" "I won t!" he shouted back. "I ve been and I ve failed. I ll never see the place again. I hate Italy." "If you don t go, she will." "Abbott?" "Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to write; she said it was too late! Too late! The child, if you please--Irma s brother--to live with her, to be brought up by her and her father at our very gates, to go to school like a gentleman, she paying. Oh, you re a man! It doesn t matter for you. You can laugh. But I know what people say; and that woman goes to Italy this evening." He seemed to be inspired. "Then let her go! Let her mess with Italy by herself. She ll come to grief somehow. Italy s too dangerous, too--" "Stop that nonsense, Philip. I will not be disgraced by her. I WILL have the child. Pay all we ve got for it. I will have it." "Let her go to Italy!" he cried. "Let her meddle with what she doesn t understand! Look at this letter! The man who wrote it will marry her, or murder her, or do for her somehow. He s a bounder, but he s not an English bounder. He s mysterious and terrible. He s got a country behind him that s upset people from the beginning of the world." "Harriet!" exclaimed his mother. "Harriet shall go too. Harriet, now, will be invaluable!" And before Philip had stopped talking nonsense, she had planned the whole thing and was looking out the trains. Chapter 6 Italy, Philip had always maintained, is only her true self in the height of the summer, when the tourists have left her, and her soul awakes under the beams of a vertical sun. He now had every opportunity of seeing her at her best, for it was nearly the middle of August before he went out to meet Harriet in the Tirol. He found his sister in a dense cloud five thousand feet above the sea, chilled to the bone, overfed, bored, and not at all unwilling to be fetched away. "It upsets one s plans terribly," she remarked, as she squeezed out her sponges, "but obviously it is my duty." "Did mother explain it all to you?" asked Philip. "Yes, indeed! Mother has written me a really beautiful letter. She describes how it was that she gradually got to feel that we must rescue the poor baby from its terrible surroundings, how she has tried by letter, and it is no good--nothing but insincere compliments and hypocrisy came back. Then she says, There is nothing like personal influence; you and Philip will succeed where I have failed. She says, too, that Caroline Abbott has been wonderful." Philip assented. "Caroline feels it as keenly almost as us. That is because she knows the man. Oh, he must be loathsome! Goodness me! I ve forgotten to pack the ammonia!... It has been a terrible lesson for Caroline, but I fancy it is her turning-point. I can t help liking to think that out of all this evil good will come." Philip saw no prospect of good, nor of beauty either. But the expedition promised to be highly comic. He was not averse to it any longer; he was simply indifferent to all in it except the humours. These would be wonderful. Harriet, worked by her mother; Mrs. Herriton,	"I don t go by what I saw of him, but by what I know of him." "Well, what do you conclude from that?" "That he is a thoroughly wicked man." "Yet thoroughly wicked men have loved their children. Look at Rodrigo Borgia, for example." "I have also seen examples of that in my district." With this remark the admirable young woman rose, and returned to keep up her Italian. She puzzled Philip extremely. He could understand enthusiasm, but she did not seem the least enthusiastic. He could understand pure cussedness, but it did not seem to be that either. Apparently she was deriving neither amusement nor profit from the struggle. Why, then, had she undertaken it? Perhaps she was not sincere. Perhaps, on the whole, that was most likely. She must be professing one thing and aiming at another. What the other thing could be he did not stop to consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said. "We have failed." Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."</\|quote\|>"Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perverse reason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poor Caroline. She will be equally distressed." She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Her face was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round her eyes. "The impudence!" she shouted. "The cursed impudence! Oh, I m swearing. I don t care. That beastly woman--how dare she interfere--I ll--Philip, dear, I m sorry. It s no good. You must go." "Go where? Do sit down. What s happened?" This outburst of violence from his elegant ladylike mother pained him dreadfully. He had not known that it was in her. "She won t accept--won t accept the letter as final. You must go to Monteriano!" "I won t!" he shouted back. "I ve been and I ve failed. I ll never see the place again. I hate Italy." "If you don t go, she will." "Abbott?" "Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to write; she said it was too late!	Where Angels Fear To Tread
can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes,	No speaker	How the devil, "said I,"<\|quote\|>can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes,</\|quote\|>"said I," an empty sleeve.	wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I,"<\|quote\|>can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes,</\|quote\|>"said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an	black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve." "Well?" "That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly." I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I,"<\|quote\|>can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes,</\|quote\|>"said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though	was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve." "Well?" "That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly." I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I,"<\|quote\|>can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes,</\|quote\|>"said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers, aren t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you." " You said it was an empty sleeve? "he said. Certainly, I said. At staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts scratch. Then very	paper. Swish, rustle. He was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a flicker, and there was the prescription burning and lifting chimneyward. Rushed towards it just as it whisked up the chimney. So! Just at that point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm." "Well?" "No hand just an empty sleeve." Lord! "I thought," _that s_ a deformity! Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, "I thought," there s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and open, if there s nothing in it? "There was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve." "Well?" "That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly." I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I,"<\|quote\|>can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes,</\|quote\|>"said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers, aren t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you." " You said it was an empty sleeve? "he said. Certainly, I said. At staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts scratch. Then very quietly he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket again, and raised his arm towards me as though he would show it to me again. He did it very, very slowly. I looked at it. Seemed an age. Well? said I, clearing my throat, there s nothing in it." "Had to say something. I was beginning to feel frightened. I could see right down it. He extended it straight towards me, slowly, slowly just like that until the cuff was six inches from my face. Queer thing to see an empty sleeve come at you like that! And then" "Well?"	to demand a subscription for that Nurse Fund. He d stuck his hands in his pockets as I came in, and he sat down lumpily in his chair. Sniffed. I told him I d heard he took an interest in scientific things. He said" yes. "Sniffed again. Kept on sniffing all the time; evidently recently caught an infernal cold. No wonder, wrapped up like that! I developed the nurse idea, and all the while kept my eyes open. Bottles chemicals everywhere. Balance, test-tubes in stands, and a smell of evening primrose. Would he subscribe? Said he d consider it. Asked him, point-blank, was he researching. Said he was. A long research? Got quite cross." A damnable long research, "said he, blowing the cork out, so to speak." Oh, "said I. And out came the grievance. The man was just on the boil, and my question boiled him over. He had been given a prescription, most valuable prescription what for he wouldn t say. Was it medical?" Damn you! What are you fishing after? "I apologised. Dignified sniff and cough. He resumed. He d read it. Five ingredients. Put it down; turned his head. Draught of air from window lifted the paper. Swish, rustle. He was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a flicker, and there was the prescription burning and lifting chimneyward. Rushed towards it just as it whisked up the chimney. So! Just at that point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm." "Well?" "No hand just an empty sleeve." Lord! "I thought," _that s_ a deformity! Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, "I thought," there s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and open, if there s nothing in it? "There was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve." "Well?" "That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly." I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I,"<\|quote\|>can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes,</\|quote\|>"said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers, aren t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you." " You said it was an empty sleeve? "he said. Certainly, I said. At staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts scratch. Then very quietly he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket again, and raised his arm towards me as though he would show it to me again. He did it very, very slowly. I looked at it. Seemed an age. Well? said I, clearing my throat, there s nothing in it." "Had to say something. I was beginning to feel frightened. I could see right down it. He extended it straight towards me, slowly, slowly just like that until the cuff was six inches from my face. Queer thing to see an empty sleeve come at you like that! And then" "Well?" "Something exactly like a finger and thumb it felt nipped my nose." Bunting began to laugh. "There wasn t anything there!" said Cuss, his voice running up into a shriek at the "there." "It s all very well for you to laugh, but I tell you I was so startled, I hit his cuff hard, and turned around, and cut out of the room I left him" Cuss stopped. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his panic. He turned round in a helpless way and took a second glass of the excellent vicar s very inferior sherry. "When I hit his cuff," said Cuss, "I tell you, it felt exactly like hitting an arm. And there wasn t an arm! There wasn t the ghost of an arm!" Mr. Bunting thought it over. He looked suspiciously at Cuss. "It s a most remarkable story," he said. He looked very wise and grave indeed. "It s really," said Mr. Bunting with judicial emphasis, "a most remarkable story." CHAPTER V. THE BURGLARY AT THE VICARAGE The facts of the burglary at the vicarage came to us chiefly through the medium of the vicar and his wife. It occurred in the small	was whistled in the midst of them. Also belated little children would call "Bogey Man!" after him, and make off tremulously elated. Cuss, the general practitioner, was devoured by curiosity. The bandages excited his professional interest, the report of the thousand and one bottles aroused his jealous regard. All through April and May he coveted an opportunity of talking to the stranger, and at last, towards Whitsuntide, he could stand it no longer, but hit upon the subscription-list for a village nurse as an excuse. He was surprised to find that Mr. Hall did not know his guest s name. "He give a name," said Mrs. Hall an assertion which was quite unfounded "but I didn t rightly hear it." She thought it seemed so silly not to know the man s name. Cuss rapped at the parlour door and entered. There was a fairly audible imprecation from within. "Pardon my intrusion," said Cuss, and then the door closed and cut Mrs. Hall off from the rest of the conversation. She could hear the murmur of voices for the next ten minutes, then a cry of surprise, a stirring of feet, a chair flung aside, a bark of laughter, quick steps to the door, and Cuss appeared, his face white, his eyes staring over his shoulder. He left the door open behind him, and without looking at her strode across the hall and went down the steps, and she heard his feet hurrying along the road. He carried his hat in his hand. She stood behind the door, looking at the open door of the parlour. Then she heard the stranger laughing quietly, and then his footsteps came across the room. She could not see his face where she stood. The parlour door slammed, and the place was silent again. Cuss went straight up the village to Bunting the vicar. "Am I mad?" Cuss began abruptly, as he entered the shabby little study. "Do I look like an insane person?" "What s happened?" said the vicar, putting the ammonite on the loose sheets of his forth-coming sermon. "That chap at the inn" "Well?" "Give me something to drink," said Cuss, and he sat down. When his nerves had been steadied by a glass of cheap sherry the only drink the good vicar had available he told him of the interview he had just had. "Went in," he gasped, "and began to demand a subscription for that Nurse Fund. He d stuck his hands in his pockets as I came in, and he sat down lumpily in his chair. Sniffed. I told him I d heard he took an interest in scientific things. He said" yes. "Sniffed again. Kept on sniffing all the time; evidently recently caught an infernal cold. No wonder, wrapped up like that! I developed the nurse idea, and all the while kept my eyes open. Bottles chemicals everywhere. Balance, test-tubes in stands, and a smell of evening primrose. Would he subscribe? Said he d consider it. Asked him, point-blank, was he researching. Said he was. A long research? Got quite cross." A damnable long research, "said he, blowing the cork out, so to speak." Oh, "said I. And out came the grievance. The man was just on the boil, and my question boiled him over. He had been given a prescription, most valuable prescription what for he wouldn t say. Was it medical?" Damn you! What are you fishing after? "I apologised. Dignified sniff and cough. He resumed. He d read it. Five ingredients. Put it down; turned his head. Draught of air from window lifted the paper. Swish, rustle. He was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a flicker, and there was the prescription burning and lifting chimneyward. Rushed towards it just as it whisked up the chimney. So! Just at that point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm." "Well?" "No hand just an empty sleeve." Lord! "I thought," _that s_ a deformity! Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, "I thought," there s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and open, if there s nothing in it? "There was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve." "Well?" "That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly." I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I,"<\|quote\|>can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes,</\|quote\|>"said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers, aren t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you." " You said it was an empty sleeve? "he said. Certainly, I said. At staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts scratch. Then very quietly he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket again, and raised his arm towards me as though he would show it to me again. He did it very, very slowly. I looked at it. Seemed an age. Well? said I, clearing my throat, there s nothing in it." "Had to say something. I was beginning to feel frightened. I could see right down it. He extended it straight towards me, slowly, slowly just like that until the cuff was six inches from my face. Queer thing to see an empty sleeve come at you like that! And then" "Well?" "Something exactly like a finger and thumb it felt nipped my nose." Bunting began to laugh. "There wasn t anything there!" said Cuss, his voice running up into a shriek at the "there." "It s all very well for you to laugh, but I tell you I was so startled, I hit his cuff hard, and turned around, and cut out of the room I left him" Cuss stopped. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his panic. He turned round in a helpless way and took a second glass of the excellent vicar s very inferior sherry. "When I hit his cuff," said Cuss, "I tell you, it felt exactly like hitting an arm. And there wasn t an arm! There wasn t the ghost of an arm!" Mr. Bunting thought it over. He looked suspiciously at Cuss. "It s a most remarkable story," he said. He looked very wise and grave indeed. "It s really," said Mr. Bunting with judicial emphasis, "a most remarkable story." CHAPTER V. THE BURGLARY AT THE VICARAGE The facts of the burglary at the vicarage came to us chiefly through the medium of the vicar and his wife. It occurred in the small hours of Whit Monday, the day devoted in Iping to the Club festivities. Mrs. Bunting, it seems, woke up suddenly in the stillness that comes before the dawn, with the strong impression that the door of their bedroom had opened and closed. She did not arouse her husband at first, but sat up in bed listening. She then distinctly heard the pad, pad, pad of bare feet coming out of the adjoining dressing-room and walking along the passage towards the staircase. As soon as she felt assured of this, she aroused the Rev. Mr. Bunting as quietly as possible. He did not strike a light, but putting on his spectacles, her dressing-gown and his bath slippers, he went out on the landing to listen. He heard quite distinctly a fumbling going on at his study desk down-stairs, and then a violent sneeze. At that he returned to his bedroom, armed himself with the most obvious weapon, the poker, and descended the staircase as noiselessly as possible. Mrs. Bunting came out on the landing. The hour was about four, and the ultimate darkness of the night was past. There was a faint shimmer of light in the hall, but the study doorway yawned impenetrably black. Everything was still except the faint creaking of the stairs under Mr. Bunting s tread, and the slight movements in the study. Then something snapped, the drawer was opened, and there was a rustle of papers. Then came an imprecation, and a match was struck and the study was flooded with yellow light. Mr. Bunting was now in the hall, and through the crack of the door he could see the desk and the open drawer and a candle burning on the desk. But the robber he could not see. He stood there in the hall undecided what to do, and Mrs. Bunting, her face white and intent, crept slowly downstairs after him. One thing kept Mr. Bunting s courage; the persuasion that this burglar was a resident in the village. They heard the chink of money, and realised that the robber had found the housekeeping reserve of gold two pounds ten in half sovereigns altogether. At that sound Mr. Bunting was nerved to abrupt action. Gripping the poker firmly, he rushed into the room, closely followed by Mrs. Bunting. "Surrender!" cried Mr. Bunting, fiercely, and then stooped amazed. Apparently the room was perfectly empty. Yet	feet hurrying along the road. He carried his hat in his hand. She stood behind the door, looking at the open door of the parlour. Then she heard the stranger laughing quietly, and then his footsteps came across the room. She could not see his face where she stood. The parlour door slammed, and the place was silent again. Cuss went straight up the village to Bunting the vicar. "Am I mad?" Cuss began abruptly, as he entered the shabby little study. "Do I look like an insane person?" "What s happened?" said the vicar, putting the ammonite on the loose sheets of his forth-coming sermon. "That chap at the inn" "Well?" "Give me something to drink," said Cuss, and he sat down. When his nerves had been steadied by a glass of cheap sherry the only drink the good vicar had available he told him of the interview he had just had. "Went in," he gasped, "and began to demand a subscription for that Nurse Fund. He d stuck his hands in his pockets as I came in, and he sat down lumpily in his chair. Sniffed. I told him I d heard he took an interest in scientific things. He said" yes. "Sniffed again. Kept on sniffing all the time; evidently recently caught an infernal cold. No wonder, wrapped up like that! I developed the nurse idea, and all the while kept my eyes open. Bottles chemicals everywhere. Balance, test-tubes in stands, and a smell of evening primrose. Would he subscribe? Said he d consider it. Asked him, point-blank, was he researching. Said he was. A long research? Got quite cross." A damnable long research, "said he, blowing the cork out, so to speak." Oh, "said I. And out came the grievance. The man was just on the boil, and my question boiled him over. He had been given a prescription, most valuable prescription what for he wouldn t say. Was it medical?" Damn you! What are you fishing after? "I apologised. Dignified sniff and cough. He resumed. He d read it. Five ingredients. Put it down; turned his head. Draught of air from window lifted the paper. Swish, rustle. He was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a flicker, and there was the prescription burning and lifting chimneyward. Rushed towards it just as it whisked up the chimney. So! Just at that point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm." "Well?" "No hand just an empty sleeve." Lord! "I thought," _that s_ a deformity! Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, "I thought," there s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and open, if there s nothing in it? "There was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve." "Well?" "That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly." I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I,"<\|quote\|>can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes,</\|quote\|>"said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers, aren t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you." " You said it was an empty sleeve? "he said. Certainly, I said. At staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts scratch. Then very quietly he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket again, and raised his arm towards me as though he would show it to me again. He did it very, very slowly. I looked at it. Seemed an age. Well? said I, clearing my throat, there s nothing in it." "Had to say something. I was beginning to feel frightened. I could see right down it. He extended it straight towards me, slowly, slowly just like that until the cuff was six inches from my face. Queer thing to see an empty sleeve come at you like that! And then" "Well?" "Something exactly like a finger and thumb it felt nipped my nose." Bunting began to laugh. "There wasn t anything there!" said Cuss, his voice running up into a shriek at the "there." "It s all very well for you to laugh, but I tell you I was so startled, I hit his cuff hard, and turned around, and cut out of the room I left him" Cuss stopped. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his panic. He turned round in a helpless way and took a second glass of the excellent vicar s very inferior sherry. "When I hit his cuff," said Cuss, "I tell you, it felt exactly like hitting an arm. And there wasn t an arm! There wasn t the ghost of an arm!" Mr. Bunting thought it over. He looked suspiciously at Cuss. "It s a most remarkable story," he said. He looked very wise and grave indeed. "It s really," said Mr. Bunting with judicial emphasis, "a most remarkable story." CHAPTER V. THE BURGLARY AT THE VICARAGE The facts of the burglary at the vicarage came to us chiefly through the medium of the vicar and his wife. It occurred in the small hours of Whit Monday, the day devoted in Iping to the Club festivities. Mrs. Bunting, it seems, woke up suddenly in the stillness that comes before the dawn, with the strong impression that the door of their bedroom had opened and closed. She did not arouse her husband at first, but sat up in bed listening. She then distinctly heard the pad, pad, pad of bare feet coming out of the adjoining dressing-room and walking along the passage towards the staircase. As soon as she felt assured of this, she aroused the Rev. Mr. Bunting as quietly as possible. He did not strike a light, but putting on his spectacles, her dressing-gown and his bath slippers, he went out on the landing to listen. He heard quite distinctly a fumbling going on at his study desk down-stairs, and then a violent sneeze. At that he returned to his bedroom, armed himself with the most obvious weapon, the poker, and descended the staircase as noiselessly as possible. Mrs. Bunting came out on the landing. The hour was about four, and the ultimate darkness of the night was past. There was a faint shimmer of light in the hall, but the	The Invisible Man
"Not one of them's all right,"	Major Callendar	new subject in low tones.<\|quote\|>"Not one of them's all right,"</\|quote\|>contradicted Major Callendar. "Das is,	right," said Ronny, starting a new subject in low tones.<\|quote\|>"Not one of them's all right,"</\|quote\|>contradicted Major Callendar. "Das is, really." "You mean he's more	for you?" Miss Derek said. "I don't think so, Nancy, and I seem able to do nothing for myself." "But you're strictly forbidden to talk like that; you're wonderful." "Yes indeed," came the reverent chorus. "My old Das is all right," said Ronny, starting a new subject in low tones.<\|quote\|>"Not one of them's all right,"</\|quote\|>contradicted Major Callendar. "Das is, really." "You mean he's more frightened of acquitting than convicting, because if he acquits he'll lose his job," said Lesley with a clever little laugh. Ronny did mean that, but he cherished "illusions" about his own subordinates (following the finer traditions of his service here),	done his country and the Empire incalculable disservice. While they denounced him, Miss Quested lay back with her hands on the arms of her chair and her eyes closed, reserving her strength. They noticed her after a time, and felt ashamed of making so much noise. "Can we do nothing for you?" Miss Derek said. "I don't think so, Nancy, and I seem able to do nothing for myself." "But you're strictly forbidden to talk like that; you're wonderful." "Yes indeed," came the reverent chorus. "My old Das is all right," said Ronny, starting a new subject in low tones.<\|quote\|>"Not one of them's all right,"</\|quote\|>contradicted Major Callendar. "Das is, really." "You mean he's more frightened of acquitting than convicting, because if he acquits he'll lose his job," said Lesley with a clever little laugh. Ronny did mean that, but he cherished "illusions" about his own subordinates (following the finer traditions of his service here), and he liked to maintain that his old Das really did possess moral courage of the Public School brand. He pointed out that from one point of view it was good that an Indian was taking the case. Conviction was inevitable; so better let an Indian pronounce it, there would	seemed dead already, nevertheless it was disquieting. A new spirit seemed abroad, a rearrangement, which no one in the stern little band of whites could explain. There was a tendency to see Fielding at the back of it: the idea that he was weak and cranky had been dropped. They abused Fielding vigorously: he had been seen driving up with the two counsels, Amritrao and Mahmoud Ali; he encouraged the Boy Scout movement for seditious reasons; he received letters with foreign stamps on them, and was probably a Japanese spy. This morning's verdict would break the renegade, but he had done his country and the Empire incalculable disservice. While they denounced him, Miss Quested lay back with her hands on the arms of her chair and her eyes closed, reserving her strength. They noticed her after a time, and felt ashamed of making so much noise. "Can we do nothing for you?" Miss Derek said. "I don't think so, Nancy, and I seem able to do nothing for myself." "But you're strictly forbidden to talk like that; you're wonderful." "Yes indeed," came the reverent chorus. "My old Das is all right," said Ronny, starting a new subject in low tones.<\|quote\|>"Not one of them's all right,"</\|quote\|>contradicted Major Callendar. "Das is, really." "You mean he's more frightened of acquitting than convicting, because if he acquits he'll lose his job," said Lesley with a clever little laugh. Ronny did mean that, but he cherished "illusions" about his own subordinates (following the finer traditions of his service here), and he liked to maintain that his old Das really did possess moral courage of the Public School brand. He pointed out that from one point of view it was good that an Indian was taking the case. Conviction was inevitable; so better let an Indian pronounce it, there would be less fuss in the long run. Interested in the argument, he let Adela become dim in his mind. "In fact, you disapprove of the appeal I forwarded to Lady Mellanby," said Mrs. Turton with considerable heat. "Pray don't apologize, Mr. Heaslop; I am accustomed to being in the wrong." "I didn't mean that . . ." "All right. I said don't apologize." "Those swine are always on the look-out for a grievance," said Lesley, to propitiate her. "Swine, I should think so," the Major echoed. "And what's more, I'll tell you what. What's happened is a damn good thing	who make everything more difficult out here," was his inmost thought, as he caught sight of some obscenities upon a long blank wall, and beneath his chivalry to Miss Quested resentment lurked, waiting its day perhaps there is a grain of resentment in all chivalry. Some students had gathered in front of the City Magistrate's Court hysterical boys whom he would have faced if alone, but he told the driver to work round to the rear of the building. The students jeered, and Rafi (hiding behind a comrade that he might not be identified) called out the English were cowards. They gained Ronny's private room, where a group of their own sort had collected. None were cowardly, all nervy, for queer reports kept coming in. The Sweepers had just struck, and half the commodes of Chandrapore remained desolate in consequence only half, and Sweepers from the District, who felt less strongly about the innocence of Dr. Aziz, would arrive in the afternoon, and break the strike, but why should the grotesque incident occur? And a number of Mohammedan ladies had sworn to take no food until the prisoner was acquitted; their death would make little difference, indeed, being invisible, they seemed dead already, nevertheless it was disquieting. A new spirit seemed abroad, a rearrangement, which no one in the stern little band of whites could explain. There was a tendency to see Fielding at the back of it: the idea that he was weak and cranky had been dropped. They abused Fielding vigorously: he had been seen driving up with the two counsels, Amritrao and Mahmoud Ali; he encouraged the Boy Scout movement for seditious reasons; he received letters with foreign stamps on them, and was probably a Japanese spy. This morning's verdict would break the renegade, but he had done his country and the Empire incalculable disservice. While they denounced him, Miss Quested lay back with her hands on the arms of her chair and her eyes closed, reserving her strength. They noticed her after a time, and felt ashamed of making so much noise. "Can we do nothing for you?" Miss Derek said. "I don't think so, Nancy, and I seem able to do nothing for myself." "But you're strictly forbidden to talk like that; you're wonderful." "Yes indeed," came the reverent chorus. "My old Das is all right," said Ronny, starting a new subject in low tones.<\|quote\|>"Not one of them's all right,"</\|quote\|>contradicted Major Callendar. "Das is, really." "You mean he's more frightened of acquitting than convicting, because if he acquits he'll lose his job," said Lesley with a clever little laugh. Ronny did mean that, but he cherished "illusions" about his own subordinates (following the finer traditions of his service here), and he liked to maintain that his old Das really did possess moral courage of the Public School brand. He pointed out that from one point of view it was good that an Indian was taking the case. Conviction was inevitable; so better let an Indian pronounce it, there would be less fuss in the long run. Interested in the argument, he let Adela become dim in his mind. "In fact, you disapprove of the appeal I forwarded to Lady Mellanby," said Mrs. Turton with considerable heat. "Pray don't apologize, Mr. Heaslop; I am accustomed to being in the wrong." "I didn't mean that . . ." "All right. I said don't apologize." "Those swine are always on the look-out for a grievance," said Lesley, to propitiate her. "Swine, I should think so," the Major echoed. "And what's more, I'll tell you what. What's happened is a damn good thing really, barring of course its application to present company. It'll make them squeal and it's time they did squeal. I've put the fear of God into them at the hospital anyhow. You should see the grandson of our so-called leading loyalist." He tittered brutally as he described poor Nureddin's present appearance. "His beauty's gone, five upper teeth, two lower and a nostril. . . . Old Panna Lal brought him the looking-glass yesterday and he blubbered. . . . I laughed; I laughed, I tell you, and so would you; that used to be one of these buck niggers, I thought, now he's all septic; damn him, blast his soul er I believe he was unspeakably immoral er" He subsided, nudged in the ribs, but added, "I wish I'd had the cutting up of my late assistant too; nothing's too bad for these people." "At last some sense is being talked," Mrs. Turton cried, much to her husband's discomfort. "That's what I say; I say there's not such a thing as cruelty after a thing like this." "Exactly, and remember it afterwards, you men. You're weak, weak, weak. Why, they ought to crawl from here to the caves on their	friends. "My echo has come back again badly," she told them. "How about aspirin?" "It is not a headache, it is an echo." Unable to dispel the buzzing in her ears, Major Callendar had diagnosed it as a fancy, which must not be encouraged. So the Turtons changed the subject. The cool little lick of the breeze was passing over the earth, dividing night from day; it would fail in ten minutes, but they might profit by it for their drive down into the city. "I am sure to break down," she repeated. "You won't," said the Collector, his voice full of tenderness. "Of course she won't, she's a real sport." "But Mrs. Turton . . ." "Yes, my dear child?" "If I do break down, it is of no consequence. It would matter in some trials, not in this. I put it to myself in the following way: I can really behave as I like, cry, be absurd, I am sure to get my verdict, unless Mr. Das is most frightfully unjust." "You're bound to win," he said calmly, and did not remind her that there was bound to be an appeal. The Nawab Bahadur had financed the defence, and would ruin himself sooner than let an "innocent Moslem perish," and other interests, less reputable, were in the background too. The case might go up from court to court, with consequences that no official could foresee. Under his very eyes, the temper of Chandrapore was altering. As his car turned out of the compound, there was a tap of silly anger on its paint a pebble thrown by a child. Some larger stones were dropped near the mosque. In the Maidan, a squad of native police on motor cycles waited to escort them through the bazaars. The Collector was irritated and muttered, "McBryde's an old woman" "; but Mrs. Turton said, "Really, after Mohurram a show of force will do no harm; it's ridiculous to pretend they don't hate us, do give up that farce." He replied in an odd, sad voice, "I don't hate them, I don't know why," and he didn't hate them; for if he did, he would have had to condemn his own career as a bad investment. He retained a contemptuous affection for the pawns he had moved about for so many years, they must be worth his pains. "After all, it's our women who make everything more difficult out here," was his inmost thought, as he caught sight of some obscenities upon a long blank wall, and beneath his chivalry to Miss Quested resentment lurked, waiting its day perhaps there is a grain of resentment in all chivalry. Some students had gathered in front of the City Magistrate's Court hysterical boys whom he would have faced if alone, but he told the driver to work round to the rear of the building. The students jeered, and Rafi (hiding behind a comrade that he might not be identified) called out the English were cowards. They gained Ronny's private room, where a group of their own sort had collected. None were cowardly, all nervy, for queer reports kept coming in. The Sweepers had just struck, and half the commodes of Chandrapore remained desolate in consequence only half, and Sweepers from the District, who felt less strongly about the innocence of Dr. Aziz, would arrive in the afternoon, and break the strike, but why should the grotesque incident occur? And a number of Mohammedan ladies had sworn to take no food until the prisoner was acquitted; their death would make little difference, indeed, being invisible, they seemed dead already, nevertheless it was disquieting. A new spirit seemed abroad, a rearrangement, which no one in the stern little band of whites could explain. There was a tendency to see Fielding at the back of it: the idea that he was weak and cranky had been dropped. They abused Fielding vigorously: he had been seen driving up with the two counsels, Amritrao and Mahmoud Ali; he encouraged the Boy Scout movement for seditious reasons; he received letters with foreign stamps on them, and was probably a Japanese spy. This morning's verdict would break the renegade, but he had done his country and the Empire incalculable disservice. While they denounced him, Miss Quested lay back with her hands on the arms of her chair and her eyes closed, reserving her strength. They noticed her after a time, and felt ashamed of making so much noise. "Can we do nothing for you?" Miss Derek said. "I don't think so, Nancy, and I seem able to do nothing for myself." "But you're strictly forbidden to talk like that; you're wonderful." "Yes indeed," came the reverent chorus. "My old Das is all right," said Ronny, starting a new subject in low tones.<\|quote\|>"Not one of them's all right,"</\|quote\|>contradicted Major Callendar. "Das is, really." "You mean he's more frightened of acquitting than convicting, because if he acquits he'll lose his job," said Lesley with a clever little laugh. Ronny did mean that, but he cherished "illusions" about his own subordinates (following the finer traditions of his service here), and he liked to maintain that his old Das really did possess moral courage of the Public School brand. He pointed out that from one point of view it was good that an Indian was taking the case. Conviction was inevitable; so better let an Indian pronounce it, there would be less fuss in the long run. Interested in the argument, he let Adela become dim in his mind. "In fact, you disapprove of the appeal I forwarded to Lady Mellanby," said Mrs. Turton with considerable heat. "Pray don't apologize, Mr. Heaslop; I am accustomed to being in the wrong." "I didn't mean that . . ." "All right. I said don't apologize." "Those swine are always on the look-out for a grievance," said Lesley, to propitiate her. "Swine, I should think so," the Major echoed. "And what's more, I'll tell you what. What's happened is a damn good thing really, barring of course its application to present company. It'll make them squeal and it's time they did squeal. I've put the fear of God into them at the hospital anyhow. You should see the grandson of our so-called leading loyalist." He tittered brutally as he described poor Nureddin's present appearance. "His beauty's gone, five upper teeth, two lower and a nostril. . . . Old Panna Lal brought him the looking-glass yesterday and he blubbered. . . . I laughed; I laughed, I tell you, and so would you; that used to be one of these buck niggers, I thought, now he's all septic; damn him, blast his soul er I believe he was unspeakably immoral er" He subsided, nudged in the ribs, but added, "I wish I'd had the cutting up of my late assistant too; nothing's too bad for these people." "At last some sense is being talked," Mrs. Turton cried, much to her husband's discomfort. "That's what I say; I say there's not such a thing as cruelty after a thing like this." "Exactly, and remember it afterwards, you men. You're weak, weak, weak. Why, they ought to crawl from here to the caves on their hands and knees whenever an Englishwoman's in sight, they oughtn't to be spoken to, they ought to be spat at, they ought to be ground into the dust, we've been far too kind with our Bridge Parties and the rest." She paused. Profiting by her wrath, the heat had invaded her. She subsided into a lemon squash, and continued between the sips to murmur, "Weak, weak." And the process was repeated. The issues Miss Quested had raised were so much more important than she was herself that people inevitably forgot her. Presently the case was called. Their chairs preceded them into the Court, for it was important that they should look dignified. And when the chuprassies had made all ready, they filed into the ramshackly room with a condescending air, as if it was a booth at a fair. The Collector made a small official joke as he sat down, at which his entourage smiled, and the Indians, who could not hear what he said, felt that some new cruelty was afoot, otherwise the sahibs would not chuckle. The Court was crowded and of course very hot, and the first person Adela noticed in it was the humblest of all who were present, a person who had no bearing officially upon the trial: the man who pulled the punkah. Almost naked, and splendidly formed, he sat on a raised platform near the back, in the middle of the central gangway, and he caught her attention as she came in, and he seemed to control the proceedings. He had the strength and beauty that sometimes come to flower in Indians of low birth. When that strange race nears the dust and is condemned as untouchable, then nature remembers the physical perfection that she accomplished elsewhere, and throws out a god not many, but one here and there, to prove to society how little its categories impress her. This man would have been notable anywhere: among the thin-hammed, flat-chested mediocrities of Chandrapore he stood out as divine, yet he was of the city, its garbage had nourished him, he would end on its rubbish heaps. Pulling the rope towards him, relaxing it rhythmically, sending swirls of air over others, receiving none himself, he seemed apart from human destinies, a male fate, a winnower of souls. Opposite him, also on a platform, sat the little assistant magistrate, cultivated, self-conscious, and conscientious. The punkah	had to condemn his own career as a bad investment. He retained a contemptuous affection for the pawns he had moved about for so many years, they must be worth his pains. "After all, it's our women who make everything more difficult out here," was his inmost thought, as he caught sight of some obscenities upon a long blank wall, and beneath his chivalry to Miss Quested resentment lurked, waiting its day perhaps there is a grain of resentment in all chivalry. Some students had gathered in front of the City Magistrate's Court hysterical boys whom he would have faced if alone, but he told the driver to work round to the rear of the building. The students jeered, and Rafi (hiding behind a comrade that he might not be identified) called out the English were cowards. They gained Ronny's private room, where a group of their own sort had collected. None were cowardly, all nervy, for queer reports kept coming in. The Sweepers had just struck, and half the commodes of Chandrapore remained desolate in consequence only half, and Sweepers from the District, who felt less strongly about the innocence of Dr. Aziz, would arrive in the afternoon, and break the strike, but why should the grotesque incident occur? And a number of Mohammedan ladies had sworn to take no food until the prisoner was acquitted; their death would make little difference, indeed, being invisible, they seemed dead already, nevertheless it was disquieting. A new spirit seemed abroad, a rearrangement, which no one in the stern little band of whites could explain. There was a tendency to see Fielding at the back of it: the idea that he was weak and cranky had been dropped. They abused Fielding vigorously: he had been seen driving up with the two counsels, Amritrao and Mahmoud Ali; he encouraged the Boy Scout movement for seditious reasons; he received letters with foreign stamps on them, and was probably a Japanese spy. This morning's verdict would break the renegade, but he had done his country and the Empire incalculable disservice. While they denounced him, Miss Quested lay back with her hands on the arms of her chair and her eyes closed, reserving her strength. They noticed her after a time, and felt ashamed of making so much noise. "Can we do nothing for you?" Miss Derek said. "I don't think so, Nancy, and I seem able to do nothing for myself." "But you're strictly forbidden to talk like that; you're wonderful." "Yes indeed," came the reverent chorus. "My old Das is all right," said Ronny, starting a new subject in low tones.<\|quote\|>"Not one of them's all right,"</\|quote\|>contradicted Major Callendar. "Das is, really." "You mean he's more frightened of acquitting than convicting, because if he acquits he'll lose his job," said Lesley with a clever little laugh. Ronny did mean that, but he cherished "illusions" about his own subordinates (following the finer traditions of his service here), and he liked to maintain that his old Das really did possess moral courage of the Public School brand. He pointed out that from one point of view it was good that an Indian was taking the case. Conviction was inevitable; so better let an Indian pronounce it, there would be less fuss in the long run. Interested in the argument, he let Adela become dim in his mind. "In fact, you disapprove of the appeal I forwarded to Lady Mellanby," said Mrs. Turton with considerable heat. "Pray don't apologize, Mr. Heaslop; I am accustomed to being in the wrong." "I didn't mean that . . ." "All right. I said don't apologize." "Those swine are always on the look-out for a grievance," said Lesley, to propitiate her. "Swine, I should think so," the Major echoed. "And what's more, I'll tell you what. What's happened is a damn good thing really, barring of course its application to present company. It'll make them squeal and it's time they did squeal. I've put the fear of God into them at the hospital anyhow. You should see the grandson of our so-called leading loyalist." He tittered brutally as he described poor Nureddin's present appearance. "His beauty's gone, five upper teeth, two lower and a nostril. . . . Old Panna Lal brought him the looking-glass yesterday and he blubbered. . . . I laughed; I laughed, I tell you, and so would you; that used to be one of these buck niggers, I thought, now he's all septic; damn him, blast his soul er I believe he was unspeakably immoral er" He subsided, nudged in the ribs, but added, "I wish I'd had the cutting up of my late assistant too; nothing's too bad for these people." "At last some sense is being talked," Mrs. Turton cried, much to her husband's discomfort. "That's what I say; I say there's not such a thing as cruelty	A Passage To India
"What a box to sweat in!"	Georgette	perspiring. "My God," Georgette said.<\|quote\|>"What a box to sweat in!"</\|quote\|>"It's hot." "Hot, my God!"	we came off the floor perspiring. "My God," Georgette said.<\|quote\|>"What a box to sweat in!"</\|quote\|>"It's hot." "Hot, my God!" "Take off your hat." "That's	on a high stool beside the dancing-floor and began to play the accordion. He had a string of bells around one of his ankles and beat time with his foot as he played. Every one danced. It was hot and we came off the floor perspiring. "My God," Georgette said.<\|quote\|>"What a box to sweat in!"</\|quote\|>"It's hot." "Hot, my God!" "Take off your hat." "That's a good idea." Some one asked Georgette to dance, and I went over to the bar. It was really very hot and the accordion music was pleasant in the hot night. I drank a beer, standing in the doorway and	of the house came downstairs as we went in. There were long benches, and tables ran across the room, and at the far end a dancing-floor. "I wish people would come earlier," Braddocks said. The daughter came up and wanted to know what we would drink. The proprietor got up on a high stool beside the dancing-floor and began to play the accordion. He had a string of bells around one of his ankles and beat time with his foot as he played. Every one danced. It was hot and we came off the floor perspiring. "My God," Georgette said.<\|quote\|>"What a box to sweat in!"</\|quote\|>"It's hot." "Hot, my God!" "Take off your hat." "That's a good idea." Some one asked Georgette to dance, and I went over to the bar. It was really very hot and the accordion music was pleasant in the hot night. I drank a beer, standing in the doorway and getting the cool breath of wind from the street. Two taxis were coming down the steep street. They both stopped in front of the Bal. A crowd of young men, some in jerseys and some in their shirt-sleeves, got out. I could see their hands and newly washed, wavy hair	liked to have kept it up but the coffee came, and Lavigne with the liqueurs, and after that we all went out and started for Braddocks's dancing-club. The dancing-club was a _bal musette_ in the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevi ve. Five nights a week the working people of the Pantheon quarter danced there. One night a week it was the dancing-club. On Monday nights it was closed. When we arrived it was quite empty, except for a policeman sitting near the door, the wife of the proprietor back of the zinc bar, and the proprietor himself. The daughter of the house came downstairs as we went in. There were long benches, and tables ran across the room, and at the far end a dancing-floor. "I wish people would come earlier," Braddocks said. The daughter came up and wanted to know what we would drink. The proprietor got up on a high stool beside the dancing-floor and began to play the accordion. He had a string of bells around one of his ankles and beat time with his foot as he played. Every one danced. It was hot and we came off the floor perspiring. "My God," Georgette said.<\|quote\|>"What a box to sweat in!"</\|quote\|>"It's hot." "Hot, my God!" "Take off your hat." "That's a good idea." Some one asked Georgette to dance, and I went over to the bar. It was really very hot and the accordion music was pleasant in the hot night. I drank a beer, standing in the doorway and getting the cool breath of wind from the street. Two taxis were coming down the steep street. They both stopped in front of the Bal. A crowd of young men, some in jerseys and some in their shirt-sleeves, got out. I could see their hands and newly washed, wavy hair in the light from the door. The policeman standing by the door looked at me and smiled. They came in. As they went in, under the light I saw white hands, wavy hair, white faces, grimacing, gesturing, talking. With them was Brett. She looked very lovely and she was very much with them. One of them saw Georgette and said: "I do declare. There is an actual harlot. I'm going to dance with her, Lett. You watch me." The tall dark one, called Lett, said: "Don't you be rash." The wavy blond one answered: "Don't you worry, dear." And with	said. "Yes," said Georgette. "To laugh at." "Did you hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called down the table to Braddocks. "Mr. Barnes introduced his fianc e as Mademoiselle Leblanc, and her name is actually Hobin." "Of course, darling. Mademoiselle Hobin, I've known her for a very long time." "Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin," Frances Clyne called, speaking French very rapidly and not seeming so proud and astonished as Mrs. Braddocks at its coming out really French. "Have you been in Paris long? Do you like it here? You love Paris, do you not?" "Who's she?" Georgette turned to me. "Do I have to talk to her?" She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed ready to start talking again. "No, I don't like Paris. It's expensive and dirty." "Really? I find it so extraordinarily clean. One of the cleanest cities in all Europe." "I find it dirty." "How strange! But perhaps you have not been here very long." "I've been here long enough." "But it does have nice people in it. One must grant that." Georgette turned to me. "You have nice friends." Frances was a little drunk and would have liked to have kept it up but the coffee came, and Lavigne with the liqueurs, and after that we all went out and started for Braddocks's dancing-club. The dancing-club was a _bal musette_ in the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevi ve. Five nights a week the working people of the Pantheon quarter danced there. One night a week it was the dancing-club. On Monday nights it was closed. When we arrived it was quite empty, except for a policeman sitting near the door, the wife of the proprietor back of the zinc bar, and the proprietor himself. The daughter of the house came downstairs as we went in. There were long benches, and tables ran across the room, and at the far end a dancing-floor. "I wish people would come earlier," Braddocks said. The daughter came up and wanted to know what we would drink. The proprietor got up on a high stool beside the dancing-floor and began to play the accordion. He had a string of bells around one of his ankles and beat time with his foot as he played. Every one danced. It was hot and we came off the floor perspiring. "My God," Georgette said.<\|quote\|>"What a box to sweat in!"</\|quote\|>"It's hot." "Hot, my God!" "Take off your hat." "That's a good idea." Some one asked Georgette to dance, and I went over to the bar. It was really very hot and the accordion music was pleasant in the hot night. I drank a beer, standing in the doorway and getting the cool breath of wind from the street. Two taxis were coming down the steep street. They both stopped in front of the Bal. A crowd of young men, some in jerseys and some in their shirt-sleeves, got out. I could see their hands and newly washed, wavy hair in the light from the door. The policeman standing by the door looked at me and smiled. They came in. As they went in, under the light I saw white hands, wavy hair, white faces, grimacing, gesturing, talking. With them was Brett. She looked very lovely and she was very much with them. One of them saw Georgette and said: "I do declare. There is an actual harlot. I'm going to dance with her, Lett. You watch me." The tall dark one, called Lett, said: "Don't you be rash." The wavy blond one answered: "Don't you worry, dear." And with them was Brett. I was very angry. Somehow they always made me angry. I know they are supposed to be amusing, and you should be tolerant, but I wanted to swing on one, any one, anything to shatter that superior, simpering composure. Instead, I walked down the street and had a beer at the bar at the next Bal. The beer was not good and I had a worse cognac to take the taste out of my mouth. When I came back to the Bal there was a crowd on the floor and Georgette was dancing with the tall blond youth, who danced big-hippily, carrying his head on one side, his eyes lifted as he danced. As soon as the music stopped another one of them asked her to dance. She had been taken up by them. I knew then that they would all dance with her. They are like that. I sat down at a table. Cohn was sitting there. Frances was dancing. Mrs. Braddocks brought up somebody and introduced him as Robert Prentiss. He was from New York by way of Chicago, and was a rising new novelist. He had some sort of an English accent. I asked	shame you're sick. We get on well. What's the matter with you, anyway?" "I got hurt in the war," I said. "Oh, that dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!" "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?" Mrs. Braddocks put in. "You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and had all their easy social graces. "Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went back to the small room. "Who are your friends?" Georgette asked. "Writers and artists." "There are lots of those on this side of the river." "Too many." "I think so. Still, some of them make money." "Oh, yes." We finished the meal and the wine. "Come on," I said. "We're going to have coffee with the others." Georgette opened her bag, made a few passes at her face as she looked in the little mirror, re-defined her lips with the lipstick, and straightened her hat. "Good," she said. We went into the room full of people and Braddocks and the men at his table stood up. "I wish to present my fianc e, Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc," I said. Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round. "Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the singer?" Mrs. Braddocks asked. "Connais pas," Georgette answered. "But you have the same name," Mrs. Braddocks insisted cordially. "No," said Georgette. "Not at all. My name is Hobin." "But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc. Surely he did," insisted Mrs. Braddocks, who in the excitement of talking French was liable to have no idea what she was saying. "He's a fool," Georgette said. "Oh, it was a joke, then," Mrs. Braddocks said. "Yes," said Georgette. "To laugh at." "Did you hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called down the table to Braddocks. "Mr. Barnes introduced his fianc e as Mademoiselle Leblanc, and her name is actually Hobin." "Of course, darling. Mademoiselle Hobin, I've known her for a very long time." "Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin," Frances Clyne called, speaking French very rapidly and not seeming so proud and astonished as Mrs. Braddocks at its coming out really French. "Have you been in Paris long? Do you like it here? You love Paris, do you not?" "Who's she?" Georgette turned to me. "Do I have to talk to her?" She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed ready to start talking again. "No, I don't like Paris. It's expensive and dirty." "Really? I find it so extraordinarily clean. One of the cleanest cities in all Europe." "I find it dirty." "How strange! But perhaps you have not been here very long." "I've been here long enough." "But it does have nice people in it. One must grant that." Georgette turned to me. "You have nice friends." Frances was a little drunk and would have liked to have kept it up but the coffee came, and Lavigne with the liqueurs, and after that we all went out and started for Braddocks's dancing-club. The dancing-club was a _bal musette_ in the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevi ve. Five nights a week the working people of the Pantheon quarter danced there. One night a week it was the dancing-club. On Monday nights it was closed. When we arrived it was quite empty, except for a policeman sitting near the door, the wife of the proprietor back of the zinc bar, and the proprietor himself. The daughter of the house came downstairs as we went in. There were long benches, and tables ran across the room, and at the far end a dancing-floor. "I wish people would come earlier," Braddocks said. The daughter came up and wanted to know what we would drink. The proprietor got up on a high stool beside the dancing-floor and began to play the accordion. He had a string of bells around one of his ankles and beat time with his foot as he played. Every one danced. It was hot and we came off the floor perspiring. "My God," Georgette said.<\|quote\|>"What a box to sweat in!"</\|quote\|>"It's hot." "Hot, my God!" "Take off your hat." "That's a good idea." Some one asked Georgette to dance, and I went over to the bar. It was really very hot and the accordion music was pleasant in the hot night. I drank a beer, standing in the doorway and getting the cool breath of wind from the street. Two taxis were coming down the steep street. They both stopped in front of the Bal. A crowd of young men, some in jerseys and some in their shirt-sleeves, got out. I could see their hands and newly washed, wavy hair in the light from the door. The policeman standing by the door looked at me and smiled. They came in. As they went in, under the light I saw white hands, wavy hair, white faces, grimacing, gesturing, talking. With them was Brett. She looked very lovely and she was very much with them. One of them saw Georgette and said: "I do declare. There is an actual harlot. I'm going to dance with her, Lett. You watch me." The tall dark one, called Lett, said: "Don't you be rash." The wavy blond one answered: "Don't you worry, dear." And with them was Brett. I was very angry. Somehow they always made me angry. I know they are supposed to be amusing, and you should be tolerant, but I wanted to swing on one, any one, anything to shatter that superior, simpering composure. Instead, I walked down the street and had a beer at the bar at the next Bal. The beer was not good and I had a worse cognac to take the taste out of my mouth. When I came back to the Bal there was a crowd on the floor and Georgette was dancing with the tall blond youth, who danced big-hippily, carrying his head on one side, his eyes lifted as he danced. As soon as the music stopped another one of them asked her to dance. She had been taken up by them. I knew then that they would all dance with her. They are like that. I sat down at a table. Cohn was sitting there. Frances was dancing. Mrs. Braddocks brought up somebody and introduced him as Robert Prentiss. He was from New York by way of Chicago, and was a rising new novelist. He had some sort of an English accent. I asked him to have a drink. "Thanks so much," he said, "I've just had one." "Have another." "Thanks, I will then." We got the daughter of the house over and each had a _fine l'eau_. "You're from Kansas City, they tell me," he said. "Yes." "Do you find Paris amusing?" "Yes." "Really?" I was a little drunk. Not drunk in any positive sense but just enough to be careless. "For God's sake," I said, "yes. Don't you?" "Oh, how charmingly you get angry," he said. "I wish I had that faculty." I got up and walked over toward the dancing-floor. Mrs. Braddocks followed me. "Don't be cross with Robert," she said. "He's still only a child, you know." "I wasn't cross," I said. "I just thought perhaps I was going to throw up." "Your fianc e is having a great success," Mrs. Braddocks looked out on the floor where Georgette was dancing in the arms of the tall, dark one, called Lett. "Isn't she?" I said. "Rather," said Mrs. Braddocks. Cohn came up. "Come on, Jake," he said, "have a drink." We walked over to the bar. "What's the matter with you? You seem all worked up over something?" "Nothing. This whole show makes me sick is all." Brett came up to the bar. "Hello, you chaps." "Hello, Brett," I said. "Why aren't you tight?" "Never going to get tight any more. I say, give a chap a brandy and soda." She stood holding the glass and I saw Robert Cohn looking at her. He looked a great deal as his compatriot must have looked when he saw the promised land. Cohn, of course, was much younger. But he had that look of eager, deserving expectation. Brett was damned good-looking. She wore a slipover jersey sweater and a tweed skirt, and her hair was brushed back like a boy's. She started all that. She was built with curves like the hull of a racing yacht, and you missed none of it with that wool jersey. "It's a fine crowd you're with, Brett," I said. "Aren't they lovely? And you, my dear. Where did you get it?" "At the Napolitain." "And have you had a lovely evening?" "Oh, priceless," I said. Brett laughed. "It's wrong of you, Jake. It's an insult to all of us. Look at Frances there, and Jo." This for Cohn's benefit. "It's in restraint of trade," Brett said.	Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round. "Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the singer?" Mrs. Braddocks asked. "Connais pas," Georgette answered. "But you have the same name," Mrs. Braddocks insisted cordially. "No," said Georgette. "Not at all. My name is Hobin." "But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc. Surely he did," insisted Mrs. Braddocks, who in the excitement of talking French was liable to have no idea what she was saying. "He's a fool," Georgette said. "Oh, it was a joke, then," Mrs. Braddocks said. "Yes," said Georgette. "To laugh at." "Did you hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called down the table to Braddocks. "Mr. Barnes introduced his fianc e as Mademoiselle Leblanc, and her name is actually Hobin." "Of course, darling. Mademoiselle Hobin, I've known her for a very long time." "Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin," Frances Clyne called, speaking French very rapidly and not seeming so proud and astonished as Mrs. Braddocks at its coming out really French. "Have you been in Paris long? Do you like it here? You love Paris, do you not?" "Who's she?" Georgette turned to me. "Do I have to talk to her?" She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed ready to start talking again. "No, I don't like Paris. It's expensive and dirty." "Really? I find it so extraordinarily clean. One of the cleanest cities in all Europe." "I find it dirty." "How strange! But perhaps you have not been here very long." "I've been here long enough." "But it does have nice people in it. One must grant that." Georgette turned to me. "You have nice friends." Frances was a little drunk and would have liked to have kept it up but the coffee came, and Lavigne with the liqueurs, and after that we all went out and started for Braddocks's dancing-club. The dancing-club was a _bal musette_ in the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevi ve. Five nights a week the working people of the Pantheon quarter danced there. One night a week it was the dancing-club. On Monday nights it was closed. When we arrived it was quite empty, except for a policeman sitting near the door, the wife of the proprietor back of the zinc bar, and the proprietor himself. The daughter of the house came downstairs as we went in. There were long benches, and tables ran across the room, and at the far end a dancing-floor. "I wish people would come earlier," Braddocks said. The daughter came up and wanted to know what we would drink. The proprietor got up on a high stool beside the dancing-floor and began to play the accordion. He had a string of bells around one of his ankles and beat time with his foot as he played. Every one danced. It was hot and we came off the floor perspiring. "My God," Georgette said.<\|quote\|>"What a box to sweat in!"</\|quote\|>"It's hot." "Hot, my God!" "Take off your hat." "That's a good idea." Some one asked Georgette to dance, and I went over to the bar. It was really very hot and the accordion music was pleasant in the hot night. I drank a beer, standing in the doorway and getting the cool breath of wind from the street. Two taxis were coming down the steep street. They both stopped in front of the Bal. A crowd of young men, some in jerseys and some in their shirt-sleeves, got out. I could see their hands and newly washed, wavy hair in the light from the door. The policeman standing by the door looked at me and smiled. They came in. As they went in, under the light I saw white hands, wavy hair, white faces, grimacing, gesturing, talking. With them was Brett. She looked very lovely and she was very much with them. One of them saw Georgette and said: "I do declare. There is an actual harlot. I'm going to dance with her, Lett. You watch me." The tall dark one, called Lett, said: "Don't you be rash." The wavy blond one answered: "Don't you worry, dear." And with them was Brett. I was very angry. Somehow they always made me angry. I know they are supposed to be amusing, and you should be tolerant, but I wanted to swing on one, any one, anything to shatter that superior, simpering composure. Instead, I walked down the street and had a beer at the bar at the next Bal. The beer was not good and I had a worse cognac to take the taste out of my mouth. When I came back to the Bal there was a crowd on the floor and Georgette was dancing with the tall blond youth, who danced big-hippily, carrying his head on one side, his eyes lifted as he danced. As soon as the music stopped another one of them asked her to dance. She had been taken up by them. I knew then that they would all dance with her. They are like that. I sat down at a table. Cohn was sitting there. Frances was dancing. Mrs. Braddocks brought up somebody and introduced him as Robert Prentiss. He was from New York by way of Chicago, and was a rising new novelist. He had some sort of an English accent. I asked him to have a drink. "Thanks so much," he said, "I've just had one." "Have another." "Thanks, I will then." We got the daughter of the house over and each had a _fine l'eau_. "You're from Kansas City, they tell me," he said. "Yes." "Do you find Paris amusing?" "Yes." "Really?" I was a little drunk. Not drunk in any positive sense but just	The Sun Also Rises
"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."	Mr. Frank Churchill	turning his eyes towards Jane.<\|quote\|>"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."</\|quote\|>But his spirits were soon	she looking well?" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.<\|quote\|>"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."</\|quote\|>But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing	I am particularly glad to see and shake hands with you--and to give you joy in person." He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness. "Is not she looking well?" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.<\|quote\|>"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."</\|quote\|>But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of Dixon.--Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing. "I can never think of it," she cried, "without extreme shame." "The shame," he answered, "is	to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message in one of Mrs. Weston's letters. I hope time has not made you less willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said." "No, indeed," cried Emma, most happy to begin, "not in the least. I am particularly glad to see and shake hands with you--and to give you joy in person." He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness. "Is not she looking well?" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.<\|quote\|>"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."</\|quote\|>But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of Dixon.--Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing. "I can never think of it," she cried, "without extreme shame." "The shame," he answered, "is all mine, or ought to be. But is it possible that you had no suspicion?--I mean of late. Early, I know, you had none." "I never had the smallest, I assure you." "That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near--and I wish I had--it would have been better. But	but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message in one of Mrs. Weston's letters. I hope time has not made you less willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said." "No, indeed," cried Emma, most happy to begin, "not in the least. I am particularly glad to see and shake hands with you--and to give you joy in person." He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness. "Is not she looking well?" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.<\|quote\|>"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."</\|quote\|>But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of Dixon.--Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing. "I can never think of it," she cried, "without extreme shame." "The shame," he answered, "is all mine, or ought to be. But is it possible that you had no suspicion?--I mean of late. Early, I know, you had none." "I never had the smallest, I assure you." "That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near--and I wish I had--it would have been better. But though I was always doing wrong things, they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no service.--It would have been a much better transgression had I broken the bond of secrecy and told you every thing." "It is not now worth a regret," said Emma. "I have some hope," resumed he, "of my uncle's being persuaded to pay a visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust, till we may carry her northward.--But now, I am at such a	be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message in one of Mrs. Weston's letters. I hope time has not made you less willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said." "No, indeed," cried Emma, most happy to begin, "not in the least. I am particularly glad to see and shake hands with you--and to give you joy in person." He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness. "Is not she looking well?" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.<\|quote\|>"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."</\|quote\|>But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of Dixon.--Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing. "I can never think of it," she cried, "without extreme shame." "The shame," he answered, "is all mine, or ought to be. But is it possible that you had no suspicion?--I mean of late. Early, I know, you had none." "I never had the smallest, I assure you." "That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near--and I wish I had--it would have been better. But though I was always doing wrong things, they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no service.--It would have been a much better transgression had I broken the bond of secrecy and told you every thing." "It is not now worth a regret," said Emma. "I have some hope," resumed he, "of my uncle's being persuaded to pay a visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust, till we may carry her northward.--But now, I am at such a distance from her--is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?--Till this morning, we have not once met since the day of reconciliation. Do not you pity me?" Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay thought, he cried, "Ah! by the bye," then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the moment--" "I hope Mr. Knightley is well?" He paused.--She coloured and laughed.--" "I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish in your favour. Let me return your congratulations.--I assure you that I have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction.--He is a man whom I cannot presume to praise." Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style; but his mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane, and his next words were, "Did you ever see such a skin?--such smoothness! such delicacy!--and yet without being actually fair.--One cannot call her fair. It is a most uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair--a most distinguishing complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.--Just colour enough for beauty." "I have always admired her complexion," replied Emma, archly; "but	get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--" "Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message in one of Mrs. Weston's letters. I hope time has not made you less willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said." "No, indeed," cried Emma, most happy to begin, "not in the least. I am particularly glad to see and shake hands with you--and to give you joy in person." He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness. "Is not she looking well?" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.<\|quote\|>"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."</\|quote\|>But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of Dixon.--Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing. "I can never think of it," she cried, "without extreme shame." "The shame," he answered, "is all mine, or ought to be. But is it possible that you had no suspicion?--I mean of late. Early, I know, you had none." "I never had the smallest, I assure you." "That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near--and I wish I had--it would have been better. But though I was always doing wrong things, they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no service.--It would have been a much better transgression had I broken the bond of secrecy and told you every thing." "It is not now worth a regret," said Emma. "I have some hope," resumed he, "of my uncle's being persuaded to pay a visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust, till we may carry her northward.--But now, I am at such a distance from her--is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?--Till this morning, we have not once met since the day of reconciliation. Do not you pity me?" Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay thought, he cried, "Ah! by the bye," then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the moment--" "I hope Mr. Knightley is well?" He paused.--She coloured and laughed.--" "I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish in your favour. Let me return your congratulations.--I assure you that I have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction.--He is a man whom I cannot presume to praise." Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style; but his mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane, and his next words were, "Did you ever see such a skin?--such smoothness! such delicacy!--and yet without being actually fair.--One cannot call her fair. It is a most uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair--a most distinguishing complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.--Just colour enough for beauty." "I have always admired her complexion," replied Emma, archly; "but do not I remember the time when you found fault with her for being so pale?--When we first began to talk of her.--Have you quite forgotten?" "Oh! no--what an impudent dog I was!--How could I dare--" But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not help saying, "I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that time, you had very great amusement in tricking us all.--I am sure you had.--I am sure it was a consolation to you." "Oh! no, no, no--how can you suspect me of such a thing? I was the most miserable wretch!" "Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth. I am sure it was a source of high entertainment to you, to feel that you were taking us all in.--Perhaps I am the readier to suspect, because, to tell you the truth, I think it might have been some amusement to myself in the same situation. I think there is a little likeness between us." He bowed. "If not in our dispositions," she presently added, with a look of true sensibility, "there is a likeness in our destiny; the destiny which bids fair to connect us with two characters so much superior to our own." "True, true," he answered, warmly. "No, not true on your side. You can have no superior, but most true on mine.--She is a complete angel. Look at her. Is not she an angel in every gesture? Observe the turn of her throat. Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father.--You will be glad to hear" (inclining his head, and whispering seriously) "that my uncle means to give her all my aunt's jewels. They are to be new set. I am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head. Will not it be beautiful in her dark hair?" "Very beautiful, indeed," replied Emma; and she spoke so kindly, that he gratefully burst out, "How delighted I am to see you again! and to see you in such excellent looks!--I would not have missed this meeting for the world. I should certainly have called at Hartfield, had you failed to come." The others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Weston giving an account of a little alarm she had been under, the evening before, from the infant's appearing not quite well. She believed she had been foolish, but	him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message in one of Mrs. Weston's letters. I hope time has not made you less willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said." "No, indeed," cried Emma, most happy to begin, "not in the least. I am particularly glad to see and shake hands with you--and to give you joy in person." He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness. "Is not she looking well?" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.<\|quote\|>"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."</\|quote\|>But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of Dixon.--Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing. "I can never think of it," she cried, "without extreme shame." "The shame," he answered, "is all mine, or ought to be. But is it possible that you had no suspicion?--I mean of late. Early, I know, you had none." "I never had the smallest, I assure you." "That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near--and I wish I had--it would have been better. But though I was always doing wrong things, they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no service.--It would have been a much better transgression had I broken the bond of secrecy and told you every thing." "It is not now worth a regret," said Emma. "I have some hope," resumed he, "of my uncle's being persuaded to pay a visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust, till we may carry her northward.--But now, I am at such a distance from her--is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?--Till this morning, we have not once met since the day of reconciliation. Do not you pity me?" Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay thought, he cried, "Ah! by the bye," then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the moment--" "I hope Mr. Knightley is well?" He paused.--She coloured and laughed.--" "I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish in your favour. Let me return your congratulations.--I assure you that I have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction.--He is a man whom I cannot presume to praise." Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style; but his mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane, and his next words were, "Did you ever see such a skin?--such smoothness! such delicacy!--and yet without being actually fair.--One cannot call her fair. It is a most uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair--a most distinguishing complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.--Just colour enough for beauty." "I have always admired her complexion," replied Emma, archly; "but do not I remember the time when you found fault with her for being so pale?--When we first began to talk of her.--Have you quite forgotten?" "Oh! no--what an impudent dog I was!--How could I dare--" But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not help saying, "I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that time, you had very great amusement in tricking us all.--I am sure you had.--I am sure it was a consolation to you." "Oh! no, no, no--how can you suspect me of such a thing? I was the most miserable wretch!" "Not quite so	Emma
"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man."	Lord Henry	is to be my wife."<\|quote\|>"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man."</\|quote\|>"Your letter? Oh, yes, I	my word to her. She is to be my wife."<\|quote\|>"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man."</\|quote\|>"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read	what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don t say it. Don t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife."<\|quote\|>"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man."</\|quote\|>"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and	soul being hideous." "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?" "By marrying Sibyl Vane." "Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian" "Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don t say it. Don t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife."<\|quote\|>"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man."</\|quote\|>"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian," he said, "my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet,	myself better." "Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours." "I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head and smiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don t sneer at it, Harry, any more at least not before me. I want to be good. I can t bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?" "By marrying Sibyl Vane." "Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian" "Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don t say it. Don t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife."<\|quote\|>"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man."</\|quote\|>"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian," he said, "my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry s grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?" "It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one s _d	me in at once. I can t bear your shutting yourself up like this." He made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking still continued and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the door. "I am so sorry for it all, Dorian," said Lord Henry as he entered. "But you must not think too much about it." "Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?" asked the lad. "Yes, of course," answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair and slowly pulling off his yellow gloves. "It is dreadful, from one point of view, but it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her, after the play was over?" "Yes." "I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?" "I was brutal, Harry perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know myself better." "Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours." "I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head and smiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don t sneer at it, Harry, any more at least not before me. I want to be good. I can t bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?" "By marrying Sibyl Vane." "Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian" "Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don t say it. Don t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife."<\|quote\|>"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man."</\|quote\|>"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian," he said, "my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry s grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?" "It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one s _d but_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one s old age. I suppose they don t know your name at the theatre? If they don t, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point." Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl ? Oh, Harry, I can t bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once." "I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead	That such a change should have taken place was incredible to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there some subtle affinity between the chemical atoms that shaped themselves into form and colour on the canvas and the soul that was within him? Could it be that what that soul thought, they realized? that what it dreamed, they made true? Or was there some other, more terrible reason? He shuddered, and felt afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the picture in sickened horror. One thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It had made him conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane. It was not too late to make reparation for that. She could still be his wife. His unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the fear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls. Three o clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double chime, but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness. He covered page after page with wild words of sorrow and wilder words of pain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian had finished the letter, he felt that he had been forgiven. Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry s voice outside. "My dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at once. I can t bear your shutting yourself up like this." He made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking still continued and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the door. "I am so sorry for it all, Dorian," said Lord Henry as he entered. "But you must not think too much about it." "Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?" asked the lad. "Yes, of course," answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair and slowly pulling off his yellow gloves. "It is dreadful, from one point of view, but it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her, after the play was over?" "Yes." "I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?" "I was brutal, Harry perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know myself better." "Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours." "I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head and smiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don t sneer at it, Harry, any more at least not before me. I want to be good. I can t bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?" "By marrying Sibyl Vane." "Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian" "Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don t say it. Don t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife."<\|quote\|>"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man."</\|quote\|>"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian," he said, "my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry s grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?" "It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one s _d but_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one s old age. I suppose they don t know your name at the theatre? If they don t, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point." Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl ? Oh, Harry, I can t bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once." "I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously." "Harry, Harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. "Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn t let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister s box. She has got some smart women with her." "So I have murdered Sibyl Vane," said Dorian Gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go on to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was everything to me. Then came that dreadful night was it really only last night? when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a bit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly something happened that made me afraid. I can t tell you what it was, but it was terrible. I said I would go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My God! My God! Harry, what shall I do? You don t know the danger I am in, and there	sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know myself better." "Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours." "I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head and smiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don t sneer at it, Harry, any more at least not before me. I want to be good. I can t bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?" "By marrying Sibyl Vane." "Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian" "Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don t say it. Don t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife."<\|quote\|>"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man."</\|quote\|>"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian," he said, "my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry s grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?" "It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one s _d but_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one s old age. I suppose they don t know your name at the theatre? If they don t, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point." Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl ? Oh, Harry, I can t bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once." "I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously." "Harry, Harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. "Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn t let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister s box. She has got some smart women with	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles.	No speaker	we don t want leave."<\|quote\|>But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles.</\|quote\|>"Charles may say no," grumbled	now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave."<\|quote\|>But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles.</\|quote\|>"Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult	that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave."<\|quote\|>But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles.</\|quote\|>"Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped	the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave."<\|quote\|>But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles.</\|quote\|>"Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in	say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little," said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave."<\|quote\|>But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles.</\|quote\|>"Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly,	in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little," said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave."<\|quote\|>But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles.</\|quote\|>"Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who had not been "told," ran out with offers of tea. He refused them, and ordered them to wheel baby s perambulator away, as they desired to be alone. "But the diddums can t listen; he isn t nine months old," she pleaded. "That s not what I was saying," retorted her father-in-law. Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear about the crisis till later years. It was now the turn of Margaret. "Is it what we feared?" he asked. "It is." "Dear girl," he began, "there is a troublesome business ahead of us, and nothing but the most absolute honesty and plain speech will see us through." Margaret bent her head. "I am obliged to question you on subjects we d both prefer to leave untouched. As you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who consider nothing sacred. To speak as I must will pain me, but there are occasions--We are husband and wife, not children. I am a man of the world, and you are a most exceptional woman." All Margaret s senses forsook her. She blushed, and looked past him at the Six Hills, covered with spring herbage. Noting her colour,	the stacks last week?" The child hung his head. "Well, run away and do it again." "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what s your name? Mine s Helen." "Tom." That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return. "Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we ve another called Tibby." "Mine are lop-eareds," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. "You re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.--Isn t he charming?" "Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers." "What do you mean?" "I don t know." "Because I probably agree with you." "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live." "I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago." "Meaning that I was dead. I felt it." "Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I ve a startling idea." "What is it?" "Drink some milk to steady you." Margaret obeyed. "No, I won t tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little," said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave."<\|quote\|>But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles.</\|quote\|>"Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who had not been "told," ran out with offers of tea. He refused them, and ordered them to wheel baby s perambulator away, as they desired to be alone. "But the diddums can t listen; he isn t nine months old," she pleaded. "That s not what I was saying," retorted her father-in-law. Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear about the crisis till later years. It was now the turn of Margaret. "Is it what we feared?" he asked. "It is." "Dear girl," he began, "there is a troublesome business ahead of us, and nothing but the most absolute honesty and plain speech will see us through." Margaret bent her head. "I am obliged to question you on subjects we d both prefer to leave untouched. As you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who consider nothing sacred. To speak as I must will pain me, but there are occasions--We are husband and wife, not children. I am a man of the world, and you are a most exceptional woman." All Margaret s senses forsook her. She blushed, and looked past him at the Six Hills, covered with spring herbage. Noting her colour, he grew still more kind. "I see that you feel as I felt when--My poor little wife! Oh, be brave! Just one or two questions, and I have done with you. Was your sister wearing a wedding-ring?" Margaret stammered a "No." There was an appalling silence. "Henry, I really came to ask a favour about Howards End." "One point at a time. I am now obliged to ask for the name of her seducer." She rose to her feet and held the chair between them. Her colour had ebbed, and she was grey. It did not displease him that she should receive his question thus. "Take your time," he counselled her. "Remember that this is far worse for me than for you." She swayed; he feared she was going to faint. Then speech came, and she said slowly: "Seducer? No; I do not know her seducer s name." "Would she not tell you?" "I never even asked her who seduced her," said Margaret, dwelling on the hateful word thoughtfully. "That is singular." Then he changed his mind. "Natural perhaps, dear girl, that you shouldn t ask. But until his name is known, nothing can be done. Sit down. How terrible it is to see you so upset! I knew you weren t fit for it. I wish I hadn t taken you." Margaret answered, "I like to stand, if you don t mind, for it gives me a pleasant view of the Six Hills." "As you like." "Have you anything else to ask me, Henry?" "Next you must tell me whether you have gathered anything. I have often noticed your insight, dear. I only wish my own was as good. You may have guessed something, even though your sister said nothing. The slightest hint would help us." "Who is we ?" "I thought it best to ring up Charles." "That was unnecessary," said Margaret, growing warmer. "This news will give Charles disproportionate pain." "He has at once gone to call on your brother." "That too was unnecessary." "Let me explain, dear, how the matter stands. You don t think that I and my son are other than gentlemen? It is in Helen s interests that we are acting. It is still not too late to save her name." Then Margaret hit out for the first time. "Are we to make her seducer marry her?" she asked. "If possible, yes." "But,	wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little," said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave."<\|quote\|>But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles.</\|quote\|>"Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who had not been "told," ran out with offers of tea. He refused them, and ordered them to wheel baby s perambulator away, as they desired to be alone. "But the diddums can t listen; he isn t nine months old," she pleaded. "That s not what I was saying," retorted her father-in-law. Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear about the crisis till later years. It was now the turn of Margaret. "Is it what we feared?" he asked. "It is." "Dear girl," he began, "there is a troublesome business ahead of us, and nothing but the most absolute honesty and plain speech will see us through." Margaret bent her head. "I am obliged to question you on subjects we d both prefer to leave untouched. As you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who consider nothing	Howards End
said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes,	No speaker	nothing. Like a jar." "Well,"<\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes,</\|quote\|>"I shall go and look	don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well,"<\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes,</\|quote\|>"I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet	hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well,"<\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes,</\|quote\|>"I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against	"Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well,"<\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes,</\|quote\|>"I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the	tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down. "Help, help!" cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well,"<\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes,</\|quote\|>"I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water. "Pathetic," he said.	the trap, here he would be, in bed all the morning, simply wasting his time for nothing. What should he do? And then he had a Clever Idea. He would go up very quietly to the Six Pine Trees now, peep very cautiously into the Trap, and see if there _was_ a Heffalump there. And if there was, he would go back to bed, and if there wasn't, he wouldn't. So off he went. At first he thought that there wouldn't be a Heffalump in the Trap, and then he thought that there would, and as he got nearer he was _sure_ that there would, because he could hear it heffalumping about it like anything. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" said Piglet to himself. And he wanted to run away. But somehow, having got so near, he felt that he must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down. "Help, help!" cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well,"<\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes,</\|quote\|>"I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water. "Pathetic," he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from _this_ side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is." There was a crackling noise in the bracken behind him, and out came Pooh. "Good morning, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it _is_ a good morning," he said. "Which I doubt," said he. "Why, what's the matter?" "Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it." "Can't all _what_?" said Pooh, rubbing his nose. "Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush." "Oh!" said Pooh. He thought for a long time, and then asked, "What mulberry bush is that?" "Bon-hommy," went on Eeyore gloomily. "French word meaning bonhommy," he explained. "I'm not complaining, but There It Is." Pooh sat down on a large stone, and tried to think this out. It sounded to him like a riddle, and he was never much good at riddles, being a Bear	itself, "Very good honey this, I don't know when I've tasted better," Pooh could bear it no longer. He jumped out of bed, he ran out of the house, and he ran straight to the Six Pine Trees. The Sun was still in bed, but there was a lightness in the sky over the Hundred Acre Wood which seemed to show that it was waking up and would soon be kicking off the clothes. In the half-light the Pine Trees looked cold and lonely, and the Very Deep Pit seemed deeper than it was, and Pooh's jar of honey at the bottom was something mysterious, a shape and no more. But as he got nearer to it his nose told him that it was indeed honey, and his tongue came out and began to polish up his mouth, ready for it. "Bother!" said Pooh, as he got his nose inside the jar. "A Heffalump has been eating it!" And then he thought a little and said, "Oh, no, _I_ did. I forgot." Indeed, he had eaten most of it. But there was a little left at the very bottom of the jar, and he pushed his head right in, and began to lick.... By and by Piglet woke up. As soon as he woke he said to himself, "Oh!" Then he said bravely, "Yes," and then, still more bravely, "Quite so." But he didn't feel very brave, for the word which was really jiggeting about in his brain was "Heffalumps." What was a Heffalump like? Was it Fierce? _Did_ it come when you whistled? And _how_ did it come? Was it Fond of Pigs at all? If it was Fond of Pigs, did it make any difference _what sort of Pig_? Supposing it was Fierce with Pigs, would it make any difference _if the Pig had a grandfather called TRESPASSERS WILLIAM_? He didn't know the answer to any of these questions ... and he was going to see his first Heffalump in about an hour from now! Of course Pooh would be with him, and it was much more Friendly with two. But suppose Heffalumps were Very Fierce with Pigs _and_ Bears? Wouldn't it be better to pretend that he had a headache, and couldn't go up to the Six Pine Trees this morning? But then suppose that it was a very fine day, and there was no Heffalump in the trap, here he would be, in bed all the morning, simply wasting his time for nothing. What should he do? And then he had a Clever Idea. He would go up very quietly to the Six Pine Trees now, peep very cautiously into the Trap, and see if there _was_ a Heffalump there. And if there was, he would go back to bed, and if there wasn't, he wouldn't. So off he went. At first he thought that there wouldn't be a Heffalump in the Trap, and then he thought that there would, and as he got nearer he was _sure_ that there would, because he could hear it heffalumping about it like anything. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" said Piglet to himself. And he wanted to run away. But somehow, having got so near, he felt that he must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down. "Help, help!" cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well,"<\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes,</\|quote\|>"I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water. "Pathetic," he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from _this_ side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is." There was a crackling noise in the bracken behind him, and out came Pooh. "Good morning, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it _is_ a good morning," he said. "Which I doubt," said he. "Why, what's the matter?" "Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it." "Can't all _what_?" said Pooh, rubbing his nose. "Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush." "Oh!" said Pooh. He thought for a long time, and then asked, "What mulberry bush is that?" "Bon-hommy," went on Eeyore gloomily. "French word meaning bonhommy," he explained. "I'm not complaining, but There It Is." Pooh sat down on a large stone, and tried to think this out. It sounded to him like a riddle, and he was never much good at riddles, being a Bear of Very Little Brain. So he sang _Cottleston Pie_ instead: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, A fly can't bird, but a bird can fly. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie._"" That was the first verse. When he had finished it, Eeyore didn't actually say that he didn't like it, so Pooh very kindly sang the second verse to him: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, A fish can't whistle and neither can I. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie_."" Eeyore still said nothing at all, so Pooh hummed the third verse quietly to himself: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, Why does a chicken, I don't know why. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie_."" "That's right," said Eeyore. "Sing. Umty-tiddly, umty-too. Here we go gathering Nuts and May. Enjoy yourself." "I am," said Pooh. "Some can," said Eeyore. "Why, what's the matter?" "_Is_ anything the matter?" "You seem so sad, Eeyore." "Sad? Why should I be sad? It's my birthday. The happiest day of the year." "Your birthday?" said Pooh in great surprise. "Of course it is. Can't you see? Look at all the presents I have had." He waved a foot from side to side. "Look at the birthday cake. Candles and pink sugar." Pooh looked--first to the right and then to the left. "Presents?" said Pooh. "Birthday cake?" said Pooh. "_Where?_" "Can't you see them?" "No," said Pooh. "Neither can I," said Eeyore. "Joke," he explained. "Ha ha!" Pooh scratched his head, being a little puzzled by all this. "But is it really your birthday?" he asked. "It is." "Oh! Well, Many happy returns of the day, Eeyore." "And many happy returns to you, Pooh Bear." "But it isn't _my_ birthday." "No, it's mine." "But you said 'Many happy returns'----" "Well, why not? You don't always want to be miserable on my birthday, do you?" "Oh, I see," said Pooh. "It's bad enough," said Eeyore, almost breaking down, "being miserable myself, what with no presents and no cake and no candles, and no proper notice taken of me at all, but if everybody else is going to be miserable too----" This was too much for Pooh. "Stay there!" he called to Eeyore, as he turned and hurried back home as quick as he could; for he felt that he must get poor Eeyore a present of _some_ sort	did it make any difference _what sort of Pig_? Supposing it was Fierce with Pigs, would it make any difference _if the Pig had a grandfather called TRESPASSERS WILLIAM_? He didn't know the answer to any of these questions ... and he was going to see his first Heffalump in about an hour from now! Of course Pooh would be with him, and it was much more Friendly with two. But suppose Heffalumps were Very Fierce with Pigs _and_ Bears? Wouldn't it be better to pretend that he had a headache, and couldn't go up to the Six Pine Trees this morning? But then suppose that it was a very fine day, and there was no Heffalump in the trap, here he would be, in bed all the morning, simply wasting his time for nothing. What should he do? And then he had a Clever Idea. He would go up very quietly to the Six Pine Trees now, peep very cautiously into the Trap, and see if there _was_ a Heffalump there. And if there was, he would go back to bed, and if there wasn't, he wouldn't. So off he went. At first he thought that there wouldn't be a Heffalump in the Trap, and then he thought that there would, and as he got nearer he was _sure_ that there would, because he could hear it heffalumping about it like anything. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" said Piglet to himself. And he wanted to run away. But somehow, having got so near, he felt that he must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down. "Help, help!" cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well,"<\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes,</\|quote\|>"I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water. "Pathetic," he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from _this_ side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is." There was a crackling noise	Winnie The Pooh
"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."	Mrs. Honeychurch	pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<\|quote\|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</\|quote\|>The explanation seemed plausible, and	Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<\|quote\|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</\|quote\|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it.	'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<\|quote\|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</\|quote\|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was	spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<\|quote\|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</\|quote\|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it,	he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<\|quote\|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</\|quote\|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat	"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<\|quote\|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</\|quote\|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a	but she can't have said" 'No' "properly before, or she wouldn't have to say it again now. Over the whole thing--I can't explain--I do feel so uncomfortable." "Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!" "I feel--never mind." He returned to his work. "Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'" "Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." "I said:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading, "I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded. "What do you mean?" "He asked me for my permission also." She exclaimed: "How very odd of him!" "Why so?" asked the son and heir. "Why shouldn't my permission be asked?" "What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?" "I said to Cecil," 'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'" "What a helpful answer!" But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect. "The bother is this," began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window. "Freddy, you must come. There they still are!" "I don't see you ought to go peeping like that." "Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?" But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, "Still page 322?" Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased. "The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully." He gave a nervous gulp. "Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said," 'I don't mind' "--well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn't off my head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn't it a splendid thing for Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have an answer--he said it would strengthen his hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<\|quote\|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</\|quote\|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy." "I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling. "We mothers--" simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic--all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who	Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<\|quote\|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</\|quote\|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing.	A Room With A View
"Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?"	Katharine Hilbery	where I can see you."<\|quote\|>"Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?"</\|quote\|>she asked. "For ever, so	that I want to be where I can see you."<\|quote\|>"Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?"</\|quote\|>she asked. "For ever, so far as I m concerned,"	can t remember where it is oh, of course it s Oxford. Now, what about your cottage?" "I m not going to take it." "How you change your mind!" she smiled. "It s not that," he said impatiently. "It s that I want to be where I can see you."<\|quote\|>"Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?"</\|quote\|>she asked. "For ever, so far as I m concerned," he replied. "You re going to go on dreaming and imagining and making up stories about me as you walk along the street, and pretending that we re riding in a forest, or landing on an island" "No. I shall	put it off for some time in fact." "That s rather hard on him, isn t it?" Ralph asked. "He has his work," she replied. "He has lots of things that interest him.... I know I ve been to that place," she broke off, pointing to a photograph. "But I can t remember where it is oh, of course it s Oxford. Now, what about your cottage?" "I m not going to take it." "How you change your mind!" she smiled. "It s not that," he said impatiently. "It s that I want to be where I can see you."<\|quote\|>"Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?"</\|quote\|>she asked. "For ever, so far as I m concerned," he replied. "You re going to go on dreaming and imagining and making up stories about me as you walk along the street, and pretending that we re riding in a forest, or landing on an island" "No. I shall think of you ordering dinner, paying bills, doing the accounts, showing old ladies the relics" "That s better," she said. "You can think of me to-morrow morning looking up dates in the Dictionary of National Biography." "And forgetting your purse," Ralph added. At this she smiled, but in another moment	one or two cases where it seems to be true." He hoped that she would go on with the subject. But she made no reply. He had done his best to master himself, and his voice was sufficiently indifferent, but her silence tormented him. She would never speak to him of Rodney of her own accord, and her reserve left a whole continent of her soul in darkness. "It may be put off even longer than that," she said, as if by an afterthought. "Some one in the office is ill, and William has to take his place. We may put it off for some time in fact." "That s rather hard on him, isn t it?" Ralph asked. "He has his work," she replied. "He has lots of things that interest him.... I know I ve been to that place," she broke off, pointing to a photograph. "But I can t remember where it is oh, of course it s Oxford. Now, what about your cottage?" "I m not going to take it." "How you change your mind!" she smiled. "It s not that," he said impatiently. "It s that I want to be where I can see you."<\|quote\|>"Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?"</\|quote\|>she asked. "For ever, so far as I m concerned," he replied. "You re going to go on dreaming and imagining and making up stories about me as you walk along the street, and pretending that we re riding in a forest, or landing on an island" "No. I shall think of you ordering dinner, paying bills, doing the accounts, showing old ladies the relics" "That s better," she said. "You can think of me to-morrow morning looking up dates in the Dictionary of National Biography." "And forgetting your purse," Ralph added. At this she smiled, but in another moment her smile faded, either because of his words or of the way in which he spoke them. She was capable of forgetting things. He saw that. But what more did he see? Was he not looking at something she had never shown to anybody? Was it not something so profound that the notion of his seeing it almost shocked her? Her smile faded, and for a moment she seemed upon the point of speaking, but looking at him in silence, with a look that seemed to ask what she could not put into words, she turned and bade him good	suppose, being in love; as a matter of fact it s being in delusion. All romantic people are the same," she added. "My mother spends her life in making stories about the people she s fond of. But I won t have you do it about me, if I can help it." "You can t help it," he said. "I warn you it s the source of all evil." "And of all good," he added. "You ll find out that I m not what you think me." "Perhaps. But I shall gain more than I lose." "If such gain s worth having." They were silent for a space. "That may be what we have to face," he said. "There may be nothing else. Nothing but what we imagine." "The reason of our loneliness," she mused, and they were silent for a time. "When are you to be married?" he asked abruptly, with a change of tone. "Not till September, I think. It s been put off." "You won t be lonely then," he said. "According to what people say, marriage is a very queer business. They say it s different from anything else. It may be true. I ve known one or two cases where it seems to be true." He hoped that she would go on with the subject. But she made no reply. He had done his best to master himself, and his voice was sufficiently indifferent, but her silence tormented him. She would never speak to him of Rodney of her own accord, and her reserve left a whole continent of her soul in darkness. "It may be put off even longer than that," she said, as if by an afterthought. "Some one in the office is ill, and William has to take his place. We may put it off for some time in fact." "That s rather hard on him, isn t it?" Ralph asked. "He has his work," she replied. "He has lots of things that interest him.... I know I ve been to that place," she broke off, pointing to a photograph. "But I can t remember where it is oh, of course it s Oxford. Now, what about your cottage?" "I m not going to take it." "How you change your mind!" she smiled. "It s not that," he said impatiently. "It s that I want to be where I can see you."<\|quote\|>"Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?"</\|quote\|>she asked. "For ever, so far as I m concerned," he replied. "You re going to go on dreaming and imagining and making up stories about me as you walk along the street, and pretending that we re riding in a forest, or landing on an island" "No. I shall think of you ordering dinner, paying bills, doing the accounts, showing old ladies the relics" "That s better," she said. "You can think of me to-morrow morning looking up dates in the Dictionary of National Biography." "And forgetting your purse," Ralph added. At this she smiled, but in another moment her smile faded, either because of his words or of the way in which he spoke them. She was capable of forgetting things. He saw that. But what more did he see? Was he not looking at something she had never shown to anybody? Was it not something so profound that the notion of his seeing it almost shocked her? Her smile faded, and for a moment she seemed upon the point of speaking, but looking at him in silence, with a look that seemed to ask what she could not put into words, she turned and bade him good night. CHAPTER XXVIII Like a strain of music, the effect of Katharine s presence slowly died from the room in which Ralph sat alone. The music had ceased in the rapture of its melody. He strained to catch the faintest lingering echoes; for a moment the memory lulled him into peace; but soon it failed, and he paced the room so hungry for the sound to come again that he was conscious of no other desire left in life. She had gone without speaking; abruptly a chasm had been cut in his course, down which the tide of his being plunged in disorder; fell upon rocks; flung itself to destruction. The distress had an effect of physical ruin and disaster. He trembled; he was white; he felt exhausted, as if by a great physical effort. He sank at last into a chair standing opposite her empty one, and marked, mechanically, with his eye upon the clock, how she went farther and farther from him, was home now, and now, doubtless, again with Rodney. But it was long before he could realize these facts; the immense desire for her presence churned his senses into foam, into froth, into a haze of	him, and from his fixed stare she thought that he must be working out some theory, some argument. He had thought, perhaps, of some fresh point in his position, as to the bounds of personal liberty. She waited, silently, thinking about liberty. "You ve won again," he said at last, without moving. "I ve won?" she repeated, thinking of the argument. "I wish to God I hadn t asked you here," he burst out. "What do you mean?" "When you re here, it s different I m happy. You ve only to walk to the window you ve only to talk about liberty. When I saw you down there among them all" He stopped short. "You thought how ordinary I was." "I tried to think so. But I thought you more wonderful than ever." An immense relief, and a reluctance to enjoy that relief, conflicted in her heart. She slid down into the chair. "I thought you disliked me," she said. "God knows I tried," he replied. "I ve done my best to see you as you are, without any of this damned romantic nonsense. That was why I asked you here, and it s increased my folly. When you re gone I shall look out of that window and think of you. I shall waste the whole evening thinking of you. I shall waste my whole life, I believe." He spoke with such vehemence that her relief disappeared; she frowned; and her tone changed to one almost of severity. "This is what I foretold. We shall gain nothing but unhappiness. Look at me, Ralph." He looked at her. "I assure you that I m far more ordinary than I appear. Beauty means nothing whatever. In fact, the most beautiful women are generally the most stupid. I m not that, but I m a matter-of-fact, prosaic, rather ordinary character; I order the dinner, I pay the bills, I do the accounts, I wind up the clock, and I never look at a book." "You forget" he began, but she would not let him speak. "You come and see me among flowers and pictures, and think me mysterious, romantic, and all the rest of it. Being yourself very inexperienced and very emotional, you go home and invent a story about me, and now you can t separate me from the person you ve imagined me to be. You call that, I suppose, being in love; as a matter of fact it s being in delusion. All romantic people are the same," she added. "My mother spends her life in making stories about the people she s fond of. But I won t have you do it about me, if I can help it." "You can t help it," he said. "I warn you it s the source of all evil." "And of all good," he added. "You ll find out that I m not what you think me." "Perhaps. But I shall gain more than I lose." "If such gain s worth having." They were silent for a space. "That may be what we have to face," he said. "There may be nothing else. Nothing but what we imagine." "The reason of our loneliness," she mused, and they were silent for a time. "When are you to be married?" he asked abruptly, with a change of tone. "Not till September, I think. It s been put off." "You won t be lonely then," he said. "According to what people say, marriage is a very queer business. They say it s different from anything else. It may be true. I ve known one or two cases where it seems to be true." He hoped that she would go on with the subject. But she made no reply. He had done his best to master himself, and his voice was sufficiently indifferent, but her silence tormented him. She would never speak to him of Rodney of her own accord, and her reserve left a whole continent of her soul in darkness. "It may be put off even longer than that," she said, as if by an afterthought. "Some one in the office is ill, and William has to take his place. We may put it off for some time in fact." "That s rather hard on him, isn t it?" Ralph asked. "He has his work," she replied. "He has lots of things that interest him.... I know I ve been to that place," she broke off, pointing to a photograph. "But I can t remember where it is oh, of course it s Oxford. Now, what about your cottage?" "I m not going to take it." "How you change your mind!" she smiled. "It s not that," he said impatiently. "It s that I want to be where I can see you."<\|quote\|>"Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?"</\|quote\|>she asked. "For ever, so far as I m concerned," he replied. "You re going to go on dreaming and imagining and making up stories about me as you walk along the street, and pretending that we re riding in a forest, or landing on an island" "No. I shall think of you ordering dinner, paying bills, doing the accounts, showing old ladies the relics" "That s better," she said. "You can think of me to-morrow morning looking up dates in the Dictionary of National Biography." "And forgetting your purse," Ralph added. At this she smiled, but in another moment her smile faded, either because of his words or of the way in which he spoke them. She was capable of forgetting things. He saw that. But what more did he see? Was he not looking at something she had never shown to anybody? Was it not something so profound that the notion of his seeing it almost shocked her? Her smile faded, and for a moment she seemed upon the point of speaking, but looking at him in silence, with a look that seemed to ask what she could not put into words, she turned and bade him good night. CHAPTER XXVIII Like a strain of music, the effect of Katharine s presence slowly died from the room in which Ralph sat alone. The music had ceased in the rapture of its melody. He strained to catch the faintest lingering echoes; for a moment the memory lulled him into peace; but soon it failed, and he paced the room so hungry for the sound to come again that he was conscious of no other desire left in life. She had gone without speaking; abruptly a chasm had been cut in his course, down which the tide of his being plunged in disorder; fell upon rocks; flung itself to destruction. The distress had an effect of physical ruin and disaster. He trembled; he was white; he felt exhausted, as if by a great physical effort. He sank at last into a chair standing opposite her empty one, and marked, mechanically, with his eye upon the clock, how she went farther and farther from him, was home now, and now, doubtless, again with Rodney. But it was long before he could realize these facts; the immense desire for her presence churned his senses into foam, into froth, into a haze of emotion that removed all facts from his grasp, and gave him a strange sense of distance, even from the material shapes of wall and window by which he was surrounded. The prospect of the future, now that the strength of his passion was revealed to him, appalled him. The marriage would take place in September, she had said; that allowed him, then, six full months in which to undergo these terrible extremes of emotion. Six months of torture, and after that the silence of the grave, the isolation of the insane, the exile of the damned; at best, a life from which the chief good was knowingly and for ever excluded. An impartial judge might have assured him that his chief hope of recovery lay in this mystic temper, which identified a living woman with much that no human beings long possess in the eyes of each other; she would pass, and the desire for her vanish, but his belief in what she stood for, detached from her, would remain. This line of thought offered, perhaps, some respite, and possessed of a brain that had its station considerably above the tumult of the senses, he tried to reduce the vague and wandering incoherency of his emotions to order. The sense of self-preservation was strong in him, and Katharine herself had strangely revived it by convincing him that his family deserved and needed all his strength. She was right, and for their sake, if not for his own, this passion, which could bear no fruit, must be cut off, uprooted, shown to be as visionary and baseless as she had maintained. The best way of achieving this was not to run away from her, but to face her, and having steeped himself in her qualities, to convince his reason that they were, as she assured him, not those that he imagined. She was a practical woman, a domestic wife for an inferior poet, endowed with romantic beauty by some freak of unintelligent Nature. No doubt her beauty itself would not stand examination. He had the means of settling this point at least. He possessed a book of photographs from the Greek statues; the head of a goddess, if the lower part were concealed, had often given him the ecstasy of being in Katharine s presence. He took it down from the shelf and found the picture. To this he added a	it s different from anything else. It may be true. I ve known one or two cases where it seems to be true." He hoped that she would go on with the subject. But she made no reply. He had done his best to master himself, and his voice was sufficiently indifferent, but her silence tormented him. She would never speak to him of Rodney of her own accord, and her reserve left a whole continent of her soul in darkness. "It may be put off even longer than that," she said, as if by an afterthought. "Some one in the office is ill, and William has to take his place. We may put it off for some time in fact." "That s rather hard on him, isn t it?" Ralph asked. "He has his work," she replied. "He has lots of things that interest him.... I know I ve been to that place," she broke off, pointing to a photograph. "But I can t remember where it is oh, of course it s Oxford. Now, what about your cottage?" "I m not going to take it." "How you change your mind!" she smiled. "It s not that," he said impatiently. "It s that I want to be where I can see you."<\|quote\|>"Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?"</\|quote\|>she asked. "For ever, so far as I m concerned," he replied. "You re going to go on dreaming and imagining and making up stories about me as you walk along the street, and pretending that we re riding in a forest, or landing on an island" "No. I shall think of you ordering dinner, paying bills, doing the accounts, showing old ladies the relics" "That s better," she said. "You can think of me to-morrow morning looking up dates in the Dictionary of National Biography." "And forgetting your purse," Ralph added. At this she smiled, but in another moment her smile faded, either because of his words or of the way in which he spoke them. She was capable of forgetting things. He saw that. But what more did he see? Was he not looking at something she had never shown to anybody? Was it not something so profound that the notion of his seeing it almost shocked her? Her smile faded, and for a moment she seemed upon the point of speaking, but looking at him in silence, with a look that seemed to ask what she could not put into words, she turned and bade him good night. CHAPTER XXVIII Like a strain of music, the effect of Katharine s presence slowly died from the room in which Ralph sat alone. The music had ceased in the rapture of its melody. He strained to catch the faintest lingering echoes; for a moment the memory lulled him into peace; but soon it failed, and he paced the room so hungry for the sound to come again that he was conscious of no other desire left in life. She had gone without speaking; abruptly a chasm had been cut in his course, down which the tide of his being plunged in disorder; fell upon rocks; flung itself to destruction. The distress had an effect of physical ruin and disaster. He trembled; he was white; he felt exhausted, as if by a great physical effort. He sank at last into a chair standing opposite her empty one, and marked, mechanically, with his eye upon the clock, how she went farther and farther from him, was home now, and now, doubtless, again with Rodney. But it was long before he could realize these facts; the immense desire for her presence churned his senses into foam, into froth, into a haze of emotion that removed all facts from his grasp, and gave him a strange sense of distance, even from the material shapes of wall and window by which he was	Night And Day
said Louisa,	No speaker	very black and heavy. "Father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa,</\|quote\|>"do you think I love	very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa,</\|quote\|>"do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was	Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that you will take it into your favourable consideration." Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa,</\|quote\|>"do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child," he returned, "I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?" "My dear Louisa,	that he has long watched your progress with particular interest and pleasure, and has long hoped that the time might ultimately arrive when he should offer you his hand in marriage. That time, to which he has so long, and certainly with great constancy, looked forward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that you will take it into your favourable consideration." Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa,</\|quote\|>"do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child," he returned, "I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?" "My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing." "Father," she still pursued, "does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?" "Really, my dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "it is difficult to answer your question" "Difficult to answer it, Yes or No, father?" "Certainly, my dear. Because;" here was something to demonstrate, and it set	until I hear it. Prepared or unprepared, I wish to hear it all from you. I wish to hear you state it to me, father." Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind was not so collected at this moment as his daughter was. He took a paper-knife in his hand, turned it over, laid it down, took it up again, and even then had to look along the blade of it, considering how to go on. "What you say, my dear Louisa, is perfectly reasonable. I have undertaken then to let you know that in short, that Mr. Bounderby has informed me that he has long watched your progress with particular interest and pleasure, and has long hoped that the time might ultimately arrive when he should offer you his hand in marriage. That time, to which he has so long, and certainly with great constancy, looked forward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that you will take it into your favourable consideration." Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa,</\|quote\|>"do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child," he returned, "I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?" "My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing." "Father," she still pursued, "does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?" "Really, my dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "it is difficult to answer your question" "Difficult to answer it, Yes or No, father?" "Certainly, my dear. Because;" here was something to demonstrate, and it set him up again; "because the reply depends so materially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use the expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby does not do you the injustice, and does not do himself the injustice, of pretending to anything fanciful, fantastic, or (I am using synonymous terms) sentimental. Mr. Bounderby would have seen you grow up under his eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so far forget what is due to your good sense, not to say to his, as to address you from any such ground. Therefore, perhaps the expression itself I merely suggest this to you,	been so well trained, and you do, I am happy to say, so much justice to the education you have received, that I have perfect confidence in your good sense. You are not impulsive, you are not romantic, you are accustomed to view everything from the strong dispassionate ground of reason and calculation. From that ground alone, I know you will view and consider what I am going to communicate." He waited, as if he would have been glad that she said something. But she said never a word. "Louisa, my dear, you are the subject of a proposal of marriage that has been made to me." Again he waited, and again she answered not one word. This so far surprised him, as to induce him gently to repeat, "a proposal of marriage, my dear." To which she returned, without any visible emotion whatever: "I hear you, father. I am attending, I assure you." "Well!" said Mr. Gradgrind, breaking into a smile, after being for the moment at a loss, "you are even more dispassionate than I expected, Louisa. Or, perhaps, you are not unprepared for the announcement I have it in charge to make?" "I cannot say that, father, until I hear it. Prepared or unprepared, I wish to hear it all from you. I wish to hear you state it to me, father." Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind was not so collected at this moment as his daughter was. He took a paper-knife in his hand, turned it over, laid it down, took it up again, and even then had to look along the blade of it, considering how to go on. "What you say, my dear Louisa, is perfectly reasonable. I have undertaken then to let you know that in short, that Mr. Bounderby has informed me that he has long watched your progress with particular interest and pleasure, and has long hoped that the time might ultimately arrive when he should offer you his hand in marriage. That time, to which he has so long, and certainly with great constancy, looked forward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that you will take it into your favourable consideration." Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa,</\|quote\|>"do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child," he returned, "I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?" "My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing." "Father," she still pursued, "does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?" "Really, my dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "it is difficult to answer your question" "Difficult to answer it, Yes or No, father?" "Certainly, my dear. Because;" here was something to demonstrate, and it set him up again; "because the reply depends so materially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use the expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby does not do you the injustice, and does not do himself the injustice, of pretending to anything fanciful, fantastic, or (I am using synonymous terms) sentimental. Mr. Bounderby would have seen you grow up under his eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so far forget what is due to your good sense, not to say to his, as to address you from any such ground. Therefore, perhaps the expression itself I merely suggest this to you, my dear may be a little misplaced." "What would you advise me to use in its stead, father?" "Why, my dear Louisa," said Mr. Gradgrind, completely recovered by this time, "I would advise you (since you ask me) to consider this question, as you have been accustomed to consider every other question, simply as one of tangible Fact. The ignorant and the giddy may embarrass such subjects with irrelevant fancies, and other absurdities that have no existence, properly viewed really no existence but it is no compliment to you to say, that you know better. Now, what are the Facts of this case? You are, we will say in round numbers, twenty years of age; Mr. Bounderby is, we will say in round numbers, fifty. There is some disparity in your respective years, but in your means and positions there is none; on the contrary, there is a great suitability. Then the question arises, Is this one disparity sufficient to operate as a bar to such a marriage? In considering this question, it is not unimportant to take into account the statistics of marriage, so far as they have yet been obtained, in England and Wales. I find, on reference	You won't forget how fond you are of me?" "No, dear Tom, I won't forget." "That's a capital girl," said Tom. "Good-bye, Loo." She gave him an affectionate good-night, and went out with him to the door, whence the fires of Coketown could be seen, making the distance lurid. She stood there, looking steadfastly towards them, and listening to his departing steps. They retreated quickly, as glad to get away from Stone Lodge; and she stood there yet, when he was gone and all was quiet. It seemed as if, first in her own fire within the house, and then in the fiery haze without, she tried to discover what kind of woof Old Time, that greatest and longest-established Spinner of all, would weave from the threads he had already spun into a woman. But his factory is a secret place, his work is noiseless, and his Hands are mutes. CHAPTER XV FATHER AND DAUGHTER ALTHOUGH Mr. Gradgrind did not take after Blue Beard, his room was quite a blue chamber in its abundance of blue books. Whatever they could prove (which is usually anything you like), they proved there, in an army constantly strengthening by the arrival of new recruits. In that charmed apartment, the most complicated social questions were cast up, got into exact totals, and finally settled if those concerned could only have been brought to know it. As if an astronomical observatory should be made without any windows, and the astronomer within should arrange the starry universe solely by pen, ink, and paper, so Mr. Gradgrind, in _his_ Observatory (and there are many like it), had no need to cast an eye upon the teeming myriads of human beings around him, but could settle all their destinies on a slate, and wipe out all their tears with one dirty little bit of sponge. To this Observatory, then: a stern room, with a deadly statistical clock in it, which measured every second with a beat like a rap upon a coffin-lid; Louisa repaired on the appointed morning. A window looked towards Coketown; and when she sat down near her father's table, she saw the high chimneys and the long tracts of smoke looming in the heavy distance gloomily. "My dear Louisa," said her father, "I prepared you last night to give me your serious attention in the conversation we are now going to have together. You have been so well trained, and you do, I am happy to say, so much justice to the education you have received, that I have perfect confidence in your good sense. You are not impulsive, you are not romantic, you are accustomed to view everything from the strong dispassionate ground of reason and calculation. From that ground alone, I know you will view and consider what I am going to communicate." He waited, as if he would have been glad that she said something. But she said never a word. "Louisa, my dear, you are the subject of a proposal of marriage that has been made to me." Again he waited, and again she answered not one word. This so far surprised him, as to induce him gently to repeat, "a proposal of marriage, my dear." To which she returned, without any visible emotion whatever: "I hear you, father. I am attending, I assure you." "Well!" said Mr. Gradgrind, breaking into a smile, after being for the moment at a loss, "you are even more dispassionate than I expected, Louisa. Or, perhaps, you are not unprepared for the announcement I have it in charge to make?" "I cannot say that, father, until I hear it. Prepared or unprepared, I wish to hear it all from you. I wish to hear you state it to me, father." Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind was not so collected at this moment as his daughter was. He took a paper-knife in his hand, turned it over, laid it down, took it up again, and even then had to look along the blade of it, considering how to go on. "What you say, my dear Louisa, is perfectly reasonable. I have undertaken then to let you know that in short, that Mr. Bounderby has informed me that he has long watched your progress with particular interest and pleasure, and has long hoped that the time might ultimately arrive when he should offer you his hand in marriage. That time, to which he has so long, and certainly with great constancy, looked forward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that you will take it into your favourable consideration." Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa,</\|quote\|>"do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child," he returned, "I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?" "My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing." "Father," she still pursued, "does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?" "Really, my dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "it is difficult to answer your question" "Difficult to answer it, Yes or No, father?" "Certainly, my dear. Because;" here was something to demonstrate, and it set him up again; "because the reply depends so materially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use the expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby does not do you the injustice, and does not do himself the injustice, of pretending to anything fanciful, fantastic, or (I am using synonymous terms) sentimental. Mr. Bounderby would have seen you grow up under his eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so far forget what is due to your good sense, not to say to his, as to address you from any such ground. Therefore, perhaps the expression itself I merely suggest this to you, my dear may be a little misplaced." "What would you advise me to use in its stead, father?" "Why, my dear Louisa," said Mr. Gradgrind, completely recovered by this time, "I would advise you (since you ask me) to consider this question, as you have been accustomed to consider every other question, simply as one of tangible Fact. The ignorant and the giddy may embarrass such subjects with irrelevant fancies, and other absurdities that have no existence, properly viewed really no existence but it is no compliment to you to say, that you know better. Now, what are the Facts of this case? You are, we will say in round numbers, twenty years of age; Mr. Bounderby is, we will say in round numbers, fifty. There is some disparity in your respective years, but in your means and positions there is none; on the contrary, there is a great suitability. Then the question arises, Is this one disparity sufficient to operate as a bar to such a marriage? In considering this question, it is not unimportant to take into account the statistics of marriage, so far as they have yet been obtained, in England and Wales. I find, on reference to the figures, that a large proportion of these marriages are contracted between parties of very unequal ages, and that the elder of these contracting parties is, in rather more than three-fourths of these instances, the bridegroom. It is remarkable as showing the wide prevalence of this law, that among the natives of the British possessions in India, also in a considerable part of China, and among the Calmucks of Tartary, the best means of computation yet furnished us by travellers, yield similar results. The disparity I have mentioned, therefore, almost ceases to be disparity, and (virtually) all but disappears." "What do you recommend, father," asked Louisa, her reserved composure not in the least affected by these gratifying results, "that I should substitute for the term I used just now? For the misplaced expression?" "Louisa," returned her father, "it appears to me that nothing can be plainer. Confining yourself rigidly to Fact, the question of Fact you state to yourself is: Does Mr. Bounderby ask me to marry him? Yes, he does. The sole remaining question then is: Shall I marry him? I think nothing can be plainer than that?" "Shall I marry him?" repeated Louisa, with great deliberation. "Precisely. And it is satisfactory to me, as your father, my dear Louisa, to know that you do not come to the consideration of that question with the previous habits of mind, and habits of life, that belong to many young women." "No, father," she returned, "I do not." "I now leave you to judge for yourself," said Mr. Gradgrind. "I have stated the case, as such cases are usually stated among practical minds; I have stated it, as the case of your mother and myself was stated in its time. The rest, my dear Louisa, is for you to decide." From the beginning, she had sat looking at him fixedly. As he now leaned back in his chair, and bent his deep-set eyes upon her in his turn, perhaps he might have seen one wavering moment in her, when she was impelled to throw herself upon his breast, and give him the pent-up confidences of her heart. But, to see it, he must have overleaped at a bound the artificial barriers he had for many years been erecting, between himself and all those subtle essences of humanity which will elude the utmost cunning of algebra until the last trumpet ever	and finally settled if those concerned could only have been brought to know it. As if an astronomical observatory should be made without any windows, and the astronomer within should arrange the starry universe solely by pen, ink, and paper, so Mr. Gradgrind, in _his_ Observatory (and there are many like it), had no need to cast an eye upon the teeming myriads of human beings around him, but could settle all their destinies on a slate, and wipe out all their tears with one dirty little bit of sponge. To this Observatory, then: a stern room, with a deadly statistical clock in it, which measured every second with a beat like a rap upon a coffin-lid; Louisa repaired on the appointed morning. A window looked towards Coketown; and when she sat down near her father's table, she saw the high chimneys and the long tracts of smoke looming in the heavy distance gloomily. "My dear Louisa," said her father, "I prepared you last night to give me your serious attention in the conversation we are now going to have together. You have been so well trained, and you do, I am happy to say, so much justice to the education you have received, that I have perfect confidence in your good sense. You are not impulsive, you are not romantic, you are accustomed to view everything from the strong dispassionate ground of reason and calculation. From that ground alone, I know you will view and consider what I am going to communicate." He waited, as if he would have been glad that she said something. But she said never a word. "Louisa, my dear, you are the subject of a proposal of marriage that has been made to me." Again he waited, and again she answered not one word. This so far surprised him, as to induce him gently to repeat, "a proposal of marriage, my dear." To which she returned, without any visible emotion whatever: "I hear you, father. I am attending, I assure you." "Well!" said Mr. Gradgrind, breaking into a smile, after being for the moment at a loss, "you are even more dispassionate than I expected, Louisa. Or, perhaps, you are not unprepared for the announcement I have it in charge to make?" "I cannot say that, father, until I hear it. Prepared or unprepared, I wish to hear it all from you. I wish to hear you state it to me, father." Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind was not so collected at this moment as his daughter was. He took a paper-knife in his hand, turned it over, laid it down, took it up again, and even then had to look along the blade of it, considering how to go on. "What you say, my dear Louisa, is perfectly reasonable. I have undertaken then to let you know that in short, that Mr. Bounderby has informed me that he has long watched your progress with particular interest and pleasure, and has long hoped that the time might ultimately arrive when he should offer you his hand in marriage. That time, to which he has so long, and certainly with great constancy, looked forward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that you will take it into your favourable consideration." Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa,</\|quote\|>"do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child," he returned, "I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?" "My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing." "Father," she still pursued, "does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?" "Really, my dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "it is difficult to answer your question" "Difficult to answer it, Yes or No, father?" "Certainly, my dear. Because;" here was something to demonstrate, and it set him up again; "because the reply depends so materially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use the expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby does not do you the injustice, and does not do himself the injustice, of pretending to anything fanciful, fantastic, or (I am using synonymous terms) sentimental. Mr. Bounderby would have seen you grow up under his eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so far forget what is due to your good sense, not to say to his, as to address you from any such ground. Therefore, perhaps the expression itself I merely suggest this to you, my dear may be a little misplaced." "What would you advise me to use in its stead, father?" "Why, my dear Louisa," said Mr. Gradgrind, completely recovered by this time, "I would advise you (since you ask me) to consider this question, as you have been accustomed to consider every other question, simply as one of tangible Fact. The ignorant and the giddy may embarrass such subjects with irrelevant fancies, and other absurdities that have no existence, properly viewed really no existence but it is no compliment to you to say, that you know better. Now, what are the Facts of this case? You are, we will say in round numbers, twenty years of age; Mr. Bounderby is, we will say in round numbers, fifty. There is some disparity in your respective years, but in your means and positions there is none; on the contrary, there is a great suitability. Then the question arises, Is this one disparity sufficient to operate as a bar to such a marriage? In considering this question, it is not unimportant to take into account the statistics of marriage, so far as they have yet been obtained, in England and Wales. I find, on reference to the figures, that a large proportion of these marriages are contracted between parties of very unequal ages, and that the elder of these contracting parties is, in rather more than three-fourths of these instances, the bridegroom. It is remarkable as showing the wide prevalence of this law, that among the natives of	Hard Times
the children murmured, looking pleased and interested. Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from his mother or father. Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up, Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of their	No speaker	the murder.” “Hurrah! The murder!”<\|quote\|>the children murmured, looking pleased and interested. Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from his mother or father. Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up, Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of their</\|quote\|>“property.” A new law was	is going to tell about the murder.” “Hurrah! The murder!”<\|quote\|>the children murmured, looking pleased and interested. Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from his mother or father. Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up, Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of their</\|quote\|>“property.” A new law was passed in the State, securing	I wonder if you’ve heard about the Cutters?” No, I had heard nothing at all about them. “Then you must tell him, son, though it’s a terrible thing to talk about at supper. Now, all you children be quiet, Rudolph is going to tell about the murder.” “Hurrah! The murder!”<\|quote\|>the children murmured, looking pleased and interested. Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from his mother or father. Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up, Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of their</\|quote\|>“property.” A new law was passed in the State, securing the surviving wife a third of her husband’s estate under all conditions. Cutter was tormented by the fear that Mrs. Cutter would live longer than he, and that eventually her “people,” whom he had always hated so violently, would inherit.	two brown geese, stuffed with apples, were put down sizzling before Ántonia. She began to carve, and Rudolph, who sat next his mother, started the plates on their way. When everybody was served, he looked across the table at me. “Have you been to Black Hawk lately, Mr. Burden? Then I wonder if you’ve heard about the Cutters?” No, I had heard nothing at all about them. “Then you must tell him, son, though it’s a terrible thing to talk about at supper. Now, all you children be quiet, Rudolph is going to tell about the murder.” “Hurrah! The murder!”<\|quote\|>the children murmured, looking pleased and interested. Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from his mother or father. Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up, Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of their</\|quote\|>“property.” A new law was passed in the State, securing the surviving wife a third of her husband’s estate under all conditions. Cutter was tormented by the fear that Mrs. Cutter would live longer than he, and that eventually her “people,” whom he had always hated so violently, would inherit. Their quarrels on this subject passed the boundary of the close-growing cedars, and were heard in the street by whoever wished to loiter and listen. One morning, two years ago, Cutter went into the hardware store and bought a pistol, saying he was going to shoot a dog, and adding	me about her looks, her popularity, her voice; but he particularly wanted to know whether I had noticed her tiny feet, and whether I thought she had saved much money. She was extravagant, of course, but he hoped she would n’t squander everything, and have nothing left when she was old. As a young man, working in Wienn, he had seen a good many artists who were old and poor, making one glass of beer last all evening, and “it was not very nice, that.” When the boys came in from milking and feeding, the long table was laid, and two brown geese, stuffed with apples, were put down sizzling before Ántonia. She began to carve, and Rudolph, who sat next his mother, started the plates on their way. When everybody was served, he looked across the table at me. “Have you been to Black Hawk lately, Mr. Burden? Then I wonder if you’ve heard about the Cutters?” No, I had heard nothing at all about them. “Then you must tell him, son, though it’s a terrible thing to talk about at supper. Now, all you children be quiet, Rudolph is going to tell about the murder.” “Hurrah! The murder!”<\|quote\|>the children murmured, looking pleased and interested. Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from his mother or father. Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up, Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of their</\|quote\|>“property.” A new law was passed in the State, securing the surviving wife a third of her husband’s estate under all conditions. Cutter was tormented by the fear that Mrs. Cutter would live longer than he, and that eventually her “people,” whom he had always hated so violently, would inherit. Their quarrels on this subject passed the boundary of the close-growing cedars, and were heard in the street by whoever wished to loiter and listen. One morning, two years ago, Cutter went into the hardware store and bought a pistol, saying he was going to shoot a dog, and adding that he “thought he would take a shot at an old cat while he was about it.” (Here the children interrupted Rudolph’s narrative by smothered giggles.) Cutter went out behind the hardware store, put up a target, practiced for an hour or so, and then went home. At six o’clock that evening, when several men were passing the Cutter house on their way home to supper, they heard a pistol shot. They paused and were looking doubtfully at one another, when another shot came crashing through an upstairs window. They ran into the house and found Wick Cutter lying on	a whistle. He beckoned to the little boy they called Jan, whispered to him, and presented him with a paper snake, gently, so as not to startle him. Looking over the boy’s head he said to me, “This one is bashful. He gets left.” Cuzak had brought home with him a roll of illustrated Bohemian papers. He opened them and began to tell his wife the news, much of which seemed to relate to one person. I heard the name Vasakova, Vasakova, repeated several times with lively interest, and presently I asked him whether he were talking about the singer, Maria Vasak. “You know? You have heard, maybe?” he asked incredulously. When I assured him that I had heard her, he pointed out her picture and told me that Vasak had broken her leg, climbing in the Austrian Alps, and would not be able to fill her engagements. He seemed delighted to find that I had heard her sing in London and in Vienna; got out his pipe and lit it to enjoy our talk the better. She came from his part of Prague. His father used to mend her shoes for her when she was a student. Cuzak questioned me about her looks, her popularity, her voice; but he particularly wanted to know whether I had noticed her tiny feet, and whether I thought she had saved much money. She was extravagant, of course, but he hoped she would n’t squander everything, and have nothing left when she was old. As a young man, working in Wienn, he had seen a good many artists who were old and poor, making one glass of beer last all evening, and “it was not very nice, that.” When the boys came in from milking and feeding, the long table was laid, and two brown geese, stuffed with apples, were put down sizzling before Ántonia. She began to carve, and Rudolph, who sat next his mother, started the plates on their way. When everybody was served, he looked across the table at me. “Have you been to Black Hawk lately, Mr. Burden? Then I wonder if you’ve heard about the Cutters?” No, I had heard nothing at all about them. “Then you must tell him, son, though it’s a terrible thing to talk about at supper. Now, all you children be quiet, Rudolph is going to tell about the murder.” “Hurrah! The murder!”<\|quote\|>the children murmured, looking pleased and interested. Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from his mother or father. Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up, Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of their</\|quote\|>“property.” A new law was passed in the State, securing the surviving wife a third of her husband’s estate under all conditions. Cutter was tormented by the fear that Mrs. Cutter would live longer than he, and that eventually her “people,” whom he had always hated so violently, would inherit. Their quarrels on this subject passed the boundary of the close-growing cedars, and were heard in the street by whoever wished to loiter and listen. One morning, two years ago, Cutter went into the hardware store and bought a pistol, saying he was going to shoot a dog, and adding that he “thought he would take a shot at an old cat while he was about it.” (Here the children interrupted Rudolph’s narrative by smothered giggles.) Cutter went out behind the hardware store, put up a target, practiced for an hour or so, and then went home. At six o’clock that evening, when several men were passing the Cutter house on their way home to supper, they heard a pistol shot. They paused and were looking doubtfully at one another, when another shot came crashing through an upstairs window. They ran into the house and found Wick Cutter lying on a sofa in his upstairs bedroom, with his throat torn open, bleeding on a roll of sheets he had placed beside his head. “Walk in, gentlemen,” he said weakly. “I am alive, you see, and competent. You are witnesses that I have survived my wife. You will find her in her own room. Please make your examination at once, so that there will be no mistake.” One of the neighbors telephoned for a doctor, while the others went into Mrs. Cutter’s room. She was lying on her bed, in her nightgown and wrapper, shot through the heart. Her husband must have come in while she was taking her afternoon nap and shot her, holding the revolver near her breast. Her nightgown was burned from the powder. The horrified neighbors rushed back to Cutter. He opened his eyes and said distinctly, “Mrs. Cutter is quite dead, gentlemen, and I am conscious. My affairs are in order.” Then, Rudolph said, “he let go and died.” On his desk the coroner found a letter, dated at five o’clock that afternoon. It stated that he had just shot his wife; that any will she might secretly have made would be invalid, as he survived	hall behind the saloon last night, mother, and I danced with all the girls, and so did father. I never saw so many pretty girls. It was a Bohunk crowd, for sure. We did n’t hear a word of English on the street, except from the show people, did we, papa?” Cuzak nodded. “And very many send word to you, Ántonia. You will excuse” —turning to me— “if I tell her.” While we walked toward the house he related incidents and delivered messages in the tongue he spoke fluently, and I dropped a little behind, curious to know what their relations had become—or remained. The two seemed to be on terms of easy friendliness, touched with humor. Clearly, she was the impulse, and he the corrective. As they went up the hill he kept glancing at her sidewise, to see whether she got his point, or how she received it. I noticed later that he always looked at people sidewise, as a work-horse does at its yoke-mate. Even when he sat opposite me in the kitchen, talking, he would turn his head a little toward the clock or the stove and look at me from the side, but with frankness and good-nature. This trick did not suggest duplicity or secretiveness, but merely long habit, as with the horse. He had brought a tintype of himself and Rudolph for Ántonia’s collection, and several paper bags of candy for the children. He looked a little disappointed when his wife showed him a big box of candy I had got in Denver—she had n’t let the children touch it the night before. He put his candy away in the cupboard, “for when she rains,” and glanced at the box, chuckling. “I guess you must have hear about how my family ain’t so small,” he said. Cuzak sat down behind the stove and watched his women-folk and the little children with equal amusement. He thought they were nice, and he thought they were funny, evidently. He had been off dancing with the girls and forgetting that he was an old fellow, and now his family rather surprised him; he seemed to think it a joke that all these children should belong to him. As the younger ones slipped up to him in his retreat, he kept taking things out of his pockets; penny dolls, a wooden clown, a balloon pig that was inflated by a whistle. He beckoned to the little boy they called Jan, whispered to him, and presented him with a paper snake, gently, so as not to startle him. Looking over the boy’s head he said to me, “This one is bashful. He gets left.” Cuzak had brought home with him a roll of illustrated Bohemian papers. He opened them and began to tell his wife the news, much of which seemed to relate to one person. I heard the name Vasakova, Vasakova, repeated several times with lively interest, and presently I asked him whether he were talking about the singer, Maria Vasak. “You know? You have heard, maybe?” he asked incredulously. When I assured him that I had heard her, he pointed out her picture and told me that Vasak had broken her leg, climbing in the Austrian Alps, and would not be able to fill her engagements. He seemed delighted to find that I had heard her sing in London and in Vienna; got out his pipe and lit it to enjoy our talk the better. She came from his part of Prague. His father used to mend her shoes for her when she was a student. Cuzak questioned me about her looks, her popularity, her voice; but he particularly wanted to know whether I had noticed her tiny feet, and whether I thought she had saved much money. She was extravagant, of course, but he hoped she would n’t squander everything, and have nothing left when she was old. As a young man, working in Wienn, he had seen a good many artists who were old and poor, making one glass of beer last all evening, and “it was not very nice, that.” When the boys came in from milking and feeding, the long table was laid, and two brown geese, stuffed with apples, were put down sizzling before Ántonia. She began to carve, and Rudolph, who sat next his mother, started the plates on their way. When everybody was served, he looked across the table at me. “Have you been to Black Hawk lately, Mr. Burden? Then I wonder if you’ve heard about the Cutters?” No, I had heard nothing at all about them. “Then you must tell him, son, though it’s a terrible thing to talk about at supper. Now, all you children be quiet, Rudolph is going to tell about the murder.” “Hurrah! The murder!”<\|quote\|>the children murmured, looking pleased and interested. Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from his mother or father. Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up, Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of their</\|quote\|>“property.” A new law was passed in the State, securing the surviving wife a third of her husband’s estate under all conditions. Cutter was tormented by the fear that Mrs. Cutter would live longer than he, and that eventually her “people,” whom he had always hated so violently, would inherit. Their quarrels on this subject passed the boundary of the close-growing cedars, and were heard in the street by whoever wished to loiter and listen. One morning, two years ago, Cutter went into the hardware store and bought a pistol, saying he was going to shoot a dog, and adding that he “thought he would take a shot at an old cat while he was about it.” (Here the children interrupted Rudolph’s narrative by smothered giggles.) Cutter went out behind the hardware store, put up a target, practiced for an hour or so, and then went home. At six o’clock that evening, when several men were passing the Cutter house on their way home to supper, they heard a pistol shot. They paused and were looking doubtfully at one another, when another shot came crashing through an upstairs window. They ran into the house and found Wick Cutter lying on a sofa in his upstairs bedroom, with his throat torn open, bleeding on a roll of sheets he had placed beside his head. “Walk in, gentlemen,” he said weakly. “I am alive, you see, and competent. You are witnesses that I have survived my wife. You will find her in her own room. Please make your examination at once, so that there will be no mistake.” One of the neighbors telephoned for a doctor, while the others went into Mrs. Cutter’s room. She was lying on her bed, in her nightgown and wrapper, shot through the heart. Her husband must have come in while she was taking her afternoon nap and shot her, holding the revolver near her breast. Her nightgown was burned from the powder. The horrified neighbors rushed back to Cutter. He opened his eyes and said distinctly, “Mrs. Cutter is quite dead, gentlemen, and I am conscious. My affairs are in order.” Then, Rudolph said, “he let go and died.” On his desk the coroner found a letter, dated at five o’clock that afternoon. It stated that he had just shot his wife; that any will she might secretly have made would be invalid, as he survived her. He meant to shoot himself at six o’clock and would, if he had strength, fire a shot through the window in the hope that passers-by might come in and see him “before life was extinct,” as he wrote. “Now, would you have thought that man had such a cruel heart?” Ántonia turned to me after the story was told. “To go and do that poor woman out of any comfort she might have from his money after he was gone!” “Did you ever hear of anybody else that killed himself for spite, Mr. Burden?” asked Rudolph. I admitted that I had n’t. Every lawyer learns over and over how strong a motive hate can be, but in my collection of legal anecdotes I had nothing to match this one. When I asked how much the estate amounted to, Rudolph said it was a little over a hundred thousand dollars. Cuzak gave me a twinkling, sidelong glance. “The lawyers, they got a good deal of it, sure,” he said merrily. A hundred thousand dollars; so that was the fortune that had been scraped together by such hard dealing, and that Cutter himself had died for in the end! After supper Cuzak and I took a stroll in the orchard and sat down by the windmill to smoke. He told me his story as if it were my business to know it. His father was a shoemaker, his uncle a furrier, and he, being a younger son, was apprenticed to the latter’s trade. You never got anywhere working for your relatives, he said, so when he was a journeyman he went to Vienna and worked in a big fur shop, earning good money. But a young fellow who liked a good time did n’t save anything in Vienna; there were too many pleasant ways of spending every night what he’d made in the day. After three years there, he came to New York. He was badly advised and went to work on furs during a strike, when the factories were offering big wages. The strikers won, and Cuzak was blacklisted. As he had a few hundred dollars ahead, he decided to go to Florida and raise oranges. He had always thought he would like to raise oranges! The second year a hard frost killed his young grove, and he fell ill with malaria. He came to Nebraska to visit his cousin,	to him. As the younger ones slipped up to him in his retreat, he kept taking things out of his pockets; penny dolls, a wooden clown, a balloon pig that was inflated by a whistle. He beckoned to the little boy they called Jan, whispered to him, and presented him with a paper snake, gently, so as not to startle him. Looking over the boy’s head he said to me, “This one is bashful. He gets left.” Cuzak had brought home with him a roll of illustrated Bohemian papers. He opened them and began to tell his wife the news, much of which seemed to relate to one person. I heard the name Vasakova, Vasakova, repeated several times with lively interest, and presently I asked him whether he were talking about the singer, Maria Vasak. “You know? You have heard, maybe?” he asked incredulously. When I assured him that I had heard her, he pointed out her picture and told me that Vasak had broken her leg, climbing in the Austrian Alps, and would not be able to fill her engagements. He seemed delighted to find that I had heard her sing in London and in Vienna; got out his pipe and lit it to enjoy our talk the better. She came from his part of Prague. His father used to mend her shoes for her when she was a student. Cuzak questioned me about her looks, her popularity, her voice; but he particularly wanted to know whether I had noticed her tiny feet, and whether I thought she had saved much money. She was extravagant, of course, but he hoped she would n’t squander everything, and have nothing left when she was old. As a young man, working in Wienn, he had seen a good many artists who were old and poor, making one glass of beer last all evening, and “it was not very nice, that.” When the boys came in from milking and feeding, the long table was laid, and two brown geese, stuffed with apples, were put down sizzling before Ántonia. She began to carve, and Rudolph, who sat next his mother, started the plates on their way. When everybody was served, he looked across the table at me. “Have you been to Black Hawk lately, Mr. Burden? Then I wonder if you’ve heard about the Cutters?” No, I had heard nothing at all about them. “Then you must tell him, son, though it’s a terrible thing to talk about at supper. Now, all you children be quiet, Rudolph is going to tell about the murder.” “Hurrah! The murder!”<\|quote\|>the children murmured, looking pleased and interested. Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from his mother or father. Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up, Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of their</\|quote\|>“property.” A new law was passed in the State, securing the surviving wife a third of her husband’s estate under all conditions. Cutter was tormented by the fear that Mrs. Cutter would live longer than he, and that eventually her “people,” whom he had always hated so violently, would inherit. Their quarrels on this subject passed the boundary of the close-growing cedars, and were heard in the street by whoever wished to loiter and listen. One morning, two years ago, Cutter went into the hardware store and bought a pistol, saying he was going to shoot a dog, and adding that he “thought he would take a shot at an old cat while he was about it.” (Here the children interrupted Rudolph’s narrative by smothered giggles.) Cutter went out behind the hardware store, put up a target, practiced for an hour or so, and then went home. At six o’clock that evening, when several men were passing the Cutter house on their way home to supper, they heard a pistol shot. They paused and were looking doubtfully at one another, when another shot came crashing through an upstairs window. They ran into the house and found Wick Cutter lying on a sofa in his upstairs bedroom, with his throat torn open, bleeding on a roll of sheets he had placed beside his head. “Walk in, gentlemen,” he said weakly. “I am alive, you see, and competent. You are witnesses that I have survived my wife. You will find her in her own room. Please make your examination at once, so that there will be no mistake.” One of the neighbors telephoned for a doctor, while the others went into Mrs. Cutter’s room. She was lying on her bed, in her nightgown and wrapper, shot through the heart. Her husband must have come in while she was taking her afternoon nap and shot her, holding the revolver near her breast. Her nightgown was burned from the powder. The horrified neighbors rushed back to Cutter. He opened his eyes and said distinctly, “Mrs. Cutter is quite dead, gentlemen, and I am conscious. My affairs are in order.” Then, Rudolph said, “he let go and died.” On his desk the coroner found a letter, dated at five o’clock that afternoon. It stated that he had just shot his wife; that any will she might secretly have made would be invalid, as he survived her. He meant to shoot himself at six o’clock and would, if he had strength, fire a shot through the window in the hope that passers-by might come in and see him “before life was extinct,” as he wrote. “Now, would you have thought that man had such a cruel heart?” Ántonia turned to me after the story was told. “To go and do that poor woman out of any comfort she might have from his money after he was gone!” “Did you ever hear of anybody else that killed himself for spite, Mr. Burden?” asked Rudolph. I admitted that I had n’t. Every lawyer learns over and over how strong a motive hate can be, but in my collection of legal anecdotes I had nothing to match this one. When I asked how	My Antonia
said Helen, taking fire.	No speaker	great and theirs are little,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, taking fire.</\|quote\|>"I know of things they	"Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, taking fire.</\|quote\|>"I know of things they can t know of, and	run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, taking fire.</\|quote\|>"I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the	Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, taking fire.</\|quote\|>"I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that	course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, taking fire.</\|quote\|>"I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say	angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, taking fire.</\|quote\|>"I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who had not	the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. "Little boy, what do you want?" "Please, I am the milk." "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply. "Yes, please." "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to Helen, "No, it s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one." "But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?" "Do you? Oh, very well. But we ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the can." "Please, I m to call in the morning for the can," said the boy. "The house will be locked up then." "In the morning would I bring eggs too?" "Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?" The child hung his head. "Well, run away and do it again." "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what s your name? Mine s Helen." "Tom." That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return. "Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we ve another called Tibby." "Mine are lop-eareds," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. "You re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.--Isn t he charming?" "Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers." "What do you mean?" "I don t know." "Because I probably agree with you." "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live." "I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago." "Meaning that I was dead. I felt it." "Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I ve a startling idea." "What is it?" "Drink some milk to steady you." Margaret obeyed. "No, I won t tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, taking fire.</\|quote\|>"I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who had not been "told," ran out with offers of tea. He refused them, and ordered them to wheel baby s perambulator away, as they desired to be alone. "But the diddums can t listen; he isn t nine months old," she pleaded. "That s not what I was saying," retorted her father-in-law. Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear about the crisis till later years. It was now the turn of Margaret. "Is it what we feared?" he asked. "It is." "Dear girl," he began, "there is a troublesome business ahead of us, and nothing but the most absolute honesty and plain speech will see us through." Margaret bent her head. "I am obliged to question you on subjects we d both prefer to leave untouched. As you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who consider nothing sacred. To speak as I must will pain me, but there are occasions--We are husband and wife, not children. I am a man of the world, and you are a most exceptional woman." All Margaret s senses forsook her. She blushed, and looked past him at the Six Hills, covered with spring herbage. Noting her colour, he grew still more kind. "I see that you feel as I felt when--My poor little wife! Oh, be brave! Just one or two questions, and I have done with you. Was your sister wearing a wedding-ring?" Margaret stammered a "No." There was an appalling silence. "Henry, I really came to ask a favour about Howards End." "One point at a time. I am now obliged to ask for the name of her seducer." She rose to her feet and held the chair between them. Her colour had ebbed, and she was grey. It did not displease him that she should receive his question thus. "Take your time," he counselled her. "Remember that this is far worse for me than for you." She swayed; he feared she was going to faint. Then speech came, and she said slowly: "Seducer? No; I do not know her seducer s name." "Would she not tell you?" "I never even asked her who seduced her," said Margaret, dwelling on the hateful word thoughtfully. "That is singular." Then he changed his mind. "Natural perhaps, dear girl, that you shouldn t ask. But until his name is known, nothing can be done. Sit down. How terrible it is to	do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago." "Meaning that I was dead. I felt it." "Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I ve a startling idea." "What is it?" "Drink some milk to steady you." Margaret obeyed. "No, I won t tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, taking fire.</\|quote\|>"I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen	Howards End
he cried in great astonishment.	No speaker	reply. "What? You cannot say?"<\|quote\|>he cried in great astonishment.</\|quote\|>"No; I have never noticed	really cannot say," was my reply. "What? You cannot say?"<\|quote\|>he cried in great astonishment.</\|quote\|>"No; I have never noticed whether she does so or	me meaningly in the face. What he meant I did not know, but to my glance of inquiry he returned only a dry nod, and a reiterated "It is so." Presently, however, he resumed: "Does Mlle. Polina like flowers?" "I really cannot say," was my reply. "What? You cannot say?"<\|quote\|>he cried in great astonishment.</\|quote\|>"No; I have never noticed whether she does so or not," I repeated with a smile. "Hm! Then I have an idea in my mind," he concluded. Lastly, with a nod, he walked away with a pleased expression on his face. The conversation had been carried on in execrable French.	speaking to myself; and, one morning when we had met, and exchanged a couple of words, he burst out in his usual abrupt way, without saying "Good-morning." "That Mlle. Blanche," he said. "Well, I have seen a good many women like her." After that he was silent as he looked me meaningly in the face. What he meant I did not know, but to my glance of inquiry he returned only a dry nod, and a reiterated "It is so." Presently, however, he resumed: "Does Mlle. Polina like flowers?" "I really cannot say," was my reply. "What? You cannot say?"<\|quote\|>he cried in great astonishment.</\|quote\|>"No; I have never noticed whether she does so or not," I repeated with a smile. "Hm! Then I have an idea in my mind," he concluded. Lastly, with a nod, he walked away with a pleased expression on his face. The conversation had been carried on in execrable French. IV Today has been a day of folly, stupidity, and ineptness. The time is now eleven o clock in the evening, and I am sitting in my room and thinking. It all began, this morning, with my being forced to go and play roulette for Polina Alexandrovna. When she handed	I knew he was dying to join us. Even when invited to do so, he would refuse. Again, in places of amusement in the Casino, at concerts, or near the fountain he was never far from the spot where we were sitting. In fact, _wherever_ we were in the Park, in the forest, or on the Shlangenberg one needed but to raise one s eyes and glance around to catch sight of at least a _portion_ of Mr. Astley s frame sticking out whether on an adjacent path or behind a bush. Yet never did he lose any chance of speaking to myself; and, one morning when we had met, and exchanged a couple of words, he burst out in his usual abrupt way, without saying "Good-morning." "That Mlle. Blanche," he said. "Well, I have seen a good many women like her." After that he was silent as he looked me meaningly in the face. What he meant I did not know, but to my glance of inquiry he returned only a dry nod, and a reiterated "It is so." Presently, however, he resumed: "Does Mlle. Polina like flowers?" "I really cannot say," was my reply. "What? You cannot say?"<\|quote\|>he cried in great astonishment.</\|quote\|>"No; I have never noticed whether she does so or not," I repeated with a smile. "Hm! Then I have an idea in my mind," he concluded. Lastly, with a nod, he walked away with a pleased expression on his face. The conversation had been carried on in execrable French. IV Today has been a day of folly, stupidity, and ineptness. The time is now eleven o clock in the evening, and I am sitting in my room and thinking. It all began, this morning, with my being forced to go and play roulette for Polina Alexandrovna. When she handed me over her store of six hundred g lden I exacted two conditions namely, that I should not go halves with her in her winnings, if any (that is to say, I should not take anything for myself), and that she should explain to me, that same evening, why it was so necessary for her to win, and how much was the sum which she needed. For, I could not suppose that she was doing all this merely for the sake of money. Yet clearly she _did_ need some money, and that as soon as possible, and for a special	and the General. Everything seemed to depend upon our means upon whether the General would be able to flourish sufficient money in her face. If ever the news should arrive that the grandmother was not dead, Mlle. Blanche, I felt sure, would disappear in a twinkling. Indeed, it surprised and amused me to observe what a passion for intrigue I was developing. But how I loathed it all! With what pleasure would I have given everybody and everything the go-by! Only I could not leave Polina. How, then, could I show contempt for those who surrounded her? Espionage is a base thing, but what have I to do with that? Mr. Astley, too, I found a curious person. I was only sure that he had fallen in love with Polina. A remarkable and diverting circumstance is the amount which may lie in the mien of a shy and painfully modest man who has been touched with the divine passion especially when he would rather sink into the earth than betray himself by a single word or look. Though Mr. Astley frequently met us when we were out walking, he would merely take off his hat and pass us by, though I knew he was dying to join us. Even when invited to do so, he would refuse. Again, in places of amusement in the Casino, at concerts, or near the fountain he was never far from the spot where we were sitting. In fact, _wherever_ we were in the Park, in the forest, or on the Shlangenberg one needed but to raise one s eyes and glance around to catch sight of at least a _portion_ of Mr. Astley s frame sticking out whether on an adjacent path or behind a bush. Yet never did he lose any chance of speaking to myself; and, one morning when we had met, and exchanged a couple of words, he burst out in his usual abrupt way, without saying "Good-morning." "That Mlle. Blanche," he said. "Well, I have seen a good many women like her." After that he was silent as he looked me meaningly in the face. What he meant I did not know, but to my glance of inquiry he returned only a dry nod, and a reiterated "It is so." Presently, however, he resumed: "Does Mlle. Polina like flowers?" "I really cannot say," was my reply. "What? You cannot say?"<\|quote\|>he cried in great astonishment.</\|quote\|>"No; I have never noticed whether she does so or not," I repeated with a smile. "Hm! Then I have an idea in my mind," he concluded. Lastly, with a nod, he walked away with a pleased expression on his face. The conversation had been carried on in execrable French. IV Today has been a day of folly, stupidity, and ineptness. The time is now eleven o clock in the evening, and I am sitting in my room and thinking. It all began, this morning, with my being forced to go and play roulette for Polina Alexandrovna. When she handed me over her store of six hundred g lden I exacted two conditions namely, that I should not go halves with her in her winnings, if any (that is to say, I should not take anything for myself), and that she should explain to me, that same evening, why it was so necessary for her to win, and how much was the sum which she needed. For, I could not suppose that she was doing all this merely for the sake of money. Yet clearly she _did_ need some money, and that as soon as possible, and for a special purpose. Well, she promised to explain matters, and I departed. There was a tremendous crowd in the gaming-rooms. What an arrogant, greedy crowd it was! I pressed forward towards the middle of the room until I had secured a seat at a croupier s elbow. Then I began to play in timid fashion, venturing only twenty or thirty g lden at a time. Meanwhile, I observed and took notes. It seemed to me that calculation was superfluous, and by no means possessed of the importance which certain other players attached to it, even though they sat with ruled papers in their hands, whereon they set down the coups, calculated the chances, reckoned, staked, and lost exactly as we more simple mortals did who played without any reckoning at all. However, I deduced from the scene one conclusion which seemed to me reliable namely, that in the flow of fortuitous chances there is, if not a system, at all events a sort of order. This, of course, is a very strange thing. For instance, after a dozen middle figures there would always occur a dozen or so outer ones. Suppose the ball stopped twice at a dozen outer figures; it would	air; for I felt pretty certain that it would not be long before she herself approached me. For two days, therefore, I devoted my attention to Mlle. Blanche. The poor General was in despair! To fall in love at fifty-five, and with such vehemence, is indeed a misfortune! And add to that his widowerhood, his children, his ruined property, his debts, and the woman with whom he had fallen in love! Though Mlle. Blanche was extremely good-looking, I may or may not be understood when I say that she had one of those faces which one is afraid of. At all events, I myself have always feared such women. Apparently about twenty-five years of age, she was tall and broad-shouldered, with shoulders that sloped; yet though her neck and bosom were ample in their proportions, her skin was dull yellow in colour, while her hair (which was extremely abundant sufficient to make two coiffures) was as black as Indian ink. Add to that a pair of black eyes with yellowish whites, a proud glance, gleaming teeth, and lips which were perennially pomaded and redolent of musk. As for her dress, it was invariably rich, effective, and chic, yet in good taste. Lastly, her feet and hands were astonishing, and her voice a deep contralto. Sometimes, when she laughed, she displayed her teeth, but at ordinary times her air was taciturn and haughty especially in the presence of Polina and Maria Philipovna. Yet she seemed to me almost destitute of education, and even of wits, though cunning and suspicious. This, apparently, was not because her life had been lacking in incident. Perhaps, if all were known, the Marquis was not her kinsman at all, nor her mother, her mother; but there was evidence that, in Berlin, where we had first come across the pair, they had possessed acquaintances of good standing. As for the Marquis himself, I doubt to this day if he was a Marquis although about the fact that he had formerly belonged to high society (for instance, in Moscow and Germany) there could be no doubt whatever. What he had formerly been in France I had not a notion. All I knew was that he was said to possess a ch teau. During the last two weeks I had looked for much to transpire, but am still ignorant whether at that time anything decisive ever passed between Mademoiselle and the General. Everything seemed to depend upon our means upon whether the General would be able to flourish sufficient money in her face. If ever the news should arrive that the grandmother was not dead, Mlle. Blanche, I felt sure, would disappear in a twinkling. Indeed, it surprised and amused me to observe what a passion for intrigue I was developing. But how I loathed it all! With what pleasure would I have given everybody and everything the go-by! Only I could not leave Polina. How, then, could I show contempt for those who surrounded her? Espionage is a base thing, but what have I to do with that? Mr. Astley, too, I found a curious person. I was only sure that he had fallen in love with Polina. A remarkable and diverting circumstance is the amount which may lie in the mien of a shy and painfully modest man who has been touched with the divine passion especially when he would rather sink into the earth than betray himself by a single word or look. Though Mr. Astley frequently met us when we were out walking, he would merely take off his hat and pass us by, though I knew he was dying to join us. Even when invited to do so, he would refuse. Again, in places of amusement in the Casino, at concerts, or near the fountain he was never far from the spot where we were sitting. In fact, _wherever_ we were in the Park, in the forest, or on the Shlangenberg one needed but to raise one s eyes and glance around to catch sight of at least a _portion_ of Mr. Astley s frame sticking out whether on an adjacent path or behind a bush. Yet never did he lose any chance of speaking to myself; and, one morning when we had met, and exchanged a couple of words, he burst out in his usual abrupt way, without saying "Good-morning." "That Mlle. Blanche," he said. "Well, I have seen a good many women like her." After that he was silent as he looked me meaningly in the face. What he meant I did not know, but to my glance of inquiry he returned only a dry nod, and a reiterated "It is so." Presently, however, he resumed: "Does Mlle. Polina like flowers?" "I really cannot say," was my reply. "What? You cannot say?"<\|quote\|>he cried in great astonishment.</\|quote\|>"No; I have never noticed whether she does so or not," I repeated with a smile. "Hm! Then I have an idea in my mind," he concluded. Lastly, with a nod, he walked away with a pleased expression on his face. The conversation had been carried on in execrable French. IV Today has been a day of folly, stupidity, and ineptness. The time is now eleven o clock in the evening, and I am sitting in my room and thinking. It all began, this morning, with my being forced to go and play roulette for Polina Alexandrovna. When she handed me over her store of six hundred g lden I exacted two conditions namely, that I should not go halves with her in her winnings, if any (that is to say, I should not take anything for myself), and that she should explain to me, that same evening, why it was so necessary for her to win, and how much was the sum which she needed. For, I could not suppose that she was doing all this merely for the sake of money. Yet clearly she _did_ need some money, and that as soon as possible, and for a special purpose. Well, she promised to explain matters, and I departed. There was a tremendous crowd in the gaming-rooms. What an arrogant, greedy crowd it was! I pressed forward towards the middle of the room until I had secured a seat at a croupier s elbow. Then I began to play in timid fashion, venturing only twenty or thirty g lden at a time. Meanwhile, I observed and took notes. It seemed to me that calculation was superfluous, and by no means possessed of the importance which certain other players attached to it, even though they sat with ruled papers in their hands, whereon they set down the coups, calculated the chances, reckoned, staked, and lost exactly as we more simple mortals did who played without any reckoning at all. However, I deduced from the scene one conclusion which seemed to me reliable namely, that in the flow of fortuitous chances there is, if not a system, at all events a sort of order. This, of course, is a very strange thing. For instance, after a dozen middle figures there would always occur a dozen or so outer ones. Suppose the ball stopped twice at a dozen outer figures; it would then pass to a dozen of the first ones, and then, again, to a dozen of the middle ciphers, and fall upon them three or four times, and then revert to a dozen outers; whence, after another couple of rounds, the ball would again pass to the first figures, strike upon them once, and then return thrice to the middle series continuing thus for an hour and a half, or two hours. One, three, two: one, three, two. It was all very curious. Again, for the whole of a day or a morning the red would alternate with the black, but almost without any order, and from moment to moment, so that scarcely two consecutive rounds would end upon either the one or the other. Yet, next day, or, perhaps, the next evening, the red alone would turn up, and attain a run of over two score, and continue so for quite a length of time say, for a whole day. Of these circumstances the majority were pointed out to me by Mr. Astley, who stood by the gaming-table the whole morning, yet never once staked in person. For myself, I lost all that I had on me, and with great speed. To begin with, I staked two hundred g lden on "even," and won. Then I staked the same amount again, and won: and so on some two or three times. At one moment I must have had in my hands gathered there within a space of five minutes about 4000 g lden. That, of course, was the proper moment for me to have departed, but there arose in me a strange sensation as of a challenge to Fate as of a wish to deal her a blow on the cheek, and to put out my tongue at her. Accordingly I set down the largest stake allowed by the rules namely, 4000 g lden and lost. Fired by this mishap, I pulled out all the money left to me, staked it all on the same venture, and again lost! Then I rose from the table, feeling as though I were stupefied. What had happened to me I did not know; but, before luncheon I told Polina of my losses until which time I walked about the Park. At luncheon I was as excited as I had been at the meal three days ago. Mlle. Blanche and the Frenchman were	especially when he would rather sink into the earth than betray himself by a single word or look. Though Mr. Astley frequently met us when we were out walking, he would merely take off his hat and pass us by, though I knew he was dying to join us. Even when invited to do so, he would refuse. Again, in places of amusement in the Casino, at concerts, or near the fountain he was never far from the spot where we were sitting. In fact, _wherever_ we were in the Park, in the forest, or on the Shlangenberg one needed but to raise one s eyes and glance around to catch sight of at least a _portion_ of Mr. Astley s frame sticking out whether on an adjacent path or behind a bush. Yet never did he lose any chance of speaking to myself; and, one morning when we had met, and exchanged a couple of words, he burst out in his usual abrupt way, without saying "Good-morning." "That Mlle. Blanche," he said. "Well, I have seen a good many women like her." After that he was silent as he looked me meaningly in the face. What he meant I did not know, but to my glance of inquiry he returned only a dry nod, and a reiterated "It is so." Presently, however, he resumed: "Does Mlle. Polina like flowers?" "I really cannot say," was my reply. "What? You cannot say?"<\|quote\|>he cried in great astonishment.</\|quote\|>"No; I have never noticed whether she does so or not," I repeated with a smile. "Hm! Then I have an idea in my mind," he concluded. Lastly, with a nod, he walked away with a pleased expression on his face. The conversation had been carried on in execrable French. IV Today has been a day of folly, stupidity, and ineptness. The time is now eleven o clock in the evening, and I am sitting in my room and thinking. It all began, this morning, with my being forced to go and play roulette for Polina Alexandrovna. When she handed me over her store of six hundred g lden I exacted two conditions namely, that I should not go halves with her in her winnings, if any (that is to say, I should not take anything for myself), and that she should explain to me, that same evening, why it was so necessary for her to win, and how much was the sum which she needed. For, I could not suppose that she was doing all this merely for the sake of money. Yet clearly she _did_ need some money, and that as soon as possible, and for a special purpose. Well, she promised to explain matters, and I departed. There was a tremendous crowd in the gaming-rooms. What an arrogant, greedy crowd it was! I pressed forward towards the middle of the room until I had secured a seat at a croupier s elbow. Then I began to play in timid fashion, venturing only twenty or thirty g lden at a time. Meanwhile, I observed and took notes. It seemed to me that calculation was superfluous, and by no means possessed of the importance which certain other players attached to it, even though they sat with ruled papers in their hands, whereon they set down the coups, calculated the chances, reckoned, staked, and lost exactly as we more simple mortals did who played without any reckoning at all. However, I deduced from the	The Gambler
"What nonsense--listen!"	Margaret	Wilcoxes are beginning the siege."<\|quote\|>"What nonsense--listen!"</\|quote\|>And the triviality faded from	that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege."<\|quote\|>"What nonsense--listen!"</\|quote\|>And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left	every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege."<\|quote\|>"What nonsense--listen!"</\|quote\|>And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time	that greengage-tree," cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege."<\|quote\|>"What nonsense--listen!"</\|quote\|>And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other	given coffee at that time." "Was father alive?" "Yes." "Then you re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley s, when she didn t realise that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it." "Ah, that greengage-tree," cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege."<\|quote\|>"What nonsense--listen!"</\|quote\|>And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other s eyes. The inner life had paid. Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. "Little boy, what do you want?" "Please, I am the milk." "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply. "Yes, please." "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to Helen, "No, it s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one." "But I like milk," cried	They went in, and each minute their talk became more natural. "Oh, WHAT a place for mother s chiffonier!" cried Helen. "Look at the chairs, though." "Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn t it?" "North-west." "Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs have felt the sun. Feel. Their dear little backs are quite warm." "But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? I shall just--" "Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn." Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it. "Ye--es. The window s too high." "Try a drawing-room chair." "No, I don t like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been match-boarded. It would have been so beautiful otherwise." "Helen, what a memory you have for some things! You re perfectly right. It s a room that men have spoilt through trying to make it nice for women. Men don t know what we want--" "And never will." "I don t agree. In two thousand years they ll know. Look where Tibby spilt the soup." "Coffee. It was coffee surely." Helen shook her head. "Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given coffee at that time." "Was father alive?" "Yes." "Then you re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley s, when she didn t realise that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it." "Ah, that greengage-tree," cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege."<\|quote\|>"What nonsense--listen!"</\|quote\|>And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other s eyes. The inner life had paid. Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. "Little boy, what do you want?" "Please, I am the milk." "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply. "Yes, please." "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to Helen, "No, it s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one." "But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?" "Do you? Oh, very well. But we ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the can." "Please, I m to call in the morning for the can," said the boy. "The house will be locked up then." "In the morning would I bring eggs too?" "Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?" The child hung his head. "Well, run away and do it again." "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what s your name? Mine s Helen." "Tom." That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return. "Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we ve another called Tibby." "Mine are lop-eareds," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. "You re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.--Isn t he charming?" "Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers." "What do you mean?" "I don t know." "Because I probably agree with you." "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is	the things." She looked at the bookcase lovingly, as if she was saying farewell to the past. Margaret unbolted the door. She remarked: "The car has gone, and here s your cab." She led the way to it, glancing at the leaves and the sky. The spring had never seemed more beautiful. The driver, who was leaning on the gate, called out, "Please, lady, a message," and handed her Henry s visiting-card through the bars. "How did this come?" she asked. Crane had returned with it almost at once. She read the card with annoyance. It was covered with instructions in domestic French. When she and her sister had talked she was to come back for the night to Dolly s. "Il faut dormir sur ce sujet." while Helen was to be found une comfortable chambre a l hotel. The final sentence displeased her greatly until she remembered that the Charles s had only one spare room, and so could not invite a third guest. "Henry would have done what he could," she interpreted. Helen had not followed her into the garden. The door once open, she lost her inclination to fly. She remained in the hall, going from bookcase to table. She grew more like the old Helen, irresponsible and charming. "This IS Mr. Wilcox s house?" she inquired. "Surely you remember Howards End?" "Remember? I who remember everything! But it looks to be ours now." "Miss Avery was extraordinary," said Margaret, her own spirits lightening a little. Again she was invaded by a slight feeling of disloyalty. But it brought her relief, and she yielded to it. "She loved Mrs. Wilcox, and would rather furnish her home with our things than think of it empty. In consequence here are all the library books." "Not all the books. She hasn t unpacked the Art books, in which she may show her sense. And we never used to have the sword here." "The sword looks well, though." "Magnificent." "Yes, doesn t it?" "Where s the piano, Meg?" "I warehoused that in London. Why?" "Nothing." "Curious, too, that the carpet fits." "The carpet s a mistake," announced Helen. "I know that we had it in London, but this floor ought to be bare. It is far too beautiful." "You still have a mania for under-furnishing. Would you care to come into the dining-room before you start? There s no carpet there." They went in, and each minute their talk became more natural. "Oh, WHAT a place for mother s chiffonier!" cried Helen. "Look at the chairs, though." "Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn t it?" "North-west." "Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs have felt the sun. Feel. Their dear little backs are quite warm." "But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? I shall just--" "Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn." Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it. "Ye--es. The window s too high." "Try a drawing-room chair." "No, I don t like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been match-boarded. It would have been so beautiful otherwise." "Helen, what a memory you have for some things! You re perfectly right. It s a room that men have spoilt through trying to make it nice for women. Men don t know what we want--" "And never will." "I don t agree. In two thousand years they ll know. Look where Tibby spilt the soup." "Coffee. It was coffee surely." Helen shook her head. "Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given coffee at that time." "Was father alive?" "Yes." "Then you re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley s, when she didn t realise that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it." "Ah, that greengage-tree," cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege."<\|quote\|>"What nonsense--listen!"</\|quote\|>And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other s eyes. The inner life had paid. Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. "Little boy, what do you want?" "Please, I am the milk." "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply. "Yes, please." "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to Helen, "No, it s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one." "But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?" "Do you? Oh, very well. But we ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the can." "Please, I m to call in the morning for the can," said the boy. "The house will be locked up then." "In the morning would I bring eggs too?" "Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?" The child hung his head. "Well, run away and do it again." "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what s your name? Mine s Helen." "Tom." That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return. "Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we ve another called Tibby." "Mine are lop-eareds," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. "You re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.--Isn t he charming?" "Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers." "What do you mean?" "I don t know." "Because I probably agree with you." "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live." "I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago." "Meaning that I was dead. I felt it." "Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I ve a startling idea." "What is it?" "Drink some milk to steady you." Margaret obeyed. "No, I won t tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt	come into the dining-room before you start? There s no carpet there." They went in, and each minute their talk became more natural. "Oh, WHAT a place for mother s chiffonier!" cried Helen. "Look at the chairs, though." "Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn t it?" "North-west." "Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs have felt the sun. Feel. Their dear little backs are quite warm." "But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? I shall just--" "Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn." Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it. "Ye--es. The window s too high." "Try a drawing-room chair." "No, I don t like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been match-boarded. It would have been so beautiful otherwise." "Helen, what a memory you have for some things! You re perfectly right. It s a room that men have spoilt through trying to make it nice for women. Men don t know what we want--" "And never will." "I don t agree. In two thousand years they ll know. Look where Tibby spilt the soup." "Coffee. It was coffee surely." Helen shook her head. "Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given coffee at that time." "Was father alive?" "Yes." "Then you re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley s, when she didn t realise that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it." "Ah, that greengage-tree," cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege."<\|quote\|>"What nonsense--listen!"</\|quote\|>And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other s eyes. The inner life had paid. Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. "Little boy, what do you want?" "Please, I am the milk." "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply. "Yes, please." "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to Helen, "No, it s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one." "But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?" "Do you? Oh, very well. But we ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the can." "Please, I m to call in the morning for the can," said the boy. "The house will be locked up then." "In the morning would I bring eggs too?" "Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?" The child hung his head. "Well, run away and do it again." "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what s your name? Mine s Helen." "Tom." That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return. "Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we ve another called Tibby." "Mine are lop-eareds," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. "You re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.--Isn t he charming?" "Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers." "What do you mean?" "I don t know." "Because I probably agree with you." "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live." "I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago." "Meaning that I was dead. I felt it." "Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I ve a startling idea." "What is it?" "Drink some milk to steady you." Margaret obeyed. "No, I won t tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling	Howards End
"I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?"	Winnie-the-pooh	had winked at him twice,<\|quote\|>"I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?"</\|quote\|>"Hardly at all," said Kanga.	Kanga," said Pooh, after Rabbit had winked at him twice,<\|quote\|>"I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?"</\|quote\|>"Hardly at all," said Kanga. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Roo, dear,	Rabbit and Piglet, who had now come up from the other side of the hill, said "Good afternoon," and "Hallo, Roo," and Roo asked them to look at him jumping, so they stayed and looked. And Kanga looked too.... "Oh, Kanga," said Pooh, after Rabbit had winked at him twice,<\|quote\|>"I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?"</\|quote\|>"Hardly at all," said Kanga. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Roo, dear, just one more jump and then we must go home." There was a short silence while Roo fell down another mouse-hole. "Go on," said Rabbit in a loud whisper behind his paw. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh, "I made up	go home." And at that moment who should come stumping up the hill but Pooh. "Good afternoon, Kanga." "Good afternoon, Pooh." "Look at me jumping," squeaked Roo, and fell into another mouse-hole. "Hallo, Roo, my little fellow!" "We were just going home," said Kanga. "Good afternoon, Rabbit. Good afternoon, Piglet." Rabbit and Piglet, who had now come up from the other side of the hill, said "Good afternoon," and "Hallo, Roo," and Roo asked them to look at him jumping, so they stayed and looked. And Kanga looked too.... "Oh, Kanga," said Pooh, after Rabbit had winked at him twice,<\|quote\|>"I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?"</\|quote\|>"Hardly at all," said Kanga. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Roo, dear, just one more jump and then we must go home." There was a short silence while Roo fell down another mouse-hole. "Go on," said Rabbit in a loud whisper behind his paw. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh, "I made up a little piece as I was coming along. It went like this. Er--now let me see----" "Fancy!" said Kanga. "Now Roo, dear----" "You'll like this piece of poetry," said Rabbit. "You'll love it," said Piglet. "You must listen very carefully," said Rabbit. "So as not to miss any of it,"	you just have to talk very hard to Kanga so as she doesn't notice anything." "Oh! What about?" "Anything you like." "You mean like telling her a little bit of poetry or something?" "That's it," said Rabbit. "Splendid. Now come along." So they all went out to look for Kanga. Kanga and Roo were spending a quiet afternoon in a sandy part of the Forest. Baby Roo was practising very small jumps in the sand, and falling down mouse-holes and climbing out of them, and Kanga was fidgeting about and saying "Just one more jump, dear, and then we must go home." And at that moment who should come stumping up the hill but Pooh. "Good afternoon, Kanga." "Good afternoon, Pooh." "Look at me jumping," squeaked Roo, and fell into another mouse-hole. "Hallo, Roo, my little fellow!" "We were just going home," said Kanga. "Good afternoon, Rabbit. Good afternoon, Piglet." Rabbit and Piglet, who had now come up from the other side of the hill, said "Good afternoon," and "Hallo, Roo," and Roo asked them to look at him jumping, so they stayed and looked. And Kanga looked too.... "Oh, Kanga," said Pooh, after Rabbit had winked at him twice,<\|quote\|>"I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?"</\|quote\|>"Hardly at all," said Kanga. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Roo, dear, just one more jump and then we must go home." There was a short silence while Roo fell down another mouse-hole. "Go on," said Rabbit in a loud whisper behind his paw. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh, "I made up a little piece as I was coming along. It went like this. Er--now let me see----" "Fancy!" said Kanga. "Now Roo, dear----" "You'll like this piece of poetry," said Rabbit. "You'll love it," said Piglet. "You must listen very carefully," said Rabbit. "So as not to miss any of it," said Piglet. "Oh, yes," said Kanga, but she still looked at Baby Roo. "_How_ did it go, Pooh?" said Rabbit. Pooh gave a little cough and began. "LINES WRITTEN BY A BEAR OF VERY LITTLE BRAIN On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: "Now is it true, or is it not," "That what is which and which is what?" On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I	if Pooh was talking to her very excitedly, she _might_ look the other way for a moment. 9. And then I could run away with Roo. 10. Quickly. 11. _And Kanga wouldn't discover the difference until Afterwards._ Well, Rabbit read this out proudly, and for a little while after he had read it nobody said anything. And then Piglet, who had been opening and shutting his mouth without making any noise, managed to say very huskily: "And--Afterwards?" "How do you mean?" "When Kanga _does_ Discover the Difference?" "Then we all say '_Aha!_'" "All three of us?" "Yes." "Oh!" "Why, what's the trouble, Piglet?" "Nothing," said Piglet, "as long as _we all three_ say it. As long as we all three say it," said Piglet, "I don't mind," he said, "but I shouldn't care to say '_Aha!_' by myself. It wouldn't sound _nearly_ so well. By the way," he said, "you _are_ quite sure about what you said about the winter months?" "The winter months?" "Yes, only being Fierce in the Winter Months." "Oh, yes, yes, that's all right. Well, Pooh? You see what you have to do?" "No," said Pooh Bear. "Not yet," he said. "What _do_ I do?" "Well, you just have to talk very hard to Kanga so as she doesn't notice anything." "Oh! What about?" "Anything you like." "You mean like telling her a little bit of poetry or something?" "That's it," said Rabbit. "Splendid. Now come along." So they all went out to look for Kanga. Kanga and Roo were spending a quiet afternoon in a sandy part of the Forest. Baby Roo was practising very small jumps in the sand, and falling down mouse-holes and climbing out of them, and Kanga was fidgeting about and saying "Just one more jump, dear, and then we must go home." And at that moment who should come stumping up the hill but Pooh. "Good afternoon, Kanga." "Good afternoon, Pooh." "Look at me jumping," squeaked Roo, and fell into another mouse-hole. "Hallo, Roo, my little fellow!" "We were just going home," said Kanga. "Good afternoon, Rabbit. Good afternoon, Piglet." Rabbit and Piglet, who had now come up from the other side of the hill, said "Good afternoon," and "Hallo, Roo," and Roo asked them to look at him jumping, so they stayed and looked. And Kanga looked too.... "Oh, Kanga," said Pooh, after Rabbit had winked at him twice,<\|quote\|>"I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?"</\|quote\|>"Hardly at all," said Kanga. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Roo, dear, just one more jump and then we must go home." There was a short silence while Roo fell down another mouse-hole. "Go on," said Rabbit in a loud whisper behind his paw. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh, "I made up a little piece as I was coming along. It went like this. Er--now let me see----" "Fancy!" said Kanga. "Now Roo, dear----" "You'll like this piece of poetry," said Rabbit. "You'll love it," said Piglet. "You must listen very carefully," said Rabbit. "So as not to miss any of it," said Piglet. "Oh, yes," said Kanga, but she still looked at Baby Roo. "_How_ did it go, Pooh?" said Rabbit. Pooh gave a little cough and began. "LINES WRITTEN BY A BEAR OF VERY LITTLE BRAIN On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: "Now is it true, or is it not," "That what is which and which is what?" On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it's true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose--but whose are these? On Friday---" - "Yes, it is, isn't it?" said Kanga, not waiting to hear what happened on Friday. "Just one more jump, Roo, dear, and then we really _must_ be going." Rabbit gave Pooh a hurrying-up sort of nudge. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh quickly, "have you ever noticed that tree right over there?" "Where?" said Kanga. "Now, Roo----" "Right over there," said Pooh, pointing behind Kanga's back. "No," said Kanga. "Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll go home." "You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Rabbit. "Shall I lift you in, Roo?" And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is," said Rabbit. "Is it a starling or a	Kanga was Generally Regarded as One of the Fiercer Animals. I am not frightened of Fierce Animals in the ordinary way, but it is well known that, if One of the Fiercer Animals is Deprived of Its Young, it becomes as fierce as Two of the Fiercer Animals. In which case '_Aha!_' is perhaps a _foolish_ thing to say." "Piglet," said Rabbit, taking out a pencil, and licking the end of it, "you haven't any pluck." "It is hard to be brave," said Piglet, sniffing slightly, "when you're only a Very Small Animal." Rabbit, who had begun to write very busily, looked up and said: "It is because you are a very small animal that you will be Useful in the adventure before us." Piglet was so excited at the idea of being Useful, that he forgot to be frightened any more, and when Rabbit went on to say that Kangas were only Fierce during the winter months, being at other times of an Affectionate Disposition, he could hardly sit still, he was so eager to begin being useful at once. "What about me?" said Pooh sadly. "I suppose _I_ shan't be useful?" "Never mind, Pooh," said Piglet comfortingly. "Another time perhaps." "Without Pooh," said Rabbit solemnly as he sharpened his pencil, "the adventure would be impossible." "Oh!" said Piglet, and tried not to look disappointed. But Pooh went into a corner of the room and said proudly to himself, "Impossible without Me! _That_ sort of Bear." "Now listen all of you," said Rabbit when he had finished writing, and Pooh and Piglet sat listening very eagerly with their mouths open. This was what Rabbit read out: PLAN TO CAPTURE BABY ROO 1. _General Remarks._ Kanga runs faster than any of Us, even Me. 2. _More General Remarks._ Kanga never takes her eye off Baby Roo, except when he's safely buttoned up in her pocket. 3. _Therefore._ If we are to capture Baby Roo, we must get a Long Start, because Kanga runs faster than any of Us, even Me. (_See_ 1.) 4. _A Thought._ If Roo had jumped out of Kanga's pocket and Piglet had jumped in, Kanga wouldn't know the difference, because Piglet is a Very Small Animal. 5. Like Roo. 6. But Kanga would have to be looking the other way first, so as not to see Piglet jumping in. 7. See 2. 8. _Another Thought._ But if Pooh was talking to her very excitedly, she _might_ look the other way for a moment. 9. And then I could run away with Roo. 10. Quickly. 11. _And Kanga wouldn't discover the difference until Afterwards._ Well, Rabbit read this out proudly, and for a little while after he had read it nobody said anything. And then Piglet, who had been opening and shutting his mouth without making any noise, managed to say very huskily: "And--Afterwards?" "How do you mean?" "When Kanga _does_ Discover the Difference?" "Then we all say '_Aha!_'" "All three of us?" "Yes." "Oh!" "Why, what's the trouble, Piglet?" "Nothing," said Piglet, "as long as _we all three_ say it. As long as we all three say it," said Piglet, "I don't mind," he said, "but I shouldn't care to say '_Aha!_' by myself. It wouldn't sound _nearly_ so well. By the way," he said, "you _are_ quite sure about what you said about the winter months?" "The winter months?" "Yes, only being Fierce in the Winter Months." "Oh, yes, yes, that's all right. Well, Pooh? You see what you have to do?" "No," said Pooh Bear. "Not yet," he said. "What _do_ I do?" "Well, you just have to talk very hard to Kanga so as she doesn't notice anything." "Oh! What about?" "Anything you like." "You mean like telling her a little bit of poetry or something?" "That's it," said Rabbit. "Splendid. Now come along." So they all went out to look for Kanga. Kanga and Roo were spending a quiet afternoon in a sandy part of the Forest. Baby Roo was practising very small jumps in the sand, and falling down mouse-holes and climbing out of them, and Kanga was fidgeting about and saying "Just one more jump, dear, and then we must go home." And at that moment who should come stumping up the hill but Pooh. "Good afternoon, Kanga." "Good afternoon, Pooh." "Look at me jumping," squeaked Roo, and fell into another mouse-hole. "Hallo, Roo, my little fellow!" "We were just going home," said Kanga. "Good afternoon, Rabbit. Good afternoon, Piglet." Rabbit and Piglet, who had now come up from the other side of the hill, said "Good afternoon," and "Hallo, Roo," and Roo asked them to look at him jumping, so they stayed and looked. And Kanga looked too.... "Oh, Kanga," said Pooh, after Rabbit had winked at him twice,<\|quote\|>"I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?"</\|quote\|>"Hardly at all," said Kanga. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Roo, dear, just one more jump and then we must go home." There was a short silence while Roo fell down another mouse-hole. "Go on," said Rabbit in a loud whisper behind his paw. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh, "I made up a little piece as I was coming along. It went like this. Er--now let me see----" "Fancy!" said Kanga. "Now Roo, dear----" "You'll like this piece of poetry," said Rabbit. "You'll love it," said Piglet. "You must listen very carefully," said Rabbit. "So as not to miss any of it," said Piglet. "Oh, yes," said Kanga, but she still looked at Baby Roo. "_How_ did it go, Pooh?" said Rabbit. Pooh gave a little cough and began. "LINES WRITTEN BY A BEAR OF VERY LITTLE BRAIN On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: "Now is it true, or is it not," "That what is which and which is what?" On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it's true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose--but whose are these? On Friday---" - "Yes, it is, isn't it?" said Kanga, not waiting to hear what happened on Friday. "Just one more jump, Roo, dear, and then we really _must_ be going." Rabbit gave Pooh a hurrying-up sort of nudge. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh quickly, "have you ever noticed that tree right over there?" "Where?" said Kanga. "Now, Roo----" "Right over there," said Pooh, pointing behind Kanga's back. "No," said Kanga. "Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll go home." "You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Rabbit. "Shall I lift you in, Roo?" And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is," said Rabbit. "Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh. "I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly." "And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought. "Some can and some can't. That's how it is." But there were moments when Piglet wished that Kanga couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the Forest, he had wished that he were a bird; but now he thought jerkily to himself at the bottom of Kanga's pocket, "this take "If is shall really to flying I never it."" And as he went up in the air he said, "_Ooooooo!_" and as he came down he said, "_Ow!_" And he was saying, "_Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow_" all the way to Kanga's house. Of course as soon as Kanga unbuttoned her pocket, she saw what had happened. Just for a moment, she thought she was frightened, and then she knew she wasn't; for she felt quite sure that Christopher Robin would never let any harm happen to Roo. So she said to herself, "If they are having a joke with me, I will have a joke with them." "Now then, Roo, dear," she said, as she took Piglet out of her pocket. "Bed-time." "_Aha!_" said Piglet, as well as he could after his Terrifying Journey. But it wasn't a very good "_Aha!_" and Kanga didn't seem to understand what it meant. "Bath first," said Kanga in a cheerful voice. "_Aha!_" said Piglet again, looking round anxiously for the others. But the others weren't there. Rabbit was playing with Baby Roo in his own house, and feeling more fond of	Long Start, because Kanga runs faster than any of Us, even Me. (_See_ 1.) 4. _A Thought._ If Roo had jumped out of Kanga's pocket and Piglet had jumped in, Kanga wouldn't know the difference, because Piglet is a Very Small Animal. 5. Like Roo. 6. But Kanga would have to be looking the other way first, so as not to see Piglet jumping in. 7. See 2. 8. _Another Thought._ But if Pooh was talking to her very excitedly, she _might_ look the other way for a moment. 9. And then I could run away with Roo. 10. Quickly. 11. _And Kanga wouldn't discover the difference until Afterwards._ Well, Rabbit read this out proudly, and for a little while after he had read it nobody said anything. And then Piglet, who had been opening and shutting his mouth without making any noise, managed to say very huskily: "And--Afterwards?" "How do you mean?" "When Kanga _does_ Discover the Difference?" "Then we all say '_Aha!_'" "All three of us?" "Yes." "Oh!" "Why, what's the trouble, Piglet?" "Nothing," said Piglet, "as long as _we all three_ say it. As long as we all three say it," said Piglet, "I don't mind," he said, "but I shouldn't care to say '_Aha!_' by myself. It wouldn't sound _nearly_ so well. By the way," he said, "you _are_ quite sure about what you said about the winter months?" "The winter months?" "Yes, only being Fierce in the Winter Months." "Oh, yes, yes, that's all right. Well, Pooh? You see what you have to do?" "No," said Pooh Bear. "Not yet," he said. "What _do_ I do?" "Well, you just have to talk very hard to Kanga so as she doesn't notice anything." "Oh! What about?" "Anything you like." "You mean like telling her a little bit of poetry or something?" "That's it," said Rabbit. "Splendid. Now come along." So they all went out to look for Kanga. Kanga and Roo were spending a quiet afternoon in a sandy part of the Forest. Baby Roo was practising very small jumps in the sand, and falling down mouse-holes and climbing out of them, and Kanga was fidgeting about and saying "Just one more jump, dear, and then we must go home." And at that moment who should come stumping up the hill but Pooh. "Good afternoon, Kanga." "Good afternoon, Pooh." "Look at me jumping," squeaked Roo, and fell into another mouse-hole. "Hallo, Roo, my little fellow!" "We were just going home," said Kanga. "Good afternoon, Rabbit. Good afternoon, Piglet." Rabbit and Piglet, who had now come up from the other side of the hill, said "Good afternoon," and "Hallo, Roo," and Roo asked them to look at him jumping, so they stayed and looked. And Kanga looked too.... "Oh, Kanga," said Pooh, after Rabbit had winked at him twice,<\|quote\|>"I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?"</\|quote\|>"Hardly at all," said Kanga. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Roo, dear, just one more jump and then we must go home." There was a short silence while Roo fell down another mouse-hole. "Go on," said Rabbit in a loud whisper behind his paw. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh, "I made up a little piece as I was coming along. It went like this. Er--now let me see----" "Fancy!" said Kanga. "Now Roo, dear----" "You'll like this piece of poetry," said Rabbit. "You'll love it," said Piglet. "You must listen very carefully," said Rabbit. "So as not to miss any of it," said Piglet. "Oh, yes," said Kanga, but she still looked at Baby Roo. "_How_ did it go, Pooh?" said Rabbit. Pooh gave a little cough and began. "LINES WRITTEN BY A BEAR OF VERY LITTLE BRAIN On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: "Now is it true, or is it not," "That what is which and which is what?" On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it's true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose--but whose are these? On Friday---" - "Yes, it is, isn't it?" said Kanga, not waiting to hear what happened on Friday. "Just one more jump, Roo, dear, and then we really _must_ be going." Rabbit gave Pooh a hurrying-up sort of nudge. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh quickly, "have you ever noticed that tree right over there?" "Where?" said Kanga. "Now, Roo----" "Right over there," said Pooh, pointing behind Kanga's back. "No," said Kanga. "Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll go home." "You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Rabbit. "Shall I lift you in, Roo?" And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is," said Rabbit. "Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh. "I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly." "And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought. "Some can and some can't. That's how it is." But there were	Winnie The Pooh
She sighed.	No speaker	disgusting business. To think that--"<\|quote\|>She sighed.</\|quote\|>"To think that because you	but it has been a disgusting business. To think that--"<\|quote\|>She sighed.</\|quote\|>"To think that because you and a young man meet	along, I think." "Oh, she must have overheard you." "I suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When Charles and Aunt Juley drove up, calling each other names, Mrs. Wilcox stepped in from the garden and made everything less terrible. Ugh! but it has been a disgusting business. To think that--"<\|quote\|>She sighed.</\|quote\|>"To think that because you and a young man meet for a moment, there must be all these telegrams and anger," supplied Margaret. Helen nodded. "I ve often thought about it, Helen. It s one of the most interesting things in the world. The truth is that there is a	father started for the station, and then came your telegram warning me that Aunt Juley was coming by that train, and Paul--oh, rather horrible--said that I had muddled it. But Mrs. Wilcox knew." "Knew what?" "Everything; though we neither of us told her a word, and she had known all along, I think." "Oh, she must have overheard you." "I suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When Charles and Aunt Juley drove up, calling each other names, Mrs. Wilcox stepped in from the garden and made everything less terrible. Ugh! but it has been a disgusting business. To think that--"<\|quote\|>She sighed.</\|quote\|>"To think that because you and a young man meet for a moment, there must be all these telegrams and anger," supplied Margaret. Helen nodded. "I ve often thought about it, Helen. It s one of the most interesting things in the world. The truth is that there is a great outer life that you and I have never touched--a life in which telegrams and anger count. Personal relations, that we think supreme, are not supreme there. There love means marriage settlements, death, death duties. So far I m clear. But here my difficulty. This outer life, though obviously horrid;	that the telegram was of no consequence, for Paul said Charles might read it, and though I wrote it out several times, he always said people would suspect something. He took it himself at last, pretending that he must walk down to get cartridges, and, what with one thing and the other, it was not handed in at the post-office until too late. It was the most terrible morning. Paul disliked me more and more, and Evie talked cricket averages till I nearly screamed. I cannot think how I stood her all the other days. At last Charles and his father started for the station, and then came your telegram warning me that Aunt Juley was coming by that train, and Paul--oh, rather horrible--said that I had muddled it. But Mrs. Wilcox knew." "Knew what?" "Everything; though we neither of us told her a word, and she had known all along, I think." "Oh, she must have overheard you." "I suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When Charles and Aunt Juley drove up, calling each other names, Mrs. Wilcox stepped in from the garden and made everything less terrible. Ugh! but it has been a disgusting business. To think that--"<\|quote\|>She sighed.</\|quote\|>"To think that because you and a young man meet for a moment, there must be all these telegrams and anger," supplied Margaret. Helen nodded. "I ve often thought about it, Helen. It s one of the most interesting things in the world. The truth is that there is a great outer life that you and I have never touched--a life in which telegrams and anger count. Personal relations, that we think supreme, are not supreme there. There love means marriage settlements, death, death duties. So far I m clear. But here my difficulty. This outer life, though obviously horrid; often seems the real one--there s grit in it. It does breed character. Do personal relations lead to sloppiness in the end?" "Oh, Meg--, that s what I felt, only not so clearly, when the Wilcoxes were so competent, and seemed to have their hands on all the ropes." "Don t you feel it now?" "I remember Paul at breakfast," said Helen quietly. "I shall never forget him. He had nothing to fall back upon. I know that personal relations are the real life, for ever and ever." "Amen!" So the Wilcox episode fell into the background, leaving behind it	t think that. The Wilcoxes struck me as being genuine people, particularly the wife." "No, I don t really think that. But Paul was so broad-shouldered; all kinds of extraordinary things made it worse, and I knew that it would never do--never. I said to him after breakfast, when the others were practising strokes," We rather lost our heads, "and he looked better at once, though frightfully ashamed. He began a speech about having no money to marry on, but it hurt him to make it, and I stopped him. Then he said," I must beg your pardon over this, Miss Schlegel; I can t think what came over me last night. "And I said," Nor what over me; never mind. "And then we parted--at least, until I remembered that I had written straight off to tell you the night before, and that frightened him again. I asked him to send a telegram for me, for he knew you would be coming or something; and he tried to get hold of the motor, but Charles and Mr. Wilcox wanted it to go to the station; and Charles offered to send the telegram for me, and then I had to say that the telegram was of no consequence, for Paul said Charles might read it, and though I wrote it out several times, he always said people would suspect something. He took it himself at last, pretending that he must walk down to get cartridges, and, what with one thing and the other, it was not handed in at the post-office until too late. It was the most terrible morning. Paul disliked me more and more, and Evie talked cricket averages till I nearly screamed. I cannot think how I stood her all the other days. At last Charles and his father started for the station, and then came your telegram warning me that Aunt Juley was coming by that train, and Paul--oh, rather horrible--said that I had muddled it. But Mrs. Wilcox knew." "Knew what?" "Everything; though we neither of us told her a word, and she had known all along, I think." "Oh, she must have overheard you." "I suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When Charles and Aunt Juley drove up, calling each other names, Mrs. Wilcox stepped in from the garden and made everything less terrible. Ugh! but it has been a disgusting business. To think that--"<\|quote\|>She sighed.</\|quote\|>"To think that because you and a young man meet for a moment, there must be all these telegrams and anger," supplied Margaret. Helen nodded. "I ve often thought about it, Helen. It s one of the most interesting things in the world. The truth is that there is a great outer life that you and I have never touched--a life in which telegrams and anger count. Personal relations, that we think supreme, are not supreme there. There love means marriage settlements, death, death duties. So far I m clear. But here my difficulty. This outer life, though obviously horrid; often seems the real one--there s grit in it. It does breed character. Do personal relations lead to sloppiness in the end?" "Oh, Meg--, that s what I felt, only not so clearly, when the Wilcoxes were so competent, and seemed to have their hands on all the ropes." "Don t you feel it now?" "I remember Paul at breakfast," said Helen quietly. "I shall never forget him. He had nothing to fall back upon. I know that personal relations are the real life, for ever and ever." "Amen!" So the Wilcox episode fell into the background, leaving behind it memories of sweetness and horror that mingled, and the sisters pursued the life that Helen had commended. They talked to each other and to other people, they filled the tall thin house at Wickham Place with those whom they liked or could befriend. They even attended public meetings. In their own fashion they cared deeply about politics, though not as politicians would have us care; they desired that public life should mirror whatever is good in the life within. Temperance, tolerance, and sexual equality were intelligible cries to them; whereas they did not follow our Forward Policy in Tibet with the keen attention that it merits, and would at times dismiss the whole British Empire with a puzzled, if reverent, sigh. Not out of them are the shows of history erected: the world would be a grey, bloodless place were it composed entirely of Miss Schlegels. But the world being what it is, perhaps they shine out in it like stars. A word on their origin. They were not "English to the back-bone," as their aunt had piously asserted. But, on the other hand, they were not "Germans of the dreadful sort." Their father had belonged to a type that	It is so easy to talk of "passing emotion," and to forget how vivid the emotion was ere it passed. Our impulse to sneer, to forget, is at root a good one. We recognise that emotion is not enough, and that men and women are personalities capable of sustained relations, not mere opportunities for an electrical discharge. Yet we rate the impulse too highly. We do not admit that by collisions of this trivial sort the doors of heaven may be shaken open. To Helen, at all events, her life was to bring nothing more intense than the embrace of this boy who played no part in it. He had drawn her out of the house, where there was danger of surprise and light; he had led her by a path he knew, until they stood under the column of the vast wych-elm. A man in the darkness, he had whispered "I love you" when she was desiring love. In time his slender personality faded, the scene that he had evoked endured. In all the variable years that followed she never saw the like of it again. "I understand," said Margaret-- "at least, I understand as much as ever is understood of these things. Tell me now what happened on the Monday morning." "It was over at once." "How, Helen?" "I was still happy while I dressed, but as I came downstairs I got nervous, and when I went into the dining-room I knew it was no good. There was Evie--I can t explain--managing the tea-urn, and Mr. Wilcox reading the Times." "Was Paul there?" "Yes; and Charles was talking to him about stocks and shares, and he looked frightened." By slight indications the sisters could convey much to each other. Margaret saw horror latent in the scene, and Helen s next remark did not surprise her. "Somehow, when that kind of man looks frightened it is too awful. It is all right for us to be frightened, or for men of another sort--father, for instance; but for men like that! When I saw all the others so placid, and Paul mad with terror in case I said the wrong thing, I felt for a moment that the whole Wilcox family was a fraud, just a wall of newspapers and motor-cars and golf-clubs, and that if it fell I should find nothing behind it but panic and emptiness." "I don t think that. The Wilcoxes struck me as being genuine people, particularly the wife." "No, I don t really think that. But Paul was so broad-shouldered; all kinds of extraordinary things made it worse, and I knew that it would never do--never. I said to him after breakfast, when the others were practising strokes," We rather lost our heads, "and he looked better at once, though frightfully ashamed. He began a speech about having no money to marry on, but it hurt him to make it, and I stopped him. Then he said," I must beg your pardon over this, Miss Schlegel; I can t think what came over me last night. "And I said," Nor what over me; never mind. "And then we parted--at least, until I remembered that I had written straight off to tell you the night before, and that frightened him again. I asked him to send a telegram for me, for he knew you would be coming or something; and he tried to get hold of the motor, but Charles and Mr. Wilcox wanted it to go to the station; and Charles offered to send the telegram for me, and then I had to say that the telegram was of no consequence, for Paul said Charles might read it, and though I wrote it out several times, he always said people would suspect something. He took it himself at last, pretending that he must walk down to get cartridges, and, what with one thing and the other, it was not handed in at the post-office until too late. It was the most terrible morning. Paul disliked me more and more, and Evie talked cricket averages till I nearly screamed. I cannot think how I stood her all the other days. At last Charles and his father started for the station, and then came your telegram warning me that Aunt Juley was coming by that train, and Paul--oh, rather horrible--said that I had muddled it. But Mrs. Wilcox knew." "Knew what?" "Everything; though we neither of us told her a word, and she had known all along, I think." "Oh, she must have overheard you." "I suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When Charles and Aunt Juley drove up, calling each other names, Mrs. Wilcox stepped in from the garden and made everything less terrible. Ugh! but it has been a disgusting business. To think that--"<\|quote\|>She sighed.</\|quote\|>"To think that because you and a young man meet for a moment, there must be all these telegrams and anger," supplied Margaret. Helen nodded. "I ve often thought about it, Helen. It s one of the most interesting things in the world. The truth is that there is a great outer life that you and I have never touched--a life in which telegrams and anger count. Personal relations, that we think supreme, are not supreme there. There love means marriage settlements, death, death duties. So far I m clear. But here my difficulty. This outer life, though obviously horrid; often seems the real one--there s grit in it. It does breed character. Do personal relations lead to sloppiness in the end?" "Oh, Meg--, that s what I felt, only not so clearly, when the Wilcoxes were so competent, and seemed to have their hands on all the ropes." "Don t you feel it now?" "I remember Paul at breakfast," said Helen quietly. "I shall never forget him. He had nothing to fall back upon. I know that personal relations are the real life, for ever and ever." "Amen!" So the Wilcox episode fell into the background, leaving behind it memories of sweetness and horror that mingled, and the sisters pursued the life that Helen had commended. They talked to each other and to other people, they filled the tall thin house at Wickham Place with those whom they liked or could befriend. They even attended public meetings. In their own fashion they cared deeply about politics, though not as politicians would have us care; they desired that public life should mirror whatever is good in the life within. Temperance, tolerance, and sexual equality were intelligible cries to them; whereas they did not follow our Forward Policy in Tibet with the keen attention that it merits, and would at times dismiss the whole British Empire with a puzzled, if reverent, sigh. Not out of them are the shows of history erected: the world would be a grey, bloodless place were it composed entirely of Miss Schlegels. But the world being what it is, perhaps they shine out in it like stars. A word on their origin. They were not "English to the back-bone," as their aunt had piously asserted. But, on the other hand, they were not "Germans of the dreadful sort." Their father had belonged to a type that was more prominent in Germany fifty years ago than now. He was not the aggressive German, so dear to the English journalist, nor the domestic German, so dear to the English wit. If one classed him at all it would be as the countryman of Hegel and Kant, as the idealist, inclined to be dreamy, whose Imperialism was the Imperialism of the air. Not that his life had been inactive. He had fought like blazes against Denmark, Austria, France. But he had fought without visualising the results of victory. A hint of the truth broke on him after Sedan, when he saw the dyed moustaches of Napoleon going grey; another when he entered Paris, and saw the smashed windows of the Tuileries. Peace came--it was all very immense, one had turned into an Empire--but he knew that some quality had vanished for which not all Alsace-Lorraine could compensate him. Germany a commercial Power, Germany a naval Power, Germany with colonies here and a Forward Policy there, and legitimate aspirations in the other place, might appeal to others, and be fitly served by them; for his own part, he abstained from the fruits of victory, and naturalised himself in England. The more earnest members of his family never forgave him, and knew that his children, though scarcely English of the dreadful sort, would never be German to the back-bone. He had obtained work in one of our provincial universities, and there married Poor Emily (or Die Englanderin, as the case may be), and as she had money, they proceeded to London, and came to know a good many people. But his gaze was always fixed beyond the sea. It was his hope that the clouds of materialism obscuring the Fatherland would part in time, and the mild intellectual light re-emerge. "Do you imply that we Germans are stupid, Uncle Ernst?" exclaimed a haughty and magnificent nephew. Uncle Ernst replied, "To my mind. You use the intellect, but you no longer care about it. That I call stupidity." As the haughty nephew did not follow, he continued, "You only care about the things that you can use, and therefore arrange them in the following order: Money, supremely useful; intellect, rather useful; imagination, of no use at all. No" "--for the other had protested--" "your Pan-Germanism is no more imaginative than is our Imperialism over here. It is the vice of a vulgar	for me, and then I had to say that the telegram was of no consequence, for Paul said Charles might read it, and though I wrote it out several times, he always said people would suspect something. He took it himself at last, pretending that he must walk down to get cartridges, and, what with one thing and the other, it was not handed in at the post-office until too late. It was the most terrible morning. Paul disliked me more and more, and Evie talked cricket averages till I nearly screamed. I cannot think how I stood her all the other days. At last Charles and his father started for the station, and then came your telegram warning me that Aunt Juley was coming by that train, and Paul--oh, rather horrible--said that I had muddled it. But Mrs. Wilcox knew." "Knew what?" "Everything; though we neither of us told her a word, and she had known all along, I think." "Oh, she must have overheard you." "I suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When Charles and Aunt Juley drove up, calling each other names, Mrs. Wilcox stepped in from the garden and made everything less terrible. Ugh! but it has been a disgusting business. To think that--"<\|quote\|>She sighed.</\|quote\|>"To think that because you and a young man meet for a moment, there must be all these telegrams and anger," supplied Margaret. Helen nodded. "I ve often thought about it, Helen. It s one of the most interesting things in the world. The truth is that there is a great outer life that you and I have never touched--a life in which telegrams and anger count. Personal relations, that we think supreme, are not supreme there. There love means marriage settlements, death, death duties. So far I m clear. But here my difficulty. This outer life, though obviously horrid; often seems the real one--there s grit in it. It does breed character. Do personal relations lead to sloppiness in the end?" "Oh, Meg--, that s what I felt, only not so clearly, when the Wilcoxes were so competent, and seemed to have their hands on all the ropes." "Don t you feel it now?" "I remember Paul at breakfast," said Helen quietly. "I shall never forget him. He had nothing to fall back upon. I know that personal relations are the real life, for ever and ever." "Amen!" So the Wilcox episode fell into the background, leaving behind it memories of sweetness and horror that mingled, and the sisters pursued the life that Helen had commended. They talked	Howards End
"Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."	Catherine Morland	for her friend, and said,<\|quote\|>"Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."</\|quote\|>"I understand: she is in	it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said,<\|quote\|>"Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."</\|quote\|>"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts	that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said,<\|quote\|>"Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."</\|quote\|>"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must	he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable." "And are you sure it is my brother s doing?" "Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe s admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said,<\|quote\|>"Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."</\|quote\|>"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" "I can have no opinion on that subject." "But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his	will in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it is only staying to be miserable." Henry smiled and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that." "Then you will persuade him to go away?" "Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master." "No, he does not know what he is about," cried Catherine; "he does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable." "And are you sure it is my brother s doing?" "Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe s admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said,<\|quote\|>"Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."</\|quote\|>"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" "I can have no opinion on that subject." "But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour?" "You are a very close questioner." "Am I? I only ask what I want to be told." "But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?" "Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother s heart." "My brother s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at." "Well?" "Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless	this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either opportunity or comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest a hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the Tilney family became her chief consolation; their journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney s removal would at least restore peace to every heart but his own. But Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing; he was not to be of the party to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother s evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her prior engagement. "My brother does know it," was Henry s answer. "Does he? Then why does he stay here?" He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she eagerly continued, "Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his own sake, and for everybody s sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it is only staying to be miserable." Henry smiled and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that." "Then you will persuade him to go away?" "Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master." "No, he does not know what he is about," cried Catherine; "he does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable." "And are you sure it is my brother s doing?" "Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe s admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said,<\|quote\|>"Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."</\|quote\|>"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" "I can have no opinion on that subject." "But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour?" "You are a very close questioner." "Am I? I only ask what I want to be told." "But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?" "Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother s heart." "My brother s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at." "Well?" "Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had about a week s acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her." "Well," said Catherine, after some moments consideration, "_you_ may be able to guess at your brother s intentions from all this; but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to him, he would go." "My dear Miss Morland," said Henry, "in this amiable solicitude for your brother s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or Miss Thorpe s, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good behaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this and you may be sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, Do not be uneasy, because I know that you are so,	in love with her was a matter of lively astonishment. Isabella talked of his attentions; _she_ had never been sensible of any; but Isabella had said many things which she hoped had been spoken in haste, and would never be said again; and upon this she was glad to rest altogether for present ease and comfort. CHAPTER 19 A few days passed away, and Catherine, though not allowing herself to suspect her friend, could not help watching her closely. The result of her observations was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered creature. When she saw her, indeed, surrounded only by their immediate friends in Edgar s Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners was so trifling that, had it gone no farther, it might have passed unnoticed. A something of languid indifference, or of that boasted absence of mind which Catherine had never heard of before, would occasionally come across her; but had nothing worse appeared, _that_ might only have spread a new grace and inspired a warmer interest. But when Catherine saw her in public, admitting Captain Tilney s attentions as readily as they were offered, and allowing him almost an equal share with James in her notice and smiles, the alteration became too positive to be passed over. What could be meant by such unsteady conduct, what her friend could be at, was beyond her comprehension. Isabella could not be aware of the pain she was inflicting; but it was a degree of wilful thoughtlessness which Catherine could not but resent. James was the sufferer. She saw him grave and uneasy; and however careless of his present comfort the woman might be who had given him her heart, to _her_ it was always an object. For poor Captain Tilney too she was greatly concerned. Though his looks did not please her, his name was a passport to her goodwill, and she thought with sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment; for, in spite of what she had believed herself to overhear in the pump-room, his behaviour was so incompatible with a knowledge of Isabella s engagement that she could not, upon reflection, imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but if more had seemed implied, the fault must have been in her misapprehension. She wished, by a gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation, and make her aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either opportunity or comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest a hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the Tilney family became her chief consolation; their journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney s removal would at least restore peace to every heart but his own. But Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing; he was not to be of the party to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother s evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her prior engagement. "My brother does know it," was Henry s answer. "Does he? Then why does he stay here?" He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she eagerly continued, "Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his own sake, and for everybody s sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it is only staying to be miserable." Henry smiled and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that." "Then you will persuade him to go away?" "Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master." "No, he does not know what he is about," cried Catherine; "he does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable." "And are you sure it is my brother s doing?" "Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe s admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said,<\|quote\|>"Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."</\|quote\|>"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" "I can have no opinion on that subject." "But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour?" "You are a very close questioner." "Am I? I only ask what I want to be told." "But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?" "Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother s heart." "My brother s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at." "Well?" "Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had about a week s acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her." "Well," said Catherine, after some moments consideration, "_you_ may be able to guess at your brother s intentions from all this; but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to him, he would go." "My dear Miss Morland," said Henry, "in this amiable solicitude for your brother s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or Miss Thorpe s, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good behaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this and you may be sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, Do not be uneasy, because I know that you are so, at this moment; but be as little uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of the mutual attachment of your brother and your friend; depend upon it, therefore, that real jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it that no disagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are open to each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know exactly what is required and what can be borne; and you may be certain that one will never tease the other beyond what is known to be pleasant." Perceiving her still to look doubtful and grave, he added, "Though Frederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a very short time, perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of absence will soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. And what will then be their acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella Thorpe for a fortnight, and she will laugh with your brother over poor Tilney s passion for a month." Catherine would contend no longer against comfort. She had resisted its approaches during the whole length of a speech, but it now carried her captive. Henry Tilney must know best. She blamed herself for the extent of her fears, and resolved never to think so seriously on the subject again. Her resolution was supported by Isabella s behaviour in their parting interview. The Thorpes spent the last evening of Catherine s stay in Pulteney Street, and nothing passed between the lovers to excite her uneasiness, or make her quit them in apprehension. James was in excellent spirits, and Isabella most engagingly placid. Her tenderness for her friend seemed rather the first feeling of her heart; but that at such a moment was allowable; and once she gave her lover a flat contradiction, and once she drew back her hand; but Catherine remembered Henry s instructions, and placed it all to judicious affection. The embraces, tears, and promises of the parting fair ones may be fancied. CHAPTER 20 Mr. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young friend, whose good humour and cheerfulness had made her a valuable companion, and in the promotion of whose enjoyment their own had been gently increased. Her happiness in going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishing it otherwise; and, as they were to remain only one more week in Bath	positive to be passed over. What could be meant by such unsteady conduct, what her friend could be at, was beyond her comprehension. Isabella could not be aware of the pain she was inflicting; but it was a degree of wilful thoughtlessness which Catherine could not but resent. James was the sufferer. She saw him grave and uneasy; and however careless of his present comfort the woman might be who had given him her heart, to _her_ it was always an object. For poor Captain Tilney too she was greatly concerned. Though his looks did not please her, his name was a passport to her goodwill, and she thought with sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment; for, in spite of what she had believed herself to overhear in the pump-room, his behaviour was so incompatible with a knowledge of Isabella s engagement that she could not, upon reflection, imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but if more had seemed implied, the fault must have been in her misapprehension. She wished, by a gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation, and make her aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either opportunity or comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest a hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the Tilney family became her chief consolation; their journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney s removal would at least restore peace to every heart but his own. But Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing; he was not to be of the party to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother s evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her prior engagement. "My brother does know it," was Henry s answer. "Does he? Then why does he stay here?" He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she eagerly continued, "Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his own sake, and for everybody s sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it is only staying to be miserable." Henry smiled and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that." "Then you will persuade him to go away?" "Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master." "No, he does not know what he is about," cried Catherine; "he does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable." "And are you sure it is my brother s doing?" "Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe s admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said,<\|quote\|>"Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."</\|quote\|>"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" "I can have no opinion on that subject." "But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour?" "You are a very close questioner." "Am I? I only ask what I want to be told." "But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?" "Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother s heart." "My brother s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at." "Well?" "Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had about a week s acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her." "Well," said Catherine, after some moments consideration, "_you_ may be able to guess at your brother s intentions from all this; but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to him, he would go." "My dear Miss Morland," said Henry, "in this amiable solicitude for your brother s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or Miss Thorpe s, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good behaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this and you may be sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, Do not be uneasy, because I know that you are so, at this moment; but be as little uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of the mutual attachment of your brother and	Northanger Abbey
"We have failed."	Mrs. Herriton	"Read the letters," she said.<\|quote\|>"We have failed."</\|quote\|>Gino wrote in his own	him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said.<\|quote\|>"We have failed."</\|quote\|>Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had	that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said.<\|quote\|>"We have failed."</\|quote\|>Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque	consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said.<\|quote\|>"We have failed."</\|quote\|>Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought. "Why	that in my district." With this remark the admirable young woman rose, and returned to keep up her Italian. She puzzled Philip extremely. He could understand enthusiasm, but she did not seem the least enthusiastic. He could understand pure cussedness, but it did not seem to be that either. Apparently she was deriving neither amusement nor profit from the struggle. Why, then, had she undertaken it? Perhaps she was not sincere. Perhaps, on the whole, that was most likely. She must be professing one thing and aiming at another. What the other thing could be he did not stop to consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said.<\|quote\|>"We have failed."</\|quote\|>Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought. "Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano." "Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The	began to smile also. It was to the Abbotts that he walked. Mr. Abbott offered him tea, and Caroline, who was keeping up her Italian in the next room, came in to pour it out. He told them that his mother had written to Signor Carella, and they both uttered fervent wishes for her success. "Very fine of Mrs. Herriton, very fine indeed," said Mr. Abbott, who, like every one else, knew nothing of his daughter s exasperating behaviour. "I m afraid it will mean a lot of expense. She will get nothing out of Italy without paying." "There are sure to be incidental expenses," said Philip cautiously. Then he turned to Miss Abbott and said, "Do you suppose we shall have difficulty with the man?" "It depends," she replied, with equal caution. "From what you saw of him, should you conclude that he would make an affectionate parent?" "I don t go by what I saw of him, but by what I know of him." "Well, what do you conclude from that?" "That he is a thoroughly wicked man." "Yet thoroughly wicked men have loved their children. Look at Rodrigo Borgia, for example." "I have also seen examples of that in my district." With this remark the admirable young woman rose, and returned to keep up her Italian. She puzzled Philip extremely. He could understand enthusiasm, but she did not seem the least enthusiastic. He could understand pure cussedness, but it did not seem to be that either. Apparently she was deriving neither amusement nor profit from the struggle. Why, then, had she undertaken it? Perhaps she was not sincere. Perhaps, on the whole, that was most likely. She must be professing one thing and aiming at another. What the other thing could be he did not stop to consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said.<\|quote\|>"We have failed."</\|quote\|>Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought. "Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano." "Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perverse reason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poor Caroline. She will be equally distressed." She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Her face was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round her eyes. "The impudence!" she shouted. "The cursed impudence! Oh, I m swearing. I don t care. That beastly woman--how dare she interfere--I ll--Philip, dear, I m sorry. It s no good. You must go." "Go where? Do sit down. What s happened?" This outburst of violence from his elegant ladylike mother pained him dreadfully. He had not known that it was in her. "She won t accept--won t accept the letter as final. You must go to Monteriano!" "I won t!" he shouted back. "I ve been and I ve failed. I ll never see the place again. I hate Italy." "If you don t go, she will." "Abbott?" "Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to write; she said it was too late! Too late! The	have come to nothing definite." Miss Abbott was equally civil, but not to be appeased by good intentions. The child s welfare was a sacred duty to her, not a matter of pride or even of sentiment. By it alone, she felt, could she undo a little of the evil that she had permitted to come into the world. To her imagination Monteriano had become a magic city of vice, beneath whose towers no person could grow up happy or pure. Sawston, with its semi-detached houses and snobby schools, its book teas and bazaars, was certainly petty and dull; at times she found it even contemptible. But it was not a place of sin, and at Sawston, either with the Herritons or with herself, the baby should grow up. As soon as it was inevitable, Mrs. Herriton wrote a letter for Waters and Adamson to send to Gino--the oddest letter; Philip saw a copy of it afterwards. Its ostensible purpose was to complain of the picture postcards. Right at the end, in a few nonchalant sentences, she offered to adopt the child, provided that Gino would undertake never to come near it, and would surrender some of Lilia s money for its education. "What do you think of it?" she asked her son. "It would not do to let him know that we are anxious for it." "Certainly he will never suppose that." "But what effect will the letter have on him?" "When he gets it he will do a sum. If it is less expensive in the long run to part with a little money and to be clear of the baby, he will part with it. If he would lose, he will adopt the tone of the loving father." "Dear, you re shockingly cynical." After a pause she added, "How would the sum work out?" "I don t know, I m sure. But if you wanted to ensure the baby being posted by return, you should have sent a little sum to HIM. Oh, I m not cynical--at least I only go by what I know of him. But I am weary of the whole show. Weary of Italy. Weary, weary, weary. Sawston s a kind, pitiful place, isn t it? I will go walk in it and seek comfort." He smiled as he spoke, for the sake of not appearing serious. When he had left her she began to smile also. It was to the Abbotts that he walked. Mr. Abbott offered him tea, and Caroline, who was keeping up her Italian in the next room, came in to pour it out. He told them that his mother had written to Signor Carella, and they both uttered fervent wishes for her success. "Very fine of Mrs. Herriton, very fine indeed," said Mr. Abbott, who, like every one else, knew nothing of his daughter s exasperating behaviour. "I m afraid it will mean a lot of expense. She will get nothing out of Italy without paying." "There are sure to be incidental expenses," said Philip cautiously. Then he turned to Miss Abbott and said, "Do you suppose we shall have difficulty with the man?" "It depends," she replied, with equal caution. "From what you saw of him, should you conclude that he would make an affectionate parent?" "I don t go by what I saw of him, but by what I know of him." "Well, what do you conclude from that?" "That he is a thoroughly wicked man." "Yet thoroughly wicked men have loved their children. Look at Rodrigo Borgia, for example." "I have also seen examples of that in my district." With this remark the admirable young woman rose, and returned to keep up her Italian. She puzzled Philip extremely. He could understand enthusiasm, but she did not seem the least enthusiastic. He could understand pure cussedness, but it did not seem to be that either. Apparently she was deriving neither amusement nor profit from the struggle. Why, then, had she undertaken it? Perhaps she was not sincere. Perhaps, on the whole, that was most likely. She must be professing one thing and aiming at another. What the other thing could be he did not stop to consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said.<\|quote\|>"We have failed."</\|quote\|>Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought. "Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano." "Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perverse reason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poor Caroline. She will be equally distressed." She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Her face was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round her eyes. "The impudence!" she shouted. "The cursed impudence! Oh, I m swearing. I don t care. That beastly woman--how dare she interfere--I ll--Philip, dear, I m sorry. It s no good. You must go." "Go where? Do sit down. What s happened?" This outburst of violence from his elegant ladylike mother pained him dreadfully. He had not known that it was in her. "She won t accept--won t accept the letter as final. You must go to Monteriano!" "I won t!" he shouted back. "I ve been and I ve failed. I ll never see the place again. I hate Italy." "If you don t go, she will." "Abbott?" "Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to write; she said it was too late! Too late! The child, if you please--Irma s brother--to live with her, to be brought up by her and her father at our very gates, to go to school like a gentleman, she paying. Oh, you re a man! It doesn t matter for you. You can laugh. But I know what people say; and that woman goes to Italy this evening." He seemed to be inspired. "Then let her go! Let her mess with Italy by herself. She ll come to grief somehow. Italy s too dangerous, too--" "Stop that nonsense, Philip. I will not be disgraced by her. I WILL have the child. Pay all we ve got for it. I will have it." "Let her go to Italy!" he cried. "Let her meddle with what she doesn t understand! Look at this letter! The man who wrote it will marry her, or murder her, or do for her somehow. He s a bounder, but he s not an English bounder. He s mysterious and terrible. He s got a country behind him that s upset people from the beginning of the world." "Harriet!" exclaimed his mother. "Harriet shall go too. Harriet, now, will be invaluable!" And before Philip had stopped talking nonsense, she had planned the whole thing and was looking out the trains. Chapter 6 Italy, Philip had always maintained, is only her true self in the height of the summer, when the tourists have left her, and her soul awakes under the beams of a vertical sun. He now had every opportunity of seeing her at her best, for it was nearly the middle of August before he went out to meet Harriet in the Tirol. He found his sister in a dense cloud five thousand feet above the sea, chilled to the bone, overfed, bored, and not at all unwilling to be fetched away. "It upsets one s plans terribly," she remarked, as she squeezed out her sponges, "but obviously it is my duty." "Did mother explain it all to you?" asked Philip. "Yes, indeed! Mother has written me a really beautiful letter. She describes how it was that she gradually got to feel that we must rescue the poor baby from its terrible surroundings, how she has tried by letter, and it is no good--nothing but insincere compliments and hypocrisy came back. Then she says, There is nothing like personal influence; you and Philip will succeed	of that in my district." With this remark the admirable young woman rose, and returned to keep up her Italian. She puzzled Philip extremely. He could understand enthusiasm, but she did not seem the least enthusiastic. He could understand pure cussedness, but it did not seem to be that either. Apparently she was deriving neither amusement nor profit from the struggle. Why, then, had she undertaken it? Perhaps she was not sincere. Perhaps, on the whole, that was most likely. She must be professing one thing and aiming at another. What the other thing could be he did not stop to consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said.<\|quote\|>"We have failed."</\|quote\|>Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought. "Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano." "Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perverse reason he will	Where Angels Fear To Tread
"deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised."	Rachel Gradgrind	looking to," she said. And<\|quote\|>"deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised."</\|quote\|>He slowly moved to a	some one here that needed looking to," she said. And<\|quote\|>"deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised."</\|quote\|>He slowly moved to a chair and sat down, drooping	in the chimney, and the surging noise! To have been out in such a wind, and not to have known it was blowing! "I have been here once before, to-day, Stephen. Landlady came round for me at dinner-time. There was some one here that needed looking to," she said. And<\|quote\|>"deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised."</\|quote\|>He slowly moved to a chair and sat down, drooping his head before her. "I came to do what little I could, Stephen; first, for that she worked with me when we were girls both, and for that you courted her and married her when I was her friend" He	glad you have come at last, Stephen. You are very late." "I ha' been walking up an' down." "I thought so. But 'tis too bad a night for that. The rain falls very heavy, and the wind has risen." The wind? True. It was blowing hard. Hark to the thundering in the chimney, and the surging noise! To have been out in such a wind, and not to have known it was blowing! "I have been here once before, to-day, Stephen. Landlady came round for me at dinner-time. There was some one here that needed looking to," she said. And<\|quote\|>"deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised."</\|quote\|>He slowly moved to a chair and sat down, drooping his head before her. "I came to do what little I could, Stephen; first, for that she worked with me when we were girls both, and for that you courted her and married her when I was her friend" He laid his furrowed forehead on his hand, with a low groan. "And next, for that I know your heart, and am right sure and certain that 'tis far too merciful to let her die, or even so much as suffer, for want of aid. Thou knowest who said," "Let him	place and order as he had always kept it, the little fire was newly trimmed, and the hearth was freshly swept. It appeared to him that he saw all this in Rachael's face, and looked at nothing besides. While looking at it, it was shut out from his view by the softened tears that filled his eyes; but not before he had seen how earnestly she looked at him, and how her own eyes were filled too. She turned again towards the bed, and satisfying herself that all was quiet there, spoke in a low, calm, cheerful voice. "I am glad you have come at last, Stephen. You are very late." "I ha' been walking up an' down." "I thought so. But 'tis too bad a night for that. The rain falls very heavy, and the wind has risen." The wind? True. It was blowing hard. Hark to the thundering in the chimney, and the surging noise! To have been out in such a wind, and not to have known it was blowing! "I have been here once before, to-day, Stephen. Landlady came round for me at dinner-time. There was some one here that needed looking to," she said. And<\|quote\|>"deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised."</\|quote\|>He slowly moved to a chair and sat down, drooping his head before her. "I came to do what little I could, Stephen; first, for that she worked with me when we were girls both, and for that you courted her and married her when I was her friend" He laid his furrowed forehead on his hand, with a low groan. "And next, for that I know your heart, and am right sure and certain that 'tis far too merciful to let her die, or even so much as suffer, for want of aid. Thou knowest who said," "Let him who is without sin among you cast the first stone at her!" "There have been plenty to do that. Thou art not the man to cast the last stone, Stephen, when she is brought so low." "O Rachael, Rachael!" "Thou hast been a cruel sufferer, Heaven reward thee!" she said, in compassionate accents. "I am thy poor friend, with all my heart and mind." [Picture: Stephen and Rachael in the sick room] The wounds of which she had spoken, seemed to be about the neck of the self-made outcast. She dressed them now, still without showing her. She steeped a	all the casualties of this existence upon earth, not one was dealt out with so unequal a hand as Death. The inequality of Birth was nothing to it. For, say that the child of a King and the child of a Weaver were born to-night in the same moment, what was that disparity, to the death of any human creature who was serviceable to, or beloved by, another, while this abandoned woman lived on! From the outside of his home he gloomily passed to the inside, with suspended breath and with a slow footstep. He went up to his door, opened it, and so into the room. Quiet and peace were there. Rachael was there, sitting by the bed. She turned her head, and the light of her face shone in upon the midnight of his mind. She sat by the bed, watching and tending his wife. That is to say, he saw that some one lay there, and he knew too well it must be she; but Rachael's hands had put a curtain up, so that she was screened from his eyes. Her disgraceful garments were removed, and some of Rachael's were in the room. Everything was in its place and order as he had always kept it, the little fire was newly trimmed, and the hearth was freshly swept. It appeared to him that he saw all this in Rachael's face, and looked at nothing besides. While looking at it, it was shut out from his view by the softened tears that filled his eyes; but not before he had seen how earnestly she looked at him, and how her own eyes were filled too. She turned again towards the bed, and satisfying herself that all was quiet there, spoke in a low, calm, cheerful voice. "I am glad you have come at last, Stephen. You are very late." "I ha' been walking up an' down." "I thought so. But 'tis too bad a night for that. The rain falls very heavy, and the wind has risen." The wind? True. It was blowing hard. Hark to the thundering in the chimney, and the surging noise! To have been out in such a wind, and not to have known it was blowing! "I have been here once before, to-day, Stephen. Landlady came round for me at dinner-time. There was some one here that needed looking to," she said. And<\|quote\|>"deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised."</\|quote\|>He slowly moved to a chair and sat down, drooping his head before her. "I came to do what little I could, Stephen; first, for that she worked with me when we were girls both, and for that you courted her and married her when I was her friend" He laid his furrowed forehead on his hand, with a low groan. "And next, for that I know your heart, and am right sure and certain that 'tis far too merciful to let her die, or even so much as suffer, for want of aid. Thou knowest who said," "Let him who is without sin among you cast the first stone at her!" "There have been plenty to do that. Thou art not the man to cast the last stone, Stephen, when she is brought so low." "O Rachael, Rachael!" "Thou hast been a cruel sufferer, Heaven reward thee!" she said, in compassionate accents. "I am thy poor friend, with all my heart and mind." [Picture: Stephen and Rachael in the sick room] The wounds of which she had spoken, seemed to be about the neck of the self-made outcast. She dressed them now, still without showing her. She steeped a piece of linen in a basin, into which she poured some liquid from a bottle, and laid it with a gentle hand upon the sore. The three-legged table had been drawn close to the bedside, and on it there were two bottles. This was one. It was not so far off, but that Stephen, following her hands with his eyes, could read what was printed on it in large letters. He turned of a deadly hue, and a sudden horror seemed to fall upon him. "I will stay here, Stephen," said Rachael, quietly resuming her seat, "till the bells go Three. 'Tis to be done again at three, and then she may be left till morning." "But thy rest agen to-morrow's work, my dear." "I slept sound last night. I can wake many nights, when I am put to it. 'Tis thou who art in need of rest so white and tired. Try to sleep in the chair there, while I watch. Thou hadst no sleep last night, I can well believe. To-morrow's work is far harder for thee than for me." He heard the thundering and surging out of doors, and it seemed to him as if his late	he was exhausted but he little knew or cared what; and he wandered about in the chill rain, thinking and thinking, and brooding and brooding. No word of a new marriage had ever passed between them; but Rachael had taken great pity on him years ago, and to her alone he had opened his closed heart all this time, on the subject of his miseries; and he knew very well that if he were free to ask her, she would take him. He thought of the home he might at that moment have been seeking with pleasure and pride; of the different man he might have been that night; of the lightness then in his now heavy-laden breast; of the then restored honour, self-respect, and tranquillity all torn to pieces. He thought of the waste of the best part of his life, of the change it made in his character for the worse every day, of the dreadful nature of his existence, bound hand and foot, to a dead woman, and tormented by a demon in her shape. He thought of Rachael, how young when they were first brought together in these circumstances, how mature now, how soon to grow old. He thought of the number of girls and women she had seen marry, how many homes with children in them she had seen grow up around her, how she had contentedly pursued her own lone quiet path for him and how he had sometimes seen a shade of melancholy on her blessed face, that smote him with remorse and despair. He set the picture of her up, beside the infamous image of last night; and thought, Could it be, that the whole earthly course of one so gentle, good, and self-denying, was subjugate to such a wretch as that! Filled with these thoughts so filled that he had an unwholesome sense of growing larger, of being placed in some new and diseased relation towards the objects among which he passed, of seeing the iris round every misty light turn red he went home for shelter. CHAPTER XIII RACHAEL A CANDLE faintly burned in the window, to which the black ladder had often been raised for the sliding away of all that was most precious in this world to a striving wife and a brood of hungry babies; and Stephen added to his other thoughts the stern reflection, that of all the casualties of this existence upon earth, not one was dealt out with so unequal a hand as Death. The inequality of Birth was nothing to it. For, say that the child of a King and the child of a Weaver were born to-night in the same moment, what was that disparity, to the death of any human creature who was serviceable to, or beloved by, another, while this abandoned woman lived on! From the outside of his home he gloomily passed to the inside, with suspended breath and with a slow footstep. He went up to his door, opened it, and so into the room. Quiet and peace were there. Rachael was there, sitting by the bed. She turned her head, and the light of her face shone in upon the midnight of his mind. She sat by the bed, watching and tending his wife. That is to say, he saw that some one lay there, and he knew too well it must be she; but Rachael's hands had put a curtain up, so that she was screened from his eyes. Her disgraceful garments were removed, and some of Rachael's were in the room. Everything was in its place and order as he had always kept it, the little fire was newly trimmed, and the hearth was freshly swept. It appeared to him that he saw all this in Rachael's face, and looked at nothing besides. While looking at it, it was shut out from his view by the softened tears that filled his eyes; but not before he had seen how earnestly she looked at him, and how her own eyes were filled too. She turned again towards the bed, and satisfying herself that all was quiet there, spoke in a low, calm, cheerful voice. "I am glad you have come at last, Stephen. You are very late." "I ha' been walking up an' down." "I thought so. But 'tis too bad a night for that. The rain falls very heavy, and the wind has risen." The wind? True. It was blowing hard. Hark to the thundering in the chimney, and the surging noise! To have been out in such a wind, and not to have known it was blowing! "I have been here once before, to-day, Stephen. Landlady came round for me at dinner-time. There was some one here that needed looking to," she said. And<\|quote\|>"deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised."</\|quote\|>He slowly moved to a chair and sat down, drooping his head before her. "I came to do what little I could, Stephen; first, for that she worked with me when we were girls both, and for that you courted her and married her when I was her friend" He laid his furrowed forehead on his hand, with a low groan. "And next, for that I know your heart, and am right sure and certain that 'tis far too merciful to let her die, or even so much as suffer, for want of aid. Thou knowest who said," "Let him who is without sin among you cast the first stone at her!" "There have been plenty to do that. Thou art not the man to cast the last stone, Stephen, when she is brought so low." "O Rachael, Rachael!" "Thou hast been a cruel sufferer, Heaven reward thee!" she said, in compassionate accents. "I am thy poor friend, with all my heart and mind." [Picture: Stephen and Rachael in the sick room] The wounds of which she had spoken, seemed to be about the neck of the self-made outcast. She dressed them now, still without showing her. She steeped a piece of linen in a basin, into which she poured some liquid from a bottle, and laid it with a gentle hand upon the sore. The three-legged table had been drawn close to the bedside, and on it there were two bottles. This was one. It was not so far off, but that Stephen, following her hands with his eyes, could read what was printed on it in large letters. He turned of a deadly hue, and a sudden horror seemed to fall upon him. "I will stay here, Stephen," said Rachael, quietly resuming her seat, "till the bells go Three. 'Tis to be done again at three, and then she may be left till morning." "But thy rest agen to-morrow's work, my dear." "I slept sound last night. I can wake many nights, when I am put to it. 'Tis thou who art in need of rest so white and tired. Try to sleep in the chair there, while I watch. Thou hadst no sleep last night, I can well believe. To-morrow's work is far harder for thee than for me." He heard the thundering and surging out of doors, and it seemed to him as if his late angry mood were going about trying to get at him. She had cast it out; she would keep it out; he trusted to her to defend him from himself. "She don't know me, Stephen; she just drowsily mutters and stares. I have spoken to her times and again, but she don't notice! 'Tis as well so. When she comes to her right mind once more, I shall have done what I can, and she never the wiser." "How long, Rachael, is 't looked for, that she'll be so?" "Doctor said she would haply come to her mind to-morrow." His eyes fell again on the bottle, and a tremble passed over him, causing him to shiver in every limb. She thought he was chilled with the wet. "No," he said, "it was not that. He had had a fright." "A fright?" "Ay, ay! coming in. When I were walking. When I were thinking. When I" It seized him again; and he stood up, holding by the mantel-shelf, as he pressed his dank cold hair down with a hand that shook as if it were palsied. "Stephen!" She was coming to him, but he stretched out his arm to stop her. "No! Don't, please; don't. Let me see thee setten by the bed. Let me see thee, a' so good, and so forgiving. Let me see thee as I see thee when I coom in. I can never see thee better than so. Never, never, never!" He had a violent fit of trembling, and then sunk into his chair. After a time he controlled himself, and, resting with an elbow on one knee, and his head upon that hand, could look towards Rachael. Seen across the dim candle with his moistened eyes, she looked as if she had a glory shining round her head. He could have believed she had. He did believe it, as the noise without shook the window, rattled at the door below, and went about the house clamouring and lamenting. "When she gets better, Stephen, 'tis to be hoped she'll leave thee to thyself again, and do thee no more hurt. Anyways we will hope so now. And now I shall keep silence, for I want thee to sleep." He closed his eyes, more to please her than to rest his weary head; but, by slow degrees as he listened to the great noise of the wind, he	Rachael's were in the room. Everything was in its place and order as he had always kept it, the little fire was newly trimmed, and the hearth was freshly swept. It appeared to him that he saw all this in Rachael's face, and looked at nothing besides. While looking at it, it was shut out from his view by the softened tears that filled his eyes; but not before he had seen how earnestly she looked at him, and how her own eyes were filled too. She turned again towards the bed, and satisfying herself that all was quiet there, spoke in a low, calm, cheerful voice. "I am glad you have come at last, Stephen. You are very late." "I ha' been walking up an' down." "I thought so. But 'tis too bad a night for that. The rain falls very heavy, and the wind has risen." The wind? True. It was blowing hard. Hark to the thundering in the chimney, and the surging noise! To have been out in such a wind, and not to have known it was blowing! "I have been here once before, to-day, Stephen. Landlady came round for me at dinner-time. There was some one here that needed looking to," she said. And<\|quote\|>"deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised."</\|quote\|>He slowly moved to a chair and sat down, drooping his head before her. "I came to do what little I could, Stephen; first, for that she worked with me when we were girls both, and for that you courted her and married her when I was her friend" He laid his furrowed forehead on his hand, with a low groan. "And next, for that I know your heart, and am right sure and certain that 'tis far too merciful to let her die, or even so much as suffer, for want of aid. Thou knowest who said," "Let him who is without sin among you cast the first stone at her!" "There have been plenty to do that. Thou art not the man to cast the last stone, Stephen, when she is brought so low." "O Rachael, Rachael!" "Thou hast been a cruel sufferer, Heaven reward thee!" she said, in compassionate accents. "I am thy poor friend, with all my heart and mind." [Picture: Stephen and Rachael in the sick room] The wounds of which she had spoken, seemed to be about the neck of the self-made outcast. She dressed them now, still without showing her. She steeped a piece of linen in a basin, into which she poured some liquid from a bottle, and laid it with a gentle hand upon the sore. The three-legged table had been drawn close to the bedside, and on it there were two bottles. This was one. It was not so far off, but that Stephen, following her hands with his eyes, could read what was printed on it in large letters. He turned of a deadly hue, and a sudden horror seemed to fall upon him. "I will stay here, Stephen," said Rachael, quietly resuming her seat, "till the bells go Three. 'Tis to be done again at three, and then she may be left till morning." "But thy rest agen to-morrow's work, my dear." "I slept sound last night. I can wake many nights, when I am put to it. 'Tis thou who art in need of rest so white and tired. Try to sleep in the chair there, while I watch. Thou hadst no sleep last night, I can well believe. To-morrow's work is far harder for thee than for me." He heard the thundering and surging out of doors, and it seemed to him as if his late angry mood were going about trying to get at him. She had cast it out; she would keep it out; he trusted to her to defend him from himself.	Hard Times
"Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque."	Dr. Aziz	not heard of other children."<\|quote\|>"Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque."</\|quote\|>"I knew her so slightly."	those other children." "I have not heard of other children."<\|quote\|>"Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque."</\|quote\|>"I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but	my eyes, I confused myself on purpose to deaden the pain. Now this very instant I forgot again. I shall be obliged to write. She is now far away, well on her way towards Ralph and Stella." "To whom?" "To those other children." "I have not heard of other children."<\|quote\|>"Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque."</\|quote\|>"I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but three times, but I know she is an Oriental." "You are so fantastic. . . . Miss Quested, you won't treat her generously; while over Mrs. Moore there is this elaborate chivalry. Miss Quested anyhow behaved decently this morning, whereas	do so. She will counsel me nothing against my real and true honour, as you might." "Let us discuss that to-morrow morning." "Is it not strange? I keep on forgetting she has left India. During the shouting of her name in court I fancied she was present. I had shut my eyes, I confused myself on purpose to deaden the pain. Now this very instant I forgot again. I shall be obliged to write. She is now far away, well on her way towards Ralph and Stella." "To whom?" "To those other children." "I have not heard of other children."<\|quote\|>"Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque."</\|quote\|>"I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but three times, but I know she is an Oriental." "You are so fantastic. . . . Miss Quested, you won't treat her generously; while over Mrs. Moore there is this elaborate chivalry. Miss Quested anyhow behaved decently this morning, whereas the old lady never did anything for you at all, and it's pure conjecture that she would have come forward in your favour, it only rests on servants' gossip. Your emotions never seem in proportion to their objects, Aziz." "Is emotion a sack of potatoes, so much the pound, to	"It is the one thing in you I can't put up with." "I put up with all things in you, so what is to be done?" "Well, you hurt me by saying it; good night." There was silence, then dreamily but with deep feeling the voice said: "Cyril, I have had an idea which will satisfy your tender mind: I shall consult Mrs. Moore." Opening his eyes, and beholding thousands of stars, he could not reply, they silenced him. "Her opinion will solve everything; I can trust her so absolutely. If she advises me to pardon this girl, I shall do so. She will counsel me nothing against my real and true honour, as you might." "Let us discuss that to-morrow morning." "Is it not strange? I keep on forgetting she has left India. During the shouting of her name in court I fancied she was present. I had shut my eyes, I confused myself on purpose to deaden the pain. Now this very instant I forgot again. I shall be obliged to write. She is now far away, well on her way towards Ralph and Stella." "To whom?" "To those other children." "I have not heard of other children."<\|quote\|>"Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque."</\|quote\|>"I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but three times, but I know she is an Oriental." "You are so fantastic. . . . Miss Quested, you won't treat her generously; while over Mrs. Moore there is this elaborate chivalry. Miss Quested anyhow behaved decently this morning, whereas the old lady never did anything for you at all, and it's pure conjecture that she would have come forward in your favour, it only rests on servants' gossip. Your emotions never seem in proportion to their objects, Aziz." "Is emotion a sack of potatoes, so much the pound, to be measured out? Am I a machine? I shall be told I can use up my emotions by using them, next." "I should have thought you could. It sounds common sense. You can't eat your cake and have it, even in the world of the spirit." "If you are right, there is no point in any friendship; it all comes down to give and take, or give and return, which is disgusting, and we had better all leap over this parapet and kill ourselves. Is anything wrong with you this evening that you grow so materialistic?" "Your unfairness is worse	But she stopped, and almost did she become a national heroine, but my students ran us down a side street before the crowd caught flame. Do treat her considerately. She really mustn't get the worst of both worlds. I know what all these" he indicated the shrouded forms on the roof "will want, but you mustn't listen to them. Be merciful. Act like one of your six Mogul Emperors, or all the six rolled into one." "Not even Mogul Emperors showed mercy until they received an apology." "She'll apologize if that's the trouble," he cried, sitting up. "Look, I'll make you an offer. Dictate to me whatever form of words you like, and this time to-morrow I'll bring it back signed. This is not instead of any public apology she may make you in law. It's an addition." " Dear Dr. Aziz, I wish you had come into the cave; I am an awful old hag, and it is my last chance.' "Will she sign that?" "Well good night, good night, it's time to go to sleep, after that." "Good night, I suppose it is." "Oh, I wish you wouldn't make that kind of remark," he continued after a pause. "It is the one thing in you I can't put up with." "I put up with all things in you, so what is to be done?" "Well, you hurt me by saying it; good night." There was silence, then dreamily but with deep feeling the voice said: "Cyril, I have had an idea which will satisfy your tender mind: I shall consult Mrs. Moore." Opening his eyes, and beholding thousands of stars, he could not reply, they silenced him. "Her opinion will solve everything; I can trust her so absolutely. If she advises me to pardon this girl, I shall do so. She will counsel me nothing against my real and true honour, as you might." "Let us discuss that to-morrow morning." "Is it not strange? I keep on forgetting she has left India. During the shouting of her name in court I fancied she was present. I had shut my eyes, I confused myself on purpose to deaden the pain. Now this very instant I forgot again. I shall be obliged to write. She is now far away, well on her way towards Ralph and Stella." "To whom?" "To those other children." "I have not heard of other children."<\|quote\|>"Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque."</\|quote\|>"I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but three times, but I know she is an Oriental." "You are so fantastic. . . . Miss Quested, you won't treat her generously; while over Mrs. Moore there is this elaborate chivalry. Miss Quested anyhow behaved decently this morning, whereas the old lady never did anything for you at all, and it's pure conjecture that she would have come forward in your favour, it only rests on servants' gossip. Your emotions never seem in proportion to their objects, Aziz." "Is emotion a sack of potatoes, so much the pound, to be measured out? Am I a machine? I shall be told I can use up my emotions by using them, next." "I should have thought you could. It sounds common sense. You can't eat your cake and have it, even in the world of the spirit." "If you are right, there is no point in any friendship; it all comes down to give and take, or give and return, which is disgusting, and we had better all leap over this parapet and kill ourselves. Is anything wrong with you this evening that you grow so materialistic?" "Your unfairness is worse than my materialism." "I see. Anything further to complain of?" He was good-tempered and affectionate but a little formidable. Imprisonment had made channels for his character, which would never fluctuate as widely now as in the past. "Because it is far better you put all your difficulties before me, if we are to be friends for ever. You do not like Mrs. Moore, and are annoyed because I do; however, you will like her in time." When a person, really dead, is supposed to be alive, an unhealthiness infects the conversation. Fielding could not stand the tension any longer and blurted out: "I'm sorry to say Mrs. Moore's dead." But Hamidullah, who had been listening to all their talk, and did not want the festive evening spoilt, cried from the adjoining bed: "Aziz, he is trying to pull your leg; don't believe him, the villain." "I do not believe him," said Aziz; he was inured to practical jokes, even of this type. Fielding said no more. Facts are facts, and everyone would learn of Mrs. Moore's death in the morning. But it struck him that people are not really dead until they are felt to be dead. As long as	dressed up in native costume, learnt from his excessive awkwardness in it that all his motions were makeshifts, whereas when the Nawab Bahadur stretched out his hand for food or Nureddin applauded a song, something beautiful had been accomplished which needed no development. This restfulness of gesture it is the Peace that passeth Understanding, after all, it is the social equivalent of Yoga. When the whirring of action ceases, it becomes visible, and reveals a civilization which the West can disturb but will never acquire. The hand stretches out for ever, the lifted knee has the eternity though not the sadness of the grave. Aziz was full of civilization this evening, complete, dignified, rather hard, and it was with diffidence that the other said: "Yes, certainly you must let off Miss Quested easily. She must pay all your costs, that is only fair, but do not treat her like a conquered enemy." "Is she wealthy? I depute you to find out." "The sums mentioned at dinner when you all got so excited they would ruin her, they are perfectly preposterous. Look here . . ." "I am looking, though it gets a bit dark. I see Cyril Fielding to be a very nice chap indeed and my best friend, but in some ways a fool. You think that by letting Miss Quested off easily I shall make a better reputation for myself and Indians generally. No, no. It will be put down to weakness and the attempt to gain promotion officially. I have decided to have nothing more to do with British India, as a matter of fact. I shall seek service in some Moslem State, such as Hyderabad, Bhopal, where Englishmen cannot insult me any more. Don't counsel me otherwise." "In the course of a long talk with Miss Quested . . ." "I don't want to hear your long talks." "Be quiet. In the course of a long talk with Miss Quested I have begun to understand her character. It's not an easy one, she being a prig. But she is perfectly genuine and very brave. When she saw she was wrong, she pulled herself up with a jerk and said so. I want you to realize what that means. All her friends around her, the entire British Raj pushing her forward. She stops, sends the whole thing to smithereens. In her place I should have funked it. But she stopped, and almost did she become a national heroine, but my students ran us down a side street before the crowd caught flame. Do treat her considerately. She really mustn't get the worst of both worlds. I know what all these" he indicated the shrouded forms on the roof "will want, but you mustn't listen to them. Be merciful. Act like one of your six Mogul Emperors, or all the six rolled into one." "Not even Mogul Emperors showed mercy until they received an apology." "She'll apologize if that's the trouble," he cried, sitting up. "Look, I'll make you an offer. Dictate to me whatever form of words you like, and this time to-morrow I'll bring it back signed. This is not instead of any public apology she may make you in law. It's an addition." " Dear Dr. Aziz, I wish you had come into the cave; I am an awful old hag, and it is my last chance.' "Will she sign that?" "Well good night, good night, it's time to go to sleep, after that." "Good night, I suppose it is." "Oh, I wish you wouldn't make that kind of remark," he continued after a pause. "It is the one thing in you I can't put up with." "I put up with all things in you, so what is to be done?" "Well, you hurt me by saying it; good night." There was silence, then dreamily but with deep feeling the voice said: "Cyril, I have had an idea which will satisfy your tender mind: I shall consult Mrs. Moore." Opening his eyes, and beholding thousands of stars, he could not reply, they silenced him. "Her opinion will solve everything; I can trust her so absolutely. If she advises me to pardon this girl, I shall do so. She will counsel me nothing against my real and true honour, as you might." "Let us discuss that to-morrow morning." "Is it not strange? I keep on forgetting she has left India. During the shouting of her name in court I fancied she was present. I had shut my eyes, I confused myself on purpose to deaden the pain. Now this very instant I forgot again. I shall be obliged to write. She is now far away, well on her way towards Ralph and Stella." "To whom?" "To those other children." "I have not heard of other children."<\|quote\|>"Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque."</\|quote\|>"I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but three times, but I know she is an Oriental." "You are so fantastic. . . . Miss Quested, you won't treat her generously; while over Mrs. Moore there is this elaborate chivalry. Miss Quested anyhow behaved decently this morning, whereas the old lady never did anything for you at all, and it's pure conjecture that she would have come forward in your favour, it only rests on servants' gossip. Your emotions never seem in proportion to their objects, Aziz." "Is emotion a sack of potatoes, so much the pound, to be measured out? Am I a machine? I shall be told I can use up my emotions by using them, next." "I should have thought you could. It sounds common sense. You can't eat your cake and have it, even in the world of the spirit." "If you are right, there is no point in any friendship; it all comes down to give and take, or give and return, which is disgusting, and we had better all leap over this parapet and kill ourselves. Is anything wrong with you this evening that you grow so materialistic?" "Your unfairness is worse than my materialism." "I see. Anything further to complain of?" He was good-tempered and affectionate but a little formidable. Imprisonment had made channels for his character, which would never fluctuate as widely now as in the past. "Because it is far better you put all your difficulties before me, if we are to be friends for ever. You do not like Mrs. Moore, and are annoyed because I do; however, you will like her in time." When a person, really dead, is supposed to be alive, an unhealthiness infects the conversation. Fielding could not stand the tension any longer and blurted out: "I'm sorry to say Mrs. Moore's dead." But Hamidullah, who had been listening to all their talk, and did not want the festive evening spoilt, cried from the adjoining bed: "Aziz, he is trying to pull your leg; don't believe him, the villain." "I do not believe him," said Aziz; he was inured to practical jokes, even of this type. Fielding said no more. Facts are facts, and everyone would learn of Mrs. Moore's death in the morning. But it struck him that people are not really dead until they are felt to be dead. As long as there is some misunderstanding about them, they possess a sort of immortality. An experience of his own confirmed this. Many years ago he had lost a great friend, a woman, who believed in the Christian heaven, and assured him that after the changes and chances of this mortal life they would meet in it again. Fielding was a blank, frank atheist, but he respected every opinion his friend held: to do this is essential in friendship. And it seemed to him for a time that the dead awaited him, and when the illusion faded it left behind it an emptiness that was almost guilt: "This really is the end," he thought, "and I gave her the final blow." He had tried to kill Mrs. Moore this evening, on the roof of the Nawab Bahadur's house; but she still eluded him, and the atmosphere remained tranquil. Presently the moon rose the exhausted crescent that precedes the sun and shortly after men and oxen began their interminable labour, and the gracious interlude, which he had tried to curtail, came to its natural conclusion. CHAPTER XXVIII Dead she was committed to the deep while still on the southward track, for the boats from Bombay cannot point towards Europe until Arabia has been rounded; she was further in the tropics than ever achieved while on shore, when the sun touched her for the last time and her body was lowered into yet another India the Indian Ocean. She left behind her sore discomfort, for a death gives a ship a bad name. Who was this Mrs. Moore? When Aden was reached, Lady Mellanby cabled, wrote, did all that was kind, but the wife of a Lieutenant-Governor does not bargain for such an experience; and she repeated: "I had only seen the poor creature for a few hours when she was taken ill; really this has been needlessly distressing, it spoils one's home-coming." A ghost followed the ship up the Red Sea, but failed to enter the Mediterranean. Somewhere about Suez there is always a social change: the arrangements of Asia weaken and those of Europe begin to be felt, and during the transition Mrs. Moore was shaken off. At Port Said the grey blustery north began. The weather was so cold and bracing that the passengers felt it must have broken in the land they had left, but it became hotter steadily there in	"Be quiet. In the course of a long talk with Miss Quested I have begun to understand her character. It's not an easy one, she being a prig. But she is perfectly genuine and very brave. When she saw she was wrong, she pulled herself up with a jerk and said so. I want you to realize what that means. All her friends around her, the entire British Raj pushing her forward. She stops, sends the whole thing to smithereens. In her place I should have funked it. But she stopped, and almost did she become a national heroine, but my students ran us down a side street before the crowd caught flame. Do treat her considerately. She really mustn't get the worst of both worlds. I know what all these" he indicated the shrouded forms on the roof "will want, but you mustn't listen to them. Be merciful. Act like one of your six Mogul Emperors, or all the six rolled into one." "Not even Mogul Emperors showed mercy until they received an apology." "She'll apologize if that's the trouble," he cried, sitting up. "Look, I'll make you an offer. Dictate to me whatever form of words you like, and this time to-morrow I'll bring it back signed. This is not instead of any public apology she may make you in law. It's an addition." " Dear Dr. Aziz, I wish you had come into the cave; I am an awful old hag, and it is my last chance.' "Will she sign that?" "Well good night, good night, it's time to go to sleep, after that." "Good night, I suppose it is." "Oh, I wish you wouldn't make that kind of remark," he continued after a pause. "It is the one thing in you I can't put up with." "I put up with all things in you, so what is to be done?" "Well, you hurt me by saying it; good night." There was silence, then dreamily but with deep feeling the voice said: "Cyril, I have had an idea which will satisfy your tender mind: I shall consult Mrs. Moore." Opening his eyes, and beholding thousands of stars, he could not reply, they silenced him. "Her opinion will solve everything; I can trust her so absolutely. If she advises me to pardon this girl, I shall do so. She will counsel me nothing against my real and true honour, as you might." "Let us discuss that to-morrow morning." "Is it not strange? I keep on forgetting she has left India. During the shouting of her name in court I fancied she was present. I had shut my eyes, I confused myself on purpose to deaden the pain. Now this very instant I forgot again. I shall be obliged to write. She is now far away, well on her way towards Ralph and Stella." "To whom?" "To those other children." "I have not heard of other children."<\|quote\|>"Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque."</\|quote\|>"I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but three times, but I know she is an Oriental." "You are so fantastic. . . . Miss Quested, you won't treat her generously; while over Mrs. Moore there is this elaborate chivalry. Miss Quested anyhow behaved decently this morning, whereas the old lady never did anything for you at all, and it's pure conjecture that she would have come forward in your favour, it only rests on servants' gossip. Your emotions never seem in proportion to their objects, Aziz." "Is emotion a sack of potatoes, so much the pound, to be measured out? Am I a machine? I shall be told I can use up my emotions by using them, next." "I should have thought you could. It sounds common sense. You can't eat your cake and have it, even in the world of the spirit." "If you are right, there is no point in any friendship; it all comes down to give and take, or give and return, which is disgusting, and we had better all leap over this parapet and kill ourselves. Is anything wrong with you this evening that you grow so materialistic?" "Your unfairness is worse than my materialism." "I see. Anything further to complain of?" He was good-tempered and affectionate but a little formidable. Imprisonment had made channels for his character, which would never fluctuate as widely now as in the past. "Because it is far better you put all your difficulties before me, if we are to be friends for ever. You do not like Mrs. Moore, and are annoyed because I do; however, you will like her in time." When a person, really dead, is supposed to be alive, an unhealthiness infects the conversation. Fielding could not stand the tension any longer and blurted out: "I'm sorry to say Mrs. Moore's dead." But Hamidullah, who had been listening to all their talk, and did not want the festive evening spoilt, cried from the adjoining bed: "Aziz, he is trying to pull your leg; don't believe him, the villain." "I do not believe him," said Aziz; he was inured to practical jokes, even of this type. Fielding said no more. Facts are facts, and everyone would learn of Mrs. Moore's death in the morning. But it struck him that people are not really dead until they are felt to be dead. As long as there is some misunderstanding about them, they possess a sort of immortality. An experience of his own confirmed this. Many years ago he had lost a great friend, a woman, who believed in the Christian heaven, and assured him that after the changes and chances of this mortal life they would meet in it again. Fielding was a blank, frank atheist, but he respected every opinion his friend held: to do this is essential in friendship. And it seemed to him for a time that the dead awaited him, and when the illusion faded it left behind it an emptiness that was almost guilt: "This really is the end," he thought, "and I gave her the final blow." He had tried to kill Mrs. Moore this evening, on the roof of the Nawab Bahadur's house; but she still eluded him, and the atmosphere remained tranquil. Presently the moon rose the exhausted crescent that precedes the sun and shortly after men and oxen began their interminable labour, and the gracious interlude, which	A Passage To India
"Why, you just said it was!"	Dolly	is my mother s writing."<\|quote\|>"Why, you just said it was!"</\|quote\|>cried Dolly. "Never mind if	I don t admit it is my mother s writing."<\|quote\|>"Why, you just said it was!"</\|quote\|>cried Dolly. "Never mind if I did," he blazed out;	t think what?" "That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence. No, to my mind the question is the--the invalid s condition at the time she wrote." "My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don t admit it is my mother s writing."<\|quote\|>"Why, you just said it was!"</\|quote\|>cried Dolly. "Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue." The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy. The two men were gradually assuming the	the breakfast-table from plates and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. "The question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away, whether she unduly--" He stopped. "I don t think that," said his father, whose nature was nobler than his son s. "Don t think what?" "That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence. No, to my mind the question is the--the invalid s condition at the time she wrote." "My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don t admit it is my mother s writing."<\|quote\|>"Why, you just said it was!"</\|quote\|>cried Dolly. "Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue." The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy. The two men were gradually assuming the manner of the committee-room. They were both at their best when serving on committees. They did not make the mistake of handling human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of them item by item, sharply. Caligraphy was the item before them now, and on it they turned their well-trained brains.	once exclaimed: "Why, it s only in pencil! I said so. Pencil never counts." "We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly," said Mr. Wilcox, speaking from out of his fortress. "We are aware of that. Legally, I should be justified in tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of course, my dear, we consider you as one of the family, but it will be better if you do not interfere with what you do not understand." Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then repeated: "The question is--" He had cleared a space of the breakfast-table from plates and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. "The question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away, whether she unduly--" He stopped. "I don t think that," said his father, whose nature was nobler than his son s. "Don t think what?" "That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence. No, to my mind the question is the--the invalid s condition at the time she wrote." "My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don t admit it is my mother s writing."<\|quote\|>"Why, you just said it was!"</\|quote\|>cried Dolly. "Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue." The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy. The two men were gradually assuming the manner of the committee-room. They were both at their best when serving on committees. They did not make the mistake of handling human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of them item by item, sharply. Caligraphy was the item before them now, and on it they turned their well-trained brains. Charles, after a little demur, accepted the writing as genuine, and they passed on to the next point. It is the best--perhaps the only--way of dodging emotion. They were the average human article, and had they considered the note as a whole it would have driven them miserable or mad. Considered item by item, the emotional content was minimised, and all went forward smoothly. The clock ticked, the coals blazed higher, and contended with the white radiance that poured in through the windows. Unnoticed, the sun occupied his sky, and the shadows of the tree stems, extraordinarily solid, fell like	Howards End." "I suppose we re going to have a talk about this?" he remarked, ominously calm. "Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly--" "Well, let s sit down." "Come, Evie, don t waste time, sit--down." In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The events of yesterday--indeed, of this morning suddenly receded into a past so remote that they seemed scarcely to have lived in it. Heavy breathings were heard. They were calming themselves. Charles, to steady them further, read the enclosure out loud: "A note in my mother s handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my father, sealed. Inside:" I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End. "No date, no signature. Forwarded through the matron of that nursing home. Now, the question is--" Dolly interrupted him. "But I say that note isn t legal. Houses ought to be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely." Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps appeared in front of either ear--a symptom that she had not yet learnt to respect, and she asked whether she might see the note. Charles looked at his father for permission, who said abstractedly, "Give it her." She seized it, and at once exclaimed: "Why, it s only in pencil! I said so. Pencil never counts." "We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly," said Mr. Wilcox, speaking from out of his fortress. "We are aware of that. Legally, I should be justified in tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of course, my dear, we consider you as one of the family, but it will be better if you do not interfere with what you do not understand." Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then repeated: "The question is--" He had cleared a space of the breakfast-table from plates and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. "The question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away, whether she unduly--" He stopped. "I don t think that," said his father, whose nature was nobler than his son s. "Don t think what?" "That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence. No, to my mind the question is the--the invalid s condition at the time she wrote." "My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don t admit it is my mother s writing."<\|quote\|>"Why, you just said it was!"</\|quote\|>cried Dolly. "Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue." The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy. The two men were gradually assuming the manner of the committee-room. They were both at their best when serving on committees. They did not make the mistake of handling human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of them item by item, sharply. Caligraphy was the item before them now, and on it they turned their well-trained brains. Charles, after a little demur, accepted the writing as genuine, and they passed on to the next point. It is the best--perhaps the only--way of dodging emotion. They were the average human article, and had they considered the note as a whole it would have driven them miserable or mad. Considered item by item, the emotional content was minimised, and all went forward smoothly. The clock ticked, the coals blazed higher, and contended with the white radiance that poured in through the windows. Unnoticed, the sun occupied his sky, and the shadows of the tree stems, extraordinarily solid, fell like trenches of purple across the frosted lawn. It was a glorious winter morning. Evie s fox terrier, who had passed for white, was only a dirty grey dog now, so intense was the purity that surrounded him. He was discredited, but the blackbirds that he was chasing glowed with Arabian darkness, for all the conventional colouring of life had been altered. Inside, the clock struck ten with a rich and confident note. Other clocks confirmed it, and the discussion moved towards its close. To follow it is unnecessary. It is rather a moment when the commentator should step forward. Ought the Wilcoxes to have offered their home to Margaret? I think not. The appeal was too flimsy. It was not legal; it had been written in illness, and under the spell of a sudden friendship; it was contrary to the dead woman s intentions in the past, contrary to her very nature, so far as that nature was understood by them. To them Howards End was a house: they could not know that to her it had been a spirit, for which she sought a spiritual heir. And--pushing one step farther in these mists--may they not have decided even better	correct, for his wife replied, "She wants Howards End." "Howards End? Now, Crane, just don t forget to put on the Stepney wheel." "No, sir." "Now, mind you don t forget, for I--Come, little woman." When they were out of the chauffeur s sight he put his arm round her waist and pressed her against him. All his affection and half his attention--it was what he granted her throughout their happy married life. "But you haven t listened, Charles." "What s wrong?" "I keep on telling you--Howards End. Miss Schlegel s got it." "Got what?" said Charles, unclasping her. "What the dickens are you talking about?" "Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty--" "Look here, I m in no mood for foolery. It s no morning for it either." "I tell you--I keep on telling you--Miss Schlegel--she s got it--your mother s left it to her--and you ve all got to move out!" "HOWARDS END?" "HOWARDS END!" she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shubbery. "Dolly, go back at once! My father s much annoyed with you. Charles" "--she hit herself wildly--" "come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful." Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across the gravel path. There the house was with the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, "Schlegels again!" and as if to complete chaos, Dolly said, "Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has written instead of her." "Come in, all three of you!" cried his father, no longer inert. "Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox--" "I told you not to go out to the garage. I ve heard you all shouting in the garden. I won t have it. Come in." He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand. "Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can t discuss private matters in the middle of all the servants. Here, Charles, here; read these. See what you make." Charles took two letters, and read them as he followed the procession. The first was a covering note from the matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired her, when the funeral should be over, to forward the enclosed. The enclosed--it was from his mother herself. She had written: "To my husband: I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End." "I suppose we re going to have a talk about this?" he remarked, ominously calm. "Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly--" "Well, let s sit down." "Come, Evie, don t waste time, sit--down." In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The events of yesterday--indeed, of this morning suddenly receded into a past so remote that they seemed scarcely to have lived in it. Heavy breathings were heard. They were calming themselves. Charles, to steady them further, read the enclosure out loud: "A note in my mother s handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my father, sealed. Inside:" I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End. "No date, no signature. Forwarded through the matron of that nursing home. Now, the question is--" Dolly interrupted him. "But I say that note isn t legal. Houses ought to be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely." Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps appeared in front of either ear--a symptom that she had not yet learnt to respect, and she asked whether she might see the note. Charles looked at his father for permission, who said abstractedly, "Give it her." She seized it, and at once exclaimed: "Why, it s only in pencil! I said so. Pencil never counts." "We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly," said Mr. Wilcox, speaking from out of his fortress. "We are aware of that. Legally, I should be justified in tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of course, my dear, we consider you as one of the family, but it will be better if you do not interfere with what you do not understand." Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then repeated: "The question is--" He had cleared a space of the breakfast-table from plates and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. "The question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away, whether she unduly--" He stopped. "I don t think that," said his father, whose nature was nobler than his son s. "Don t think what?" "That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence. No, to my mind the question is the--the invalid s condition at the time she wrote." "My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don t admit it is my mother s writing."<\|quote\|>"Why, you just said it was!"</\|quote\|>cried Dolly. "Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue." The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy. The two men were gradually assuming the manner of the committee-room. They were both at their best when serving on committees. They did not make the mistake of handling human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of them item by item, sharply. Caligraphy was the item before them now, and on it they turned their well-trained brains. Charles, after a little demur, accepted the writing as genuine, and they passed on to the next point. It is the best--perhaps the only--way of dodging emotion. They were the average human article, and had they considered the note as a whole it would have driven them miserable or mad. Considered item by item, the emotional content was minimised, and all went forward smoothly. The clock ticked, the coals blazed higher, and contended with the white radiance that poured in through the windows. Unnoticed, the sun occupied his sky, and the shadows of the tree stems, extraordinarily solid, fell like trenches of purple across the frosted lawn. It was a glorious winter morning. Evie s fox terrier, who had passed for white, was only a dirty grey dog now, so intense was the purity that surrounded him. He was discredited, but the blackbirds that he was chasing glowed with Arabian darkness, for all the conventional colouring of life had been altered. Inside, the clock struck ten with a rich and confident note. Other clocks confirmed it, and the discussion moved towards its close. To follow it is unnecessary. It is rather a moment when the commentator should step forward. Ought the Wilcoxes to have offered their home to Margaret? I think not. The appeal was too flimsy. It was not legal; it had been written in illness, and under the spell of a sudden friendship; it was contrary to the dead woman s intentions in the past, contrary to her very nature, so far as that nature was understood by them. To them Howards End was a house: they could not know that to her it had been a spirit, for which she sought a spiritual heir. And--pushing one step farther in these mists--may they not have decided even better than they supposed? Is it credible that the possessions of the spirit can be bequeathed at all? Has the soul offspring? A wych-elm tree, a vine, a wisp of hay with dew on it--can passion for such things be transmitted where there is no bond of blood? No; the Wilcoxes are not to be blamed. The problem is too terrific, and they could not even perceive a problem. No; it is natural and fitting that after due debate they should tear the note up and throw it on to their dining-room fire. The practical moralist may acquit them absolutely. He who strives to look deeper may acquit them--almost. For one hard fact remains. They did neglect a personal appeal. The woman who had died did say to them, "Do this," and they answered, "We will not." The incident made a most painful impression on them. Grief mounted into the brain and worked there disquietingly. Yesterday they had lamented: "She was a dear mother, a true wife; in our absence she neglected her health and died." To-day they thought: "She was not as true, as dear, as we supposed." The desire for a more inward light had found expression at last, the unseen had impacted on the seen, and all that they could say was "Treachery." Mrs. Wilcox had been treacherous to the family, to the laws of property, to her own written word. How did she expect Howards End to be conveyed to Miss Schlegel? Was her husband, to whom it legally belonged, to make it over to her as a free gift? Was the said Miss Schlegel to have a life interest in it, or to own it absolutely? Was there to be no compensation for the garage and other improvements that they had made under the assumption that all would be theirs some day? Treacherous! treacherous and absurd! When we think the dead both treacherous and absurd, we have gone far towards reconciling ourselves to their departure. That note, scribbled in pencil, sent through the matron, was unbusinesslike as well as cruel, and decreased at once the value of the woman who had written it. "Ah, well!" said Mr. Wilcox, rising from the table. "I shouldn t have thought it possible." "Mother couldn t have meant it," said Evie, still frowning. "No, my girl, of course not." "Mother believed so in ancestors too--it isn t like her to	out loud: "A note in my mother s handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my father, sealed. Inside:" I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End. "No date, no signature. Forwarded through the matron of that nursing home. Now, the question is--" Dolly interrupted him. "But I say that note isn t legal. Houses ought to be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely." Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps appeared in front of either ear--a symptom that she had not yet learnt to respect, and she asked whether she might see the note. Charles looked at his father for permission, who said abstractedly, "Give it her." She seized it, and at once exclaimed: "Why, it s only in pencil! I said so. Pencil never counts." "We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly," said Mr. Wilcox, speaking from out of his fortress. "We are aware of that. Legally, I should be justified in tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of course, my dear, we consider you as one of the family, but it will be better if you do not interfere with what you do not understand." Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then repeated: "The question is--" He had cleared a space of the breakfast-table from plates and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. "The question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away, whether she unduly--" He stopped. "I don t think that," said his father, whose nature was nobler than his son s. "Don t think what?" "That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence. No, to my mind the question is the--the invalid s condition at the time she wrote." "My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don t admit it is my mother s writing."<\|quote\|>"Why, you just said it was!"</\|quote\|>cried Dolly. "Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue." The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy. The two men were gradually assuming the manner of the committee-room. They were both at their best when serving on committees. They did not make the mistake of handling human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of them item by item, sharply. Caligraphy was the item before them now, and on it they turned their well-trained brains. Charles, after a little demur, accepted the writing as genuine, and they passed on to the next point. It is the best--perhaps the only--way of dodging emotion. They were the average human article, and had they considered the note as a whole it would have driven them miserable or mad. Considered item by item, the emotional content was minimised, and all went forward smoothly. The clock ticked, the coals blazed higher, and contended with the white radiance that poured in through the windows. Unnoticed, the sun occupied his sky, and the shadows of the tree stems, extraordinarily solid, fell like trenches of purple across the frosted lawn. It was a glorious winter morning. Evie s fox terrier, who had passed for white, was only a dirty grey dog now, so intense was the purity that surrounded him. He was discredited, but the blackbirds that he was chasing glowed with Arabian darkness, for all the conventional colouring of life had been altered. Inside, the clock struck ten with a rich and confident note. Other clocks confirmed it, and the discussion moved towards its close. To follow it is unnecessary. It is rather a moment when the commentator should step forward. Ought the Wilcoxes to have offered their home to Margaret? I think not. The appeal was too flimsy. It was not legal; it had been written in illness, and under the spell of a sudden friendship; it was contrary to the dead woman s intentions in the past, contrary to her very nature, so far as that nature was understood by them. To them Howards End was a house: they could not know that to her it had been a spirit, for which she sought a spiritual heir. And--pushing one step farther in these mists--may they not have decided even better than they supposed? Is it credible that the possessions of the spirit can be bequeathed at all? Has the soul offspring? A wych-elm tree, a vine, a wisp of hay with dew on it--can passion for such things be transmitted where there is no bond of blood? No; the Wilcoxes are not to be blamed. The problem is too terrific, and they could not even perceive a problem. No; it is natural and fitting that after due debate they should tear the note up and throw it on to their dining-room fire. The practical moralist may acquit them absolutely. He who strives to look deeper may acquit them--almost. For one hard fact remains. They did neglect a personal appeal. The woman who had died did say to them, "Do this," and they answered, "We will not." The incident made a most painful impression on them. Grief mounted into the brain and worked there disquietingly. Yesterday they had lamented: "She was a dear mother, a true wife; in our absence	Howards End
"And what about the pot, Jem?"	Don Lavington	I should much mind stopping."<\|quote\|>"And what about the pot, Jem?"</\|quote\|>"Tchah! That was all gammon.	here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping."<\|quote\|>"And what about the pot, Jem?"</\|quote\|>"Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever	felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping."<\|quote\|>"And what about the pot, Jem?"</\|quote\|>"Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to	a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping."<\|quote\|>"And what about the pot, Jem?"</\|quote\|>"Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake." They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and	amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't." "You must not get into any quarrel, Jem," said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping."<\|quote\|>"And what about the pot, Jem?"</\|quote\|>"Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake." They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler. "And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size	Don, till your head won't work; that's what's the matter with you, my lad. I mean treat us as if we was chyce fat sheep." "Nonsense, Jem!" "Oh, is it? Well, you'll see." "I hope not," said Don, laughing. "Ah, you may laugh, my lad, but you won't grin that day when it comes to the worst." News was brought in soon after of the boats being busy taking soundings, and that night Don and Jem sat screened by the ferns high up on the mountain side, and saw the sloop of war with her sails set, and looking golden in the setting sun, gliding slowly away toward the north-east, careening slightly over before a brisk breeze, which grew stronger as they reached out farther beyond the shelter of the land; and in spite of hints from Tomati, and calls from Ngati, neither could be coaxed down till, just as it was growing dusk, Don rose and turned to his companion. "Have we done right, Jem?" "What, in getting away from being slaves aboard ship? Why, o' course." Don shook his head. "I don't know," he said, sadly. "We are here right away on the other side of the world amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't." "You must not get into any quarrel, Jem," said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping."<\|quote\|>"And what about the pot, Jem?"</\|quote\|>"Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake." They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler. "And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning and wicked enough, but them little birds is imps, that's what they are." Jem shook his head and frowned, and no more was said then, for they were packing up a basket, and going up into the mountains to get fruit, taking	us," said Don, trying to pacify him. "Save us! Well they might ha' saved us gently. Look at me. I'm nearly flat." "Nonsense! I found it unpleasant; but they hid us, and we're all right." "But I arn't all right, Mas' Don; I feel like a pancake," cried Jem, rubbing and patting himself as if he were so much paste or clay which he wanted to get back into shape. "Don't be so stupid, Jem!" "Stoopid? 'Nough to make any man feel stoopid. I was 'most stuffocated." "So was I." "Yes, but you hadn't got that big, `my pakeha' chap sitting on you all the time." "No, Jem, I hadn't," said Don, laughing. "Well, I had, and he weighs 'bout as much as a sugar-hogshead at home, and that arn't light." "But it was to hide us, Jem." "Hide us, indeed! Bother me if it didn't seem as if they was all hens wanting to sit on one egg, and that egg was me. I know I shall never get right again." "Oh yes, you will," laughed Don. "Ah, it's all werry well for you to laugh, Mas' Don; but if my ribs hadn't been made o' the best o' bone, they'd ha' cracked like carrots, and where should I ha' been then?" "Hurt, mate?" said Tomati, coming up and laughing at Jem, who was rubbing himself angrily. "Just you go and be sat upon all that time, and see if you won't feel hurt," grumbled Jem. "Why, it hurts your feelings as much as it does your body." "Ah, well, never mind. You're quite safe now." Tomati walked away to speak to one of his men. "Quite safe now, he says, Mas' Don. Well, I don't feel it. Hear what he said to the fust lufftenant; this was the worst part of the coast, and the people were ready to rob and murder and eat you?" "I didn't hear all that, Jem," said Don quietly. "I heard him say that they were a warlike, fighting people; but that doesn't matter if they are kind to us." "But that's what I'm feared on," said Jem, giving himself a jerk. "Afraid of them being kind?" "Ay, feared of them liking us too well. Pot." "Pot?" "Yes, Pot. Don't you understand?" "No." "Pot. P--O--T, Pot." "Well, of course, I know that; but what does it mean?" "Why, they've sat upon you, Mas' Don, till your head won't work; that's what's the matter with you, my lad. I mean treat us as if we was chyce fat sheep." "Nonsense, Jem!" "Oh, is it? Well, you'll see." "I hope not," said Don, laughing. "Ah, you may laugh, my lad, but you won't grin that day when it comes to the worst." News was brought in soon after of the boats being busy taking soundings, and that night Don and Jem sat screened by the ferns high up on the mountain side, and saw the sloop of war with her sails set, and looking golden in the setting sun, gliding slowly away toward the north-east, careening slightly over before a brisk breeze, which grew stronger as they reached out farther beyond the shelter of the land; and in spite of hints from Tomati, and calls from Ngati, neither could be coaxed down till, just as it was growing dusk, Don rose and turned to his companion. "Have we done right, Jem?" "What, in getting away from being slaves aboard ship? Why, o' course." Don shook his head. "I don't know," he said, sadly. "We are here right away on the other side of the world amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't." "You must not get into any quarrel, Jem," said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping."<\|quote\|>"And what about the pot, Jem?"</\|quote\|>"Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake." They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler. "And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning and wicked enough, but them little birds is imps, that's what they are." Jem shook his head and frowned, and no more was said then, for they were packing up a basket, and going up into the mountains to get fruit, taking provisions enough to last them for the day. Their hut was right in the middle of the little village, and the Maoris treated them in the most friendly manner, smiling at them in an indolent fashion as they lolled about the place, doing very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages." "Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in." "Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired of having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don. "Fill another basket with something to eat, take a couple of bags, and we'll go right away into the forest, and bring back as much fruit as we can." "I'll be all ready in no time," said Jem, cheerily; and at the end of three minutes he was equipped, and they started off together, to find Ngati half lying on the sands in company with about a dozen more of his tribe, all of whom gave the pair a friendly smile and a wondering look at the trouble they seemed to take to obtain fruit, when some of the women or girls could have done the task just as well. "They are about the idlest set of chaps I ever did see, Mas' Don," said Jem, as they trudged cautiously along through the ferny woodlands, where traces of volcanic action were wonderfully plentiful. "But they work when there's any need for it, I daresay," said	Jem?" "What, in getting away from being slaves aboard ship? Why, o' course." Don shook his head. "I don't know," he said, sadly. "We are here right away on the other side of the world amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't." "You must not get into any quarrel, Jem," said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping."<\|quote\|>"And what about the pot, Jem?"</\|quote\|>"Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake." They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler. "And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning	Don Lavington
"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."	Lord Henry	marry this fascinating young person?"<\|quote\|>"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."</\|quote\|>"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha.	you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?"<\|quote\|>"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."</\|quote\|>"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha. "Really, some one should interfere."	as he remarked once himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of them ever quite escape. "We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry," cried the duchess, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. "Do you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?"<\|quote\|>"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."</\|quote\|>"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha. "Really, some one should interfere." "I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American dry-goods store," said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious. "My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas." "Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?" asked the duchess, raising her large hands	reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book. Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement in the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of them ever quite escape. "We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry," cried the duchess, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. "Do you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?"<\|quote\|>"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."</\|quote\|>"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha. "Really, some one should interfere." "I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American dry-goods store," said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious. "My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas." "Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?" asked the duchess, raising her large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb. "American novels," answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail. The duchess looked puzzled. "Don t mind him, my dear," whispered Lady Agatha. "He never means anything that he says." "When America was discovered," said the Radical member and he began to give some	in public life and in private life followed the best cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, in accordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left was occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable charm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence, having, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he had to say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur, one of his aunt s oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book. Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement in the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of them ever quite escape. "We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry," cried the duchess, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. "Do you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?"<\|quote\|>"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."</\|quote\|>"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha. "Really, some one should interfere." "I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American dry-goods store," said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious. "My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas." "Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?" asked the duchess, raising her large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb. "American novels," answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail. The duchess looked puzzled. "Don t mind him, my dear," whispered Lady Agatha. "He never means anything that he says." "When America was discovered," said the Radical member and he began to give some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust a subject, he exhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised her privilege of interruption. "I wish to goodness it never had been discovered at all!" she exclaimed. "Really, our girls have no chance nowadays. It is most unfair." "Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered," said Mr. Erskine; "I myself would say that it had merely been detected." "Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants," answered the duchess vaguely. "I must confess that most of them are extremely pretty. And they dress well, too. They get all	to dominate him had already, indeed, half done so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There was something fascinating in this son of love and death. Suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had passed his aunt s some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back. When he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that they had gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick and passed into the dining-room. "Late as usual, Harry," cried his aunt, shaking her head at him. He invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to her, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly from the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek. Opposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good-nature and good temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample architectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses are described by contemporary historians as stoutness. Next to her sat, on her right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who followed his leader in public life and in private life followed the best cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, in accordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left was occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable charm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence, having, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he had to say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur, one of his aunt s oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book. Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement in the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of them ever quite escape. "We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry," cried the duchess, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. "Do you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?"<\|quote\|>"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."</\|quote\|>"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha. "Really, some one should interfere." "I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American dry-goods store," said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious. "My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas." "Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?" asked the duchess, raising her large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb. "American novels," answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail. The duchess looked puzzled. "Don t mind him, my dear," whispered Lady Agatha. "He never means anything that he says." "When America was discovered," said the Radical member and he began to give some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust a subject, he exhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised her privilege of interruption. "I wish to goodness it never had been discovered at all!" she exclaimed. "Really, our girls have no chance nowadays. It is most unfair." "Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered," said Mr. Erskine; "I myself would say that it had merely been detected." "Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants," answered the duchess vaguely. "I must confess that most of them are extremely pretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in Paris. I wish I could afford to do the same." "They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris," chuckled Sir Thomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour s cast-off clothes. "Really! And where do bad Americans go to when they die?" inquired the duchess. "They go to America," murmured Lord Henry. Sir Thomas frowned. "I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against that great country," he said to Lady Agatha. "I have travelled all over it in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are extremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it." "But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?" asked Mr. Erskine plaintively. "I don t feel up to the journey." Sir Thomas waved his hand. "Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on his shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about them. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are absolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing characteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I assure you there is no nonsense about the Americans." "How dreadful!" cried Lord Henry. "I can	exquisite violin. He answered to every touch and thrill of the bow.... There was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of influence. No other activity was like it. To project one s soul into some gracious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear one s own intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of passion and youth; to convey one s temperament into another as though it were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume: there was a real joy in that perhaps the most satisfying joy left to us in an age so limited and vulgar as our own, an age grossly carnal in its pleasures, and grossly common in its aims.... He was a marvellous type, too, this lad, whom by so curious a chance he had met in Basil s studio, or could be fashioned into a marvellous type, at any rate. Grace was his, and the white purity of boyhood, and beauty such as old Greek marbles kept for us. There was nothing that one could not do with him. He could be made a Titan or a toy. What a pity it was that such beauty was destined to fade! ... And Basil? From a psychological point of view, how interesting he was! The new manner in art, the fresh mode of looking at life, suggested so strangely by the merely visible presence of one who was unconscious of it all; the silent spirit that dwelt in dim woodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showing herself, Dryadlike and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for her there had been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone are wonderful things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things becoming, as it were, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value, as though they were themselves patterns of some other and more perfect form whose shadow they made real: how strange it all was! He remembered something like it in history. Was it not Plato, that artist in thought, who had first analyzed it? Was it not Buonarotti who had carved it in the coloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? But in our own century it was strange.... Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray what, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful portrait. He would seek to dominate him had already, indeed, half done so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There was something fascinating in this son of love and death. Suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had passed his aunt s some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back. When he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that they had gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick and passed into the dining-room. "Late as usual, Harry," cried his aunt, shaking her head at him. He invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to her, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly from the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek. Opposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good-nature and good temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample architectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses are described by contemporary historians as stoutness. Next to her sat, on her right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who followed his leader in public life and in private life followed the best cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, in accordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left was occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable charm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence, having, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he had to say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur, one of his aunt s oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book. Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement in the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of them ever quite escape. "We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry," cried the duchess, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. "Do you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?"<\|quote\|>"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."</\|quote\|>"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha. "Really, some one should interfere." "I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American dry-goods store," said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious. "My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas." "Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?" asked the duchess, raising her large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb. "American novels," answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail. The duchess looked puzzled. "Don t mind him, my dear," whispered Lady Agatha. "He never means anything that he says." "When America was discovered," said the Radical member and he began to give some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust a subject, he exhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised her privilege of interruption. "I wish to goodness it never had been discovered at all!" she exclaimed. "Really, our girls have no chance nowadays. It is most unfair." "Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered," said Mr. Erskine; "I myself would say that it had merely been detected." "Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants," answered the duchess vaguely. "I must confess that most of them are extremely pretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in Paris. I wish I could afford to do the same." "They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris," chuckled Sir Thomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour s cast-off clothes. "Really! And where do bad Americans go to when they die?" inquired the duchess. "They go to America," murmured Lord Henry. Sir Thomas frowned. "I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against that great country," he said to Lady Agatha. "I have travelled all over it in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are extremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it." "But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?" asked Mr. Erskine plaintively. "I don t feel up to the journey." Sir Thomas waved his hand. "Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on his shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about them. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are absolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing characteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I assure you there is no nonsense about the Americans." "How dreadful!" cried Lord Henry. "I can stand brute force, but brute reason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It is hitting below the intellect." "I do not understand you," said Sir Thomas, growing rather red. "I do, Lord Henry," murmured Mr. Erskine, with a smile. "Paradoxes are all very well in their way...." rejoined the baronet. "Was that a paradox?" asked Mr. Erskine. "I did not think so. Perhaps it was. Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test reality we must see it on the tight rope. When the verities become acrobats, we can judge them." "Dear me!" said Lady Agatha, "how you men argue! I am sure I never can make out what you are talking about. Oh! Harry, I am quite vexed with you. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up the East End? I assure you he would be quite invaluable. They would love his playing." "I want him to play to me," cried Lord Henry, smiling, and he looked down the table and caught a bright answering glance. "But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel," continued Lady Agatha. "I can sympathize with everything except suffering," said Lord Henry, shrugging his shoulders. "I cannot sympathize with that. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathize with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life s sores, the better." "Still, the East End is a very important problem," remarked Sir Thomas with a grave shake of the head. "Quite so," answered the young lord. "It is the problem of slavery, and we try to solve it by amusing the slaves." The politician looked at him keenly. "What change do you propose, then?" he asked. Lord Henry laughed. "I don t desire to change anything in England except the weather," he answered. "I am quite content with philosophic contemplation. But, as the nineteenth century has gone bankrupt through an over-expenditure of sympathy, I would suggest that we should appeal to science to put us straight. The advantage of the emotions is that they lead us astray, and the advantage of science is that it is not emotional." "But we have such grave responsibilities," ventured Mrs. Vandeleur timidly. "Terribly grave," echoed Lady Agatha. Lord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine. "Humanity	all; the silent spirit that dwelt in dim woodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showing herself, Dryadlike and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for her there had been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone are wonderful things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things becoming, as it were, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value, as though they were themselves patterns of some other and more perfect form whose shadow they made real: how strange it all was! He remembered something like it in history. Was it not Plato, that artist in thought, who had first analyzed it? Was it not Buonarotti who had carved it in the coloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? But in our own century it was strange.... Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray what, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful portrait. He would seek to dominate him had already, indeed, half done so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There was something fascinating in this son of love and death. Suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had passed his aunt s some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back. When he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that they had gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick and passed into the dining-room. "Late as usual, Harry," cried his aunt, shaking her head at him. He invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to her, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly from the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek. Opposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good-nature and good temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample architectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses are described by contemporary historians as stoutness. Next to her sat, on her right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who followed his leader in public life and in private life followed the best cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, in accordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left was occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable charm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence, having, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he had to say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur, one of his aunt s oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book. Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement in the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of them ever quite escape. "We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry," cried the duchess, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. "Do you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?"<\|quote\|>"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."</\|quote\|>"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha. "Really, some one should interfere." "I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American dry-goods store," said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious. "My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas." "Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?" asked the duchess, raising her large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb. "American novels," answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail. The duchess looked puzzled. "Don t mind him, my dear," whispered Lady Agatha. "He never means anything that he says." "When America was discovered," said the Radical member and he began to give some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust a subject, he exhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised her privilege of interruption. "I wish to goodness it never had been discovered at all!" she exclaimed. "Really, our girls have no chance nowadays. It is most unfair." "Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered," said Mr. Erskine; "I myself would say that it had merely been detected." "Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants," answered the duchess vaguely. "I must confess that most of them are extremely pretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in Paris. I wish I could afford to do the same." "They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris," chuckled Sir Thomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour s cast-off clothes. "Really! And where do bad Americans go to when they die?" inquired the duchess. "They go to America," murmured Lord Henry. Sir Thomas frowned. "I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against that great country," he said to Lady Agatha. "I have travelled all over it in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are extremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it." "But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?" asked Mr. Erskine plaintively. "I don t feel up to the journey." Sir Thomas waved his hand. "Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on his shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about them. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are absolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing characteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I assure you there is no nonsense about the Americans." "How dreadful!" cried Lord Henry. "I can stand brute force, but brute reason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It is hitting below the intellect." "I do not understand you," said Sir Thomas, growing rather red. "I do, Lord Henry," murmured Mr. Erskine, with a smile. "Paradoxes are all very well in their way...." rejoined the baronet. "Was that a paradox?" asked Mr. Erskine. "I did not think so. Perhaps it was. Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test reality we must see it on the tight rope. When the verities become acrobats, we can judge them." "Dear me!" said Lady Agatha, "how you men argue! I am sure I never can make out what you are talking about. Oh! Harry, I am quite vexed with you. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up the East	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
"Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly."	Constable	grinning. "Ah!" ejaculated the constable.<\|quote\|>"Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly."</\|quote\|>"Take young Don Lavington too,	of two ropes?" said Jem, grinning. "Ah!" ejaculated the constable.<\|quote\|>"Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly."</\|quote\|>"Take young Don Lavington too, then, and I will." "Get	the office with great alacrity, and returned in a very short time with three men and a stout ladder, about nine feet long. "That's the sort, Wimble," said the constable. "Didn't think of a rope, did you?" "Did I think of two ropes?" said Jem, grinning. "Ah!" ejaculated the constable.<\|quote\|>"Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly."</\|quote\|>"Take young Don Lavington too, then, and I will." "Get up, and walk quietly." "Not 'less you takes him." "Sorry to make a rumpus, sir," said the constable, apologetically; "but I must have him out." "The sooner the better," said Uncle Josiah, grimly. "I am ready to go, uncle," said	now out of patience. "Can I help?" "Well, sir, you could," said the constable, grimly; "but if you'd have in three or four of your men, and a short step ladder, we could soon carry him off." "No man sha'n't carry me off," roared Mike, as Jem ran out of the office with great alacrity, and returned in a very short time with three men and a stout ladder, about nine feet long. "That's the sort, Wimble," said the constable. "Didn't think of a rope, did you?" "Did I think of two ropes?" said Jem, grinning. "Ah!" ejaculated the constable.<\|quote\|>"Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly."</\|quote\|>"Take young Don Lavington too, then, and I will." "Get up, and walk quietly." "Not 'less you takes him." "Sorry to make a rumpus, sir," said the constable, apologetically; "but I must have him out." "The sooner the better," said Uncle Josiah, grimly. "I am ready to go, uncle," said Don, quietly. "I am not afraid." "Hold your tongue, sir!" said the merchant, sternly; "and stand out of the way." "Now, Mike," said the constable, "this is the third time of asking. Will you come quiet?" "Take him too," cried Mike. "Ready with those ropes, Wimble. You two, ready with	me." "Exactly," said the constable; "come along." "Nay, but this arn't fair, master. Take one, take all. You bring us both." "Come along." "If you don't bring that there young un too, I won't go," exclaimed the scoundrel, fiercely. _Click_! A short struggle, and then _click_ again, and Mike Bannock's hands were useless, but he threw himself down. "Fair play, fair play," he cried, savagely; "take one, take all. Are you going to charge him, master?" "Take the scoundrel away, Smithers, and once more I will be bail--before the magistrates, if necessary--for my clerk's appearance," cried Uncle Josiah, who was now out of patience. "Can I help?" "Well, sir, you could," said the constable, grimly; "but if you'd have in three or four of your men, and a short step ladder, we could soon carry him off." "No man sha'n't carry me off," roared Mike, as Jem ran out of the office with great alacrity, and returned in a very short time with three men and a stout ladder, about nine feet long. "That's the sort, Wimble," said the constable. "Didn't think of a rope, did you?" "Did I think of two ropes?" said Jem, grinning. "Ah!" ejaculated the constable.<\|quote\|>"Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly."</\|quote\|>"Take young Don Lavington too, then, and I will." "Get up, and walk quietly." "Not 'less you takes him." "Sorry to make a rumpus, sir," said the constable, apologetically; "but I must have him out." "The sooner the better," said Uncle Josiah, grimly. "I am ready to go, uncle," said Don, quietly. "I am not afraid." "Hold your tongue, sir!" said the merchant, sternly; "and stand out of the way." "Now, Mike," said the constable, "this is the third time of asking. Will you come quiet?" "Take him too," cried Mike. "Ready with those ropes, Wimble. You two, ready with that there. Now, Mike Bannock, you've been asked three times, and now you've got to mount that ladder." "Any man comes a-nigh me," roared Mike, "I'll--" He did not say what, for the constable dashed at him, and by an ingenious twist avoided a savage kick, threw the scoundrel over on his face, as he lay on the floor, and sat upon him, retaining his seat in spite of his struggles. "Step the first," said the constable, coolly. "Now, Wimble, I want that ladder passed under me, so as to lie right along on his back. Do you see?" "Yes,	youngster. I'll talk to you when we're in the lock-up." Don looked wildly from Mike to his uncle, whose eyes were fixed on the constable. "Do you charge the boy too, sir?" Uncle Josiah was silent for some moments. "No! Not now!" Lindon's heart leapt at that word "_no_!" But it sank again at the "_not now_." "But the case is awkward, sir," said the constable. "After what this man has said we shall be obliged to take some notice of the matter." "'Bliged to? Course you will. Here, bring 'im along. Come on, mate. I can tell you stories all night now about my bygones. Keep up yer sperrits, and I daresay the magistrits 'll let you off pretty easy." "If there is any charge made against my young clerk," --Don winced, for his uncle did not say, "against my nephew," -- "I will be answerable for his appearance before the magistrates. That will be sufficient, I presume." "Yes, sir, I suppose that will do," said the constable. "But I s'pose it won't," said Mike. "He's the monkey and I'm only the cat. You've got to take him if you does your dooty, and master 'll be answerable for me." "Exactly," said the constable; "come along." "Nay, but this arn't fair, master. Take one, take all. You bring us both." "Come along." "If you don't bring that there young un too, I won't go," exclaimed the scoundrel, fiercely. _Click_! A short struggle, and then _click_ again, and Mike Bannock's hands were useless, but he threw himself down. "Fair play, fair play," he cried, savagely; "take one, take all. Are you going to charge him, master?" "Take the scoundrel away, Smithers, and once more I will be bail--before the magistrates, if necessary--for my clerk's appearance," cried Uncle Josiah, who was now out of patience. "Can I help?" "Well, sir, you could," said the constable, grimly; "but if you'd have in three or four of your men, and a short step ladder, we could soon carry him off." "No man sha'n't carry me off," roared Mike, as Jem ran out of the office with great alacrity, and returned in a very short time with three men and a stout ladder, about nine feet long. "That's the sort, Wimble," said the constable. "Didn't think of a rope, did you?" "Did I think of two ropes?" said Jem, grinning. "Ah!" ejaculated the constable.<\|quote\|>"Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly."</\|quote\|>"Take young Don Lavington too, then, and I will." "Get up, and walk quietly." "Not 'less you takes him." "Sorry to make a rumpus, sir," said the constable, apologetically; "but I must have him out." "The sooner the better," said Uncle Josiah, grimly. "I am ready to go, uncle," said Don, quietly. "I am not afraid." "Hold your tongue, sir!" said the merchant, sternly; "and stand out of the way." "Now, Mike," said the constable, "this is the third time of asking. Will you come quiet?" "Take him too," cried Mike. "Ready with those ropes, Wimble. You two, ready with that there. Now, Mike Bannock, you've been asked three times, and now you've got to mount that ladder." "Any man comes a-nigh me," roared Mike, "I'll--" He did not say what, for the constable dashed at him, and by an ingenious twist avoided a savage kick, threw the scoundrel over on his face, as he lay on the floor, and sat upon him, retaining his seat in spite of his struggles. "Step the first," said the constable, coolly. "Now, Wimble, I want that ladder passed under me, so as to lie right along on his back. Do you see?" "Yes, sir," cried Jem, eagerly; and taking the ladder as the constable sat astride the prostrate scoundrel, holding down his shoulders, and easing himself up, the ladder was passed between the officer's legs, and, in spite of a good deal of heaving, savage kicking, and one or two fierce attempts to bite, right along till it was upon Mike's back, projecting nearly two feet beyond his head and feet. "Murder!" yelled Mike, hoarsely. "What? Does it hurt, my lad? Never mind; you'll soon get used to it." The constable seated himself upon the ladder, whose sides and rounds thoroughly imprisoned the scoundrel in spite of his yells and struggles to get free. "Now then, Wimble, I've got him. You tie his ankles, one each side, tightly to the ladder, and one of you bind his arms same way to the ladder sides. Cut the rope. Mr Christmas will not mind." The men grinned, and set to work so handily that in a few moments Mike was securely bound. "Now then," said the constable, "I'll have one round his middle; give me a piece of rope; I'll soon do that." He seized the rope, and, without rising, rapidly secured it to one	boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you too, Mike," said the constable, jocularly. "Don't you forget to tell that to the magistrates." "Magistrits? What magistrits? Master arn't going to give me in custody, I know." "Indeed, but I am, you scoundrel," cried Uncle Josiah, wrathfully. "You are one of the worst kind of thieves--" "Here, take that back, master." "Worst kind of scoundrels--dogs who bite the hand that has fed them." "I tell yer it was him," said Mike, with a ferocious glare at Don. "All right, Mike, you tell the magistrates that," said the constable, "and don't forget." "I arn't going 'fore no magistrits," grumbled Mike. "Yes, you are," said the constable, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Now then, is it to be quietly?" Mike made a furious gesture. "Just as you like," said the constable. "Jem Wimble, I call you in the King's name to help." "Which I just will," cried Jem, with alacrity; and he made at Mike, while Don felt a strange desire tingling in his veins as he longed to help as well. "I gives in," growled Mike. "I could chuck the whole lot on you outer winder, but I won't. It would only make it seem as if I was guilty, and it's not guilty, and so I tell you. Master says I took the money, and I says it was that young Don Lavington as is the thief. Come on, youngster. I'll talk to you when we're in the lock-up." Don looked wildly from Mike to his uncle, whose eyes were fixed on the constable. "Do you charge the boy too, sir?" Uncle Josiah was silent for some moments. "No! Not now!" Lindon's heart leapt at that word "_no_!" But it sank again at the "_not now_." "But the case is awkward, sir," said the constable. "After what this man has said we shall be obliged to take some notice of the matter." "'Bliged to? Course you will. Here, bring 'im along. Come on, mate. I can tell you stories all night now about my bygones. Keep up yer sperrits, and I daresay the magistrits 'll let you off pretty easy." "If there is any charge made against my young clerk," --Don winced, for his uncle did not say, "against my nephew," -- "I will be answerable for his appearance before the magistrates. That will be sufficient, I presume." "Yes, sir, I suppose that will do," said the constable. "But I s'pose it won't," said Mike. "He's the monkey and I'm only the cat. You've got to take him if you does your dooty, and master 'll be answerable for me." "Exactly," said the constable; "come along." "Nay, but this arn't fair, master. Take one, take all. You bring us both." "Come along." "If you don't bring that there young un too, I won't go," exclaimed the scoundrel, fiercely. _Click_! A short struggle, and then _click_ again, and Mike Bannock's hands were useless, but he threw himself down. "Fair play, fair play," he cried, savagely; "take one, take all. Are you going to charge him, master?" "Take the scoundrel away, Smithers, and once more I will be bail--before the magistrates, if necessary--for my clerk's appearance," cried Uncle Josiah, who was now out of patience. "Can I help?" "Well, sir, you could," said the constable, grimly; "but if you'd have in three or four of your men, and a short step ladder, we could soon carry him off." "No man sha'n't carry me off," roared Mike, as Jem ran out of the office with great alacrity, and returned in a very short time with three men and a stout ladder, about nine feet long. "That's the sort, Wimble," said the constable. "Didn't think of a rope, did you?" "Did I think of two ropes?" said Jem, grinning. "Ah!" ejaculated the constable.<\|quote\|>"Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly."</\|quote\|>"Take young Don Lavington too, then, and I will." "Get up, and walk quietly." "Not 'less you takes him." "Sorry to make a rumpus, sir," said the constable, apologetically; "but I must have him out." "The sooner the better," said Uncle Josiah, grimly. "I am ready to go, uncle," said Don, quietly. "I am not afraid." "Hold your tongue, sir!" said the merchant, sternly; "and stand out of the way." "Now, Mike," said the constable, "this is the third time of asking. Will you come quiet?" "Take him too," cried Mike. "Ready with those ropes, Wimble. You two, ready with that there. Now, Mike Bannock, you've been asked three times, and now you've got to mount that ladder." "Any man comes a-nigh me," roared Mike, "I'll--" He did not say what, for the constable dashed at him, and by an ingenious twist avoided a savage kick, threw the scoundrel over on his face, as he lay on the floor, and sat upon him, retaining his seat in spite of his struggles. "Step the first," said the constable, coolly. "Now, Wimble, I want that ladder passed under me, so as to lie right along on his back. Do you see?" "Yes, sir," cried Jem, eagerly; and taking the ladder as the constable sat astride the prostrate scoundrel, holding down his shoulders, and easing himself up, the ladder was passed between the officer's legs, and, in spite of a good deal of heaving, savage kicking, and one or two fierce attempts to bite, right along till it was upon Mike's back, projecting nearly two feet beyond his head and feet. "Murder!" yelled Mike, hoarsely. "What? Does it hurt, my lad? Never mind; you'll soon get used to it." The constable seated himself upon the ladder, whose sides and rounds thoroughly imprisoned the scoundrel in spite of his yells and struggles to get free. "Now then, Wimble, I've got him. You tie his ankles, one each side, tightly to the ladder, and one of you bind his arms same way to the ladder sides. Cut the rope. Mr Christmas will not mind." The men grinned, and set to work so handily that in a few moments Mike was securely bound. "Now then," said the constable, "I'll have one round his middle; give me a piece of rope; I'll soon do that." He seized the rope, and, without rising, rapidly secured it to one side of the ladder. "Now," he said, "raise that end." This was done, the rope passed under Mike, drawn up on the other side, hauled upon till Mike yelled for mercy, and then knotted twice. "There, my lads," said the constable, rising; "now turn him over." The ladder was seized, turned, and there lay Mike on his back, safely secured. "Here, undo these," he said, sullenly. "I'll walk." "Too late, Mike, my boy. Now then, a couple of men head and tail. Let the ladder hang at arm's length. Best have given in quietly, and not have made yourself a show, Mike." "Don't I tell you I'll walk?" growled the prisoner. "And let us have all our trouble for nothing? No, my lad, it's too late. Ready there! Up with him. Good morning, sir. March!" The men lent themselves eagerly to the task, for Mike was thoroughly disliked; and a few minutes later there was a crowd gathering and following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up. Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak. CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger. From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money. But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the	made at Mike, while Don felt a strange desire tingling in his veins as he longed to help as well. "I gives in," growled Mike. "I could chuck the whole lot on you outer winder, but I won't. It would only make it seem as if I was guilty, and it's not guilty, and so I tell you. Master says I took the money, and I says it was that young Don Lavington as is the thief. Come on, youngster. I'll talk to you when we're in the lock-up." Don looked wildly from Mike to his uncle, whose eyes were fixed on the constable. "Do you charge the boy too, sir?" Uncle Josiah was silent for some moments. "No! Not now!" Lindon's heart leapt at that word "_no_!" But it sank again at the "_not now_." "But the case is awkward, sir," said the constable. "After what this man has said we shall be obliged to take some notice of the matter." "'Bliged to? Course you will. Here, bring 'im along. Come on, mate. I can tell you stories all night now about my bygones. Keep up yer sperrits, and I daresay the magistrits 'll let you off pretty easy." "If there is any charge made against my young clerk," --Don winced, for his uncle did not say, "against my nephew," -- "I will be answerable for his appearance before the magistrates. That will be sufficient, I presume." "Yes, sir, I suppose that will do," said the constable. "But I s'pose it won't," said Mike. "He's the monkey and I'm only the cat. You've got to take him if you does your dooty, and master 'll be answerable for me." "Exactly," said the constable; "come along." "Nay, but this arn't fair, master. Take one, take all. You bring us both." "Come along." "If you don't bring that there young un too, I won't go," exclaimed the scoundrel, fiercely. _Click_! A short struggle, and then _click_ again, and Mike Bannock's hands were useless, but he threw himself down. "Fair play, fair play," he cried, savagely; "take one, take all. Are you going to charge him, master?" "Take the scoundrel away, Smithers, and once more I will be bail--before the magistrates, if necessary--for my clerk's appearance," cried Uncle Josiah, who was now out of patience. "Can I help?" "Well, sir, you could," said the constable, grimly; "but if you'd have in three or four of your men, and a short step ladder, we could soon carry him off." "No man sha'n't carry me off," roared Mike, as Jem ran out of the office with great alacrity, and returned in a very short time with three men and a stout ladder, about nine feet long. "That's the sort, Wimble," said the constable. "Didn't think of a rope, did you?" "Did I think of two ropes?" said Jem, grinning. "Ah!" ejaculated the constable.<\|quote\|>"Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly."</\|quote\|>"Take young Don Lavington too, then, and I will." "Get up, and walk quietly." "Not 'less you takes him." "Sorry to make a rumpus, sir," said the constable, apologetically; "but I must have him out." "The sooner the better," said Uncle Josiah, grimly. "I am ready to go, uncle," said Don, quietly. "I am not afraid." "Hold your tongue, sir!" said the merchant, sternly; "and stand out of the way." "Now, Mike," said the constable, "this is the third time of asking. Will you come quiet?" "Take him too," cried Mike. "Ready with those ropes, Wimble. You two, ready with that there. Now, Mike Bannock, you've been asked three times, and now you've got to mount that ladder." "Any man comes a-nigh me," roared Mike, "I'll--" He did not say what, for the constable dashed at him, and by an ingenious twist avoided a savage kick, threw the scoundrel over on his face, as he lay on the floor, and sat upon him, retaining his seat in spite of his struggles. "Step the first," said the constable, coolly. "Now, Wimble, I want that ladder passed under me, so as to lie right along on his back. Do you see?" "Yes, sir," cried Jem, eagerly; and taking the ladder as the constable sat astride the prostrate scoundrel, holding down his shoulders, and easing himself up, the ladder was passed between the officer's legs, and, in spite of a good deal of heaving, savage kicking, and one or two fierce attempts to bite, right along till it was upon Mike's back, projecting nearly two feet beyond his head and feet. "Murder!" yelled Mike, hoarsely. "What? Does it hurt, my lad? Never mind; you'll soon get used to it." The constable seated himself upon the ladder, whose sides and rounds thoroughly imprisoned the scoundrel in spite of his yells and struggles to get free. "Now then, Wimble, I've got him. You tie his ankles,	Don Lavington
"Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself."	Aladdin	said with a respectful air:<\|quote\|>"Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself."</\|quote\|>The princess, who knew nothing	they were alone; but only said with a respectful air:<\|quote\|>"Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself."</\|quote\|>The princess, who knew nothing of these particulars, gave very	instantly carried the vizier's son whither Aladdin had commanded him; and after he had breathed upon him, which prevented his stirring, left him there. Passionate as was Aladdin's love for the princess, he did not talk much to her when they were alone; but only said with a respectful air:<\|quote\|>"Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself."</\|quote\|>The princess, who knew nothing of these particulars, gave very little attention to what Aladdin could say. The fright and amazement of so surprising an adventure had alarmed her so much that he could not get one word from her. Badroulboudour never passed a night so ill in her life;	took them up and transported them in an instant to Aladdin's chamber, where he set them down. Aladdin had waited impatiently for this moment. "Take this new-married man," said he to the genie, "shut him up in the house of office, and come again to-morrow morning before daybreak." The genie instantly carried the vizier's son whither Aladdin had commanded him; and after he had breathed upon him, which prevented his stirring, left him there. Passionate as was Aladdin's love for the princess, he did not talk much to her when they were alone; but only said with a respectful air:<\|quote\|>"Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself."</\|quote\|>The princess, who knew nothing of these particulars, gave very little attention to what Aladdin could say. The fright and amazement of so surprising an adventure had alarmed her so much that he could not get one word from her. Badroulboudour never passed a night so ill in her life; and if we consider the condition in which the genie left the grand vizier's son, we may imagine that the new bridegroom spent it much worse. Aladdin had no occasion the next morning to rub the lamp to call the genie; who appeared at the hour appointed, and said to	wherein he had not the least concern; he then retired to his own chamber again, but sat up waiting the execution of his orders to the genie. In the meantime, everything was prepared with the greatest magnificence in the sultan's palace to celebrate the princess's nuptials; and the evening was spent with all the usual ceremonies and great rejoicings. No sooner had the bride and bridegroom slipped away from the company, however, than the genie, as the faithful slave of the lamp, and punctual in executing the command of those who possessed it, to the great amazement of them both, took them up and transported them in an instant to Aladdin's chamber, where he set them down. Aladdin had waited impatiently for this moment. "Take this new-married man," said he to the genie, "shut him up in the house of office, and come again to-morrow morning before daybreak." The genie instantly carried the vizier's son whither Aladdin had commanded him; and after he had breathed upon him, which prevented his stirring, left him there. Passionate as was Aladdin's love for the princess, he did not talk much to her when they were alone; but only said with a respectful air:<\|quote\|>"Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself."</\|quote\|>The princess, who knew nothing of these particulars, gave very little attention to what Aladdin could say. The fright and amazement of so surprising an adventure had alarmed her so much that he could not get one word from her. Badroulboudour never passed a night so ill in her life; and if we consider the condition in which the genie left the grand vizier's son, we may imagine that the new bridegroom spent it much worse. Aladdin had no occasion the next morning to rub the lamp to call the genie; who appeared at the hour appointed, and said to him: "I am here, master; what are your commands?" "Go," said Aladdin, "fetch the vizier's son out of the place where you left him, and carry the pair to the sultan's palace, from whence you brought them." The genie presently returned with the vizier's son, and in an instant they were transported into the same chamber of the palace from whence they had been brought. But we must observe, that all this time the genie never was visible either to the princess or the grand vizier's son. His hideous form would have made them die with fear. Neither did they	his chamber, he took the lamp, rubbed it in the same place as before, when immediately the genie appeared, and said to him: "What wouldst thou have? I am ready to obey thee as thy slave, and the slave of all those who have that lamp in their possession; I and the other slaves of the lamp." "Hear me," said Aladdin; "thou hast hitherto brought me whatever I wanted as to provisions; but now I have business of the greatest importance for thee to execute. I have demanded the Princess Badroulboudour in marriage of the sultan, her father; he promised her to me, only requiring three months' delay; but instead of keeping that promise, has this night planned to marry her to the grand vizier's son. What I ask of you is, that as soon as the two are made one, you bring them both hither to me." "Master," replied the genie, "I will obey you. Have you any other commands?" "None at present," answered Aladdin, and then the genie disappeared. Aladdin having left his chamber, supped with his mother, with the same tranquillity of mind as usual; and after supper talked of the princess's marriage as of an affair wherein he had not the least concern; he then retired to his own chamber again, but sat up waiting the execution of his orders to the genie. In the meantime, everything was prepared with the greatest magnificence in the sultan's palace to celebrate the princess's nuptials; and the evening was spent with all the usual ceremonies and great rejoicings. No sooner had the bride and bridegroom slipped away from the company, however, than the genie, as the faithful slave of the lamp, and punctual in executing the command of those who possessed it, to the great amazement of them both, took them up and transported them in an instant to Aladdin's chamber, where he set them down. Aladdin had waited impatiently for this moment. "Take this new-married man," said he to the genie, "shut him up in the house of office, and come again to-morrow morning before daybreak." The genie instantly carried the vizier's son whither Aladdin had commanded him; and after he had breathed upon him, which prevented his stirring, left him there. Passionate as was Aladdin's love for the princess, he did not talk much to her when they were alone; but only said with a respectful air:<\|quote\|>"Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself."</\|quote\|>The princess, who knew nothing of these particulars, gave very little attention to what Aladdin could say. The fright and amazement of so surprising an adventure had alarmed her so much that he could not get one word from her. Badroulboudour never passed a night so ill in her life; and if we consider the condition in which the genie left the grand vizier's son, we may imagine that the new bridegroom spent it much worse. Aladdin had no occasion the next morning to rub the lamp to call the genie; who appeared at the hour appointed, and said to him: "I am here, master; what are your commands?" "Go," said Aladdin, "fetch the vizier's son out of the place where you left him, and carry the pair to the sultan's palace, from whence you brought them." The genie presently returned with the vizier's son, and in an instant they were transported into the same chamber of the palace from whence they had been brought. But we must observe, that all this time the genie never was visible either to the princess or the grand vizier's son. His hideous form would have made them die with fear. Neither did they hear anything of the discourse between Aladdin and him; they only perceived the motion through the air, and their transportation from one place to another; which we may well imagine was enough to alarm them. The sultan went to the room of the princess next morning and kissed her between the eyes, according to custom, wishing her a good morrow, but was extremely surprised to see her so melancholy. She only cast at him a sorrowful look, expressive of great affliction. He said a few words to her; but finding that he could not get an answer, was forced to retire. Nevertheless, he suspected that there was something extraordinary in this silence, and thereupon went immediately to the sultaness's apartment, told her in what a state he had found the princess, and how she had received him. "Sir," said the sultaness, "I will go and see her; I am much deceived if she receives me in the same manner." As soon as the sultaness was dressed, she went to the princess's apartment, who was still in bed. She undrew the curtain, wished her good morrow, and kissed her. But how great was her surprise when she returned no answer; and	good success of which was of so great importance to his peace. When two of the three months were passed, his mother one evening going to light the lamp, and finding no oil in the house, went out to buy some, and when she came into the city, found a general rejoicing. The shops were open, dressed with foliage, silks, and carpeting, every one striving to shew their zeal in the most distinguished manner according to their ability. The streets were crowded with officers in habits of ceremony, mounted on horses richly caparisoned, each attended by a great many footmen. Aladdin's mother asked the oil-merchant what was the meaning of all this preparation of public festivity? "Whence come you, good woman," said he, "that you do not know that the grand vizier's son is to marry the Princess Badroulboudour, the sultan's daughter, to-night? She will presently return from the baths; and these officers whom you see are to assist at the cavalcade to the palace, where the ceremony is to be solemnised." This was news enough for Aladdin's mother. She ran till she was quite out of breath home to her son, who little suspected any such event. "Child," cried she, "you are undone! you depend upon the sultan's fine promises, but they will come to nothing." Aladdin was alarmed at these words. "Mother," replied he, "how do you know the sultan has been guilty of a breach of promise?" "This night," answered the mother, "the grand vizier's son is to marry the Princess Badroulboudour." She then related how she had heard it; so that he had no reason to doubt the truth of what she said. At this account, Aladdin was thunderstruck. Any other man would have sunk under the shock; but a sudden hope of disappointing his rival soon roused his spirits, and he bethought himself of the lamp, which had in every emergency been so useful to him; and without venting his rage in empty words against the sultan, the vizier, or his son, he only said: "Perhaps, mother, the vizier's son may not be so happy to-night as he promises himself: while I go into my chamber a moment, do you get supper ready." She accordingly went about it, but guessed that her son was going to make use of the lamp, to prevent, if possible, the consummation of the marriage. When Aladdin had got into his chamber, he took the lamp, rubbed it in the same place as before, when immediately the genie appeared, and said to him: "What wouldst thou have? I am ready to obey thee as thy slave, and the slave of all those who have that lamp in their possession; I and the other slaves of the lamp." "Hear me," said Aladdin; "thou hast hitherto brought me whatever I wanted as to provisions; but now I have business of the greatest importance for thee to execute. I have demanded the Princess Badroulboudour in marriage of the sultan, her father; he promised her to me, only requiring three months' delay; but instead of keeping that promise, has this night planned to marry her to the grand vizier's son. What I ask of you is, that as soon as the two are made one, you bring them both hither to me." "Master," replied the genie, "I will obey you. Have you any other commands?" "None at present," answered Aladdin, and then the genie disappeared. Aladdin having left his chamber, supped with his mother, with the same tranquillity of mind as usual; and after supper talked of the princess's marriage as of an affair wherein he had not the least concern; he then retired to his own chamber again, but sat up waiting the execution of his orders to the genie. In the meantime, everything was prepared with the greatest magnificence in the sultan's palace to celebrate the princess's nuptials; and the evening was spent with all the usual ceremonies and great rejoicings. No sooner had the bride and bridegroom slipped away from the company, however, than the genie, as the faithful slave of the lamp, and punctual in executing the command of those who possessed it, to the great amazement of them both, took them up and transported them in an instant to Aladdin's chamber, where he set them down. Aladdin had waited impatiently for this moment. "Take this new-married man," said he to the genie, "shut him up in the house of office, and come again to-morrow morning before daybreak." The genie instantly carried the vizier's son whither Aladdin had commanded him; and after he had breathed upon him, which prevented his stirring, left him there. Passionate as was Aladdin's love for the princess, he did not talk much to her when they were alone; but only said with a respectful air:<\|quote\|>"Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself."</\|quote\|>The princess, who knew nothing of these particulars, gave very little attention to what Aladdin could say. The fright and amazement of so surprising an adventure had alarmed her so much that he could not get one word from her. Badroulboudour never passed a night so ill in her life; and if we consider the condition in which the genie left the grand vizier's son, we may imagine that the new bridegroom spent it much worse. Aladdin had no occasion the next morning to rub the lamp to call the genie; who appeared at the hour appointed, and said to him: "I am here, master; what are your commands?" "Go," said Aladdin, "fetch the vizier's son out of the place where you left him, and carry the pair to the sultan's palace, from whence you brought them." The genie presently returned with the vizier's son, and in an instant they were transported into the same chamber of the palace from whence they had been brought. But we must observe, that all this time the genie never was visible either to the princess or the grand vizier's son. His hideous form would have made them die with fear. Neither did they hear anything of the discourse between Aladdin and him; they only perceived the motion through the air, and their transportation from one place to another; which we may well imagine was enough to alarm them. The sultan went to the room of the princess next morning and kissed her between the eyes, according to custom, wishing her a good morrow, but was extremely surprised to see her so melancholy. She only cast at him a sorrowful look, expressive of great affliction. He said a few words to her; but finding that he could not get an answer, was forced to retire. Nevertheless, he suspected that there was something extraordinary in this silence, and thereupon went immediately to the sultaness's apartment, told her in what a state he had found the princess, and how she had received him. "Sir," said the sultaness, "I will go and see her; I am much deceived if she receives me in the same manner." As soon as the sultaness was dressed, she went to the princess's apartment, who was still in bed. She undrew the curtain, wished her good morrow, and kissed her. But how great was her surprise when she returned no answer; and looking more attentively at her, she perceived her to be much dejected, which made her judge that something had happened, which she did not understand. "How comes it, child," said the sultaness, "that you do not return my caresses? Ought you to treat your mother after this manner? I am induced to believe something extraordinary has happened; come, tell me freely, and leave me no longer in a painful suspense." At last the princess broke silence with a deep sigh, and said: "Alas! most honoured mother, forgive me if I have failed in the respect I owe you. My mind is so full of the extraordinary circumstances which have befallen me that I have not yet recovered from my amazement and alarm." She then related her surprising adventures, which the sultaness heard very patiently, but could scarcely believe. "You did well, child," said she, "not to speak of this to your father: take care not to mention it to anybody; for you will certainly be thought mad if you talk in this manner." "Madam," replied the princess, "I can assure you I am in my right senses; ask my husband and he will tell you the same circumstances." "I will," said the sultaness; "but if he should talk in the same manner, I shall not be better persuaded of the truth. Come, rise, and throw off this idle fancy; it will be strange if all the feasts and rejoicings in the kingdom should be interrupted by such a vision. Do not you hear the trumpets of congratulation, and concerts of the finest music? Cannot these inspire you with joy and make you forget the fancies of a dream?" At the same time the sultaness called the princess's women, and after she had seen her get up, went to the sultan's apartment, told him that her daughter had got some odd notions in her head, but that there was nothing in them but idle phantasy. She then sent for the vizier's son, to know of him something of what the princess had told her; but he, thinking himself highly honoured to be allied to the sultan, and not willing to lose the princess, denied what had happened. "That is enough," answered the sultaness; "I ask no more. I see you are wiser than my daughter." The rejoicings lasted all that day in the palace, and the sultaness, who never left the	in their possession; I and the other slaves of the lamp." "Hear me," said Aladdin; "thou hast hitherto brought me whatever I wanted as to provisions; but now I have business of the greatest importance for thee to execute. I have demanded the Princess Badroulboudour in marriage of the sultan, her father; he promised her to me, only requiring three months' delay; but instead of keeping that promise, has this night planned to marry her to the grand vizier's son. What I ask of you is, that as soon as the two are made one, you bring them both hither to me." "Master," replied the genie, "I will obey you. Have you any other commands?" "None at present," answered Aladdin, and then the genie disappeared. Aladdin having left his chamber, supped with his mother, with the same tranquillity of mind as usual; and after supper talked of the princess's marriage as of an affair wherein he had not the least concern; he then retired to his own chamber again, but sat up waiting the execution of his orders to the genie. In the meantime, everything was prepared with the greatest magnificence in the sultan's palace to celebrate the princess's nuptials; and the evening was spent with all the usual ceremonies and great rejoicings. No sooner had the bride and bridegroom slipped away from the company, however, than the genie, as the faithful slave of the lamp, and punctual in executing the command of those who possessed it, to the great amazement of them both, took them up and transported them in an instant to Aladdin's chamber, where he set them down. Aladdin had waited impatiently for this moment. "Take this new-married man," said he to the genie, "shut him up in the house of office, and come again to-morrow morning before daybreak." The genie instantly carried the vizier's son whither Aladdin had commanded him; and after he had breathed upon him, which prevented his stirring, left him there. Passionate as was Aladdin's love for the princess, he did not talk much to her when they were alone; but only said with a respectful air:<\|quote\|>"Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself."</\|quote\|>The princess, who knew nothing of these particulars, gave very little attention to what Aladdin could say. The fright and amazement of so surprising an adventure had alarmed her so much that he could not get one word from her. Badroulboudour never passed a night so ill in her life; and if we consider the condition in which the genie left the grand vizier's son, we may imagine that the new bridegroom spent it much worse. Aladdin had no occasion the next morning to rub the lamp to call the genie; who appeared at the hour appointed, and said to him: "I am here, master; what are your commands?" "Go," said Aladdin, "fetch the vizier's son out of the place where you left him, and carry the pair to the sultan's palace, from whence you brought them." The genie presently returned with the vizier's son, and in an instant they were transported into the same chamber of the palace from whence they had been brought. But we must observe, that all this time the genie never was visible either to the princess or the grand vizier's son. His hideous form would have made them die with fear. Neither did they hear anything of the discourse between Aladdin and him; they only perceived the motion through the air, and their transportation from one place to another; which we may well imagine was enough to alarm them. The sultan went to the room of the princess next morning and kissed her between the eyes, according to custom, wishing her a good morrow, but was extremely surprised to see her so melancholy. She	Arabian Nights (4)
"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,"	Mr. Woodhouse	sure of meeting every day."<\|quote\|>"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,"</\|quote\|>said her father. "But, Mr.	a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day."<\|quote\|>"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,"</\|quote\|>said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very	you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day."<\|quote\|>"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,"</\|quote\|>said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion,"	any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer." "Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--" "you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day."<\|quote\|>"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,"</\|quote\|>said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley. "We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a	know--in a joke--it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another." Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body. "Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer." "Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--" "you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day."<\|quote\|>"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,"</\|quote\|>said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley. "We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married." "And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for	not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you all behave? Who cried most?" "Ah! poor Miss Taylor! 'Tis a sad business." "Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say" 'poor Miss Taylor.' "I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence!--At any rate, it must be better to have only one to please than two." "Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature!" said Emma playfully. "That is what you have in your head, I know--and what you would certainly say if my father were not by." "I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed," said Mr. Woodhouse, with a sigh. "I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome." "My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr. Knightley to mean _you_. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know--in a joke--it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another." Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body. "Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer." "Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--" "you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day."<\|quote\|>"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,"</\|quote\|>said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley. "We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married." "And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing." Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, "Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches." "I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such success, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject, but I believed none of it." "Ever since the day--about four years ago--that Miss Taylor and I met	and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner; and when you have had her here to do needlework, I observe she always turns the lock of the door the right way and never bangs it. I am sure she will be an excellent servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor to have somebody about her that she is used to see. Whenever James goes over to see his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us. He will be able to tell her how we all are." Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas, and hoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably through the evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own. The backgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards walked in and made it unnecessary. Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty, was not only a very old and intimate friend of the family, but particularly connected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella's husband. He lived about a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome, and at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly from their mutual connexions in London. He had returned to a late dinner, after some days' absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were well in Brunswick Square. It was a happy circumstance, and animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time. Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which always did him good; and his many inquiries after "poor Isabella" and her children were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over, Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, "It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call upon us. I am afraid you must have had a shocking walk." "Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I must draw back from your great fire." "But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you may not catch cold." "Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them." "Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at breakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding." "By the bye--I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you all behave? Who cried most?" "Ah! poor Miss Taylor! 'Tis a sad business." "Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say" 'poor Miss Taylor.' "I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence!--At any rate, it must be better to have only one to please than two." "Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature!" said Emma playfully. "That is what you have in your head, I know--and what you would certainly say if my father were not by." "I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed," said Mr. Woodhouse, with a sigh. "I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome." "My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr. Knightley to mean _you_. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know--in a joke--it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another." Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body. "Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer." "Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--" "you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day."<\|quote\|>"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,"</\|quote\|>said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley. "We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married." "And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing." Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, "Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches." "I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such success, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject, but I believed none of it." "Ever since the day--about four years ago--that Miss Taylor and I met with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from Farmer Mitchell's, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned the match from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this instance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off match-making." "I do not understand what you mean by 'success,'" said Mr. Knightley. "Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly and delicately spent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring about this marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady's mind! But if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it, means only your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, 'I think it would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were to marry her,' and saying it again to yourself every now and then afterwards, why do you talk of success? Where is your merit? What are you proud of? You made a lucky guess; and _that_ is all that can be said." "And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky guess?--I pity you.--I thought you cleverer--for, depend upon it a lucky guess is never merely luck. There is always some talent in it. And as to my poor word 'success,' which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so entirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty pictures; but I think there may be a third--a something between the do-nothing and the do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston's visits here, and given many little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it might not have come to any thing after all. I think you must know Hartfield enough to comprehend that." "A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational, unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their own concerns. You are more likely to have done harm to yourself, than good to them, by interference." "Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others," rejoined Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part. "But, my dear, pray do not make any more matches; they are silly things, and break up one's family circle grievously." "Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton.	sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I must draw back from your great fire." "But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you may not catch cold." "Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them." "Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at breakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding." "By the bye--I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you all behave? Who cried most?" "Ah! poor Miss Taylor! 'Tis a sad business." "Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say" 'poor Miss Taylor.' "I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence!--At any rate, it must be better to have only one to please than two." "Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature!" said Emma playfully. "That is what you have in your head, I know--and what you would certainly say if my father were not by." "I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed," said Mr. Woodhouse, with a sigh. "I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome." "My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr. Knightley to mean _you_. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know--in a joke--it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another." Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body. "Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer." "Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--" "you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day."<\|quote\|>"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,"</\|quote\|>said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley. "We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married." "And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing." Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, "Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches." "I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such success, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject, but I believed none of it." "Ever since the day--about four years ago--that Miss Taylor and I met with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas	Emma
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.	No speaker	then stood watching and listening.<\|quote\|>CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.</\|quote\|>CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible,	in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening.<\|quote\|>CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.</\|quote\|>CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem.	came from below them in the ravine. "Oh, crumpets!" exclaimed Jem. "Now we're done for. All that long swim for nothing." "Back into the cave," whispered Don. "Perhaps they have not seen us." He gave Jem a thrust, they backed in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening.<\|quote\|>CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.</\|quote\|>CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I arn't," muttered Jem. "You might cut him up like a heel; legs and arms and body, and every bit of him would try and do you a mischief." "I'm afraid, though, that he knew	been so bad that I haven't made a comf'table meal for days, so here goes.'" "And then he'd eat me, Jem." "That's so, my lad." "Ah, well, this isn't a tiger, Jem." "Why, he's wuss than a tiger, Mas' Don; because he do know better, and tigers don't." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came from below them in the ravine. "Oh, crumpets!" exclaimed Jem. "Now we're done for. All that long swim for nothing." "Back into the cave," whispered Don. "Perhaps they have not seen us." He gave Jem a thrust, they backed in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening.<\|quote\|>CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.</\|quote\|>CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I arn't," muttered Jem. "You might cut him up like a heel; legs and arms and body, and every bit of him would try and do you a mischief." "I'm afraid, though, that he knew we were in here, and that as soon as he comes to, he'll tell the others." "Not he. It was only his gammon to frighten us into speaking if we were there." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came again from below; and then from a distance came another hail, which the same voice	very far off." "I say, Mas' Don, did our ugly swim last night send you half mad?" "Mad? No!" "Then, p'r'aps it's because you had no sleep. Here's a chap comes hunting of us down with a cutlash, ready to do anything; and now he's floored and we're all right, you want to make a pet on him. Why, it's my belief that if you met a tiger with the toothache you'd want to take out his tusk." "Very likely, Jem," said Don, laughing. "Ah, and as soon as you'd done it, `thankye, my lad,' says the tiger, `that tooth's been so bad that I haven't made a comf'table meal for days, so here goes.'" "And then he'd eat me, Jem." "That's so, my lad." "Ah, well, this isn't a tiger, Jem." "Why, he's wuss than a tiger, Mas' Don; because he do know better, and tigers don't." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came from below them in the ravine. "Oh, crumpets!" exclaimed Jem. "Now we're done for. All that long swim for nothing." "Back into the cave," whispered Don. "Perhaps they have not seen us." He gave Jem a thrust, they backed in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening.<\|quote\|>CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.</\|quote\|>CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I arn't," muttered Jem. "You might cut him up like a heel; legs and arms and body, and every bit of him would try and do you a mischief." "I'm afraid, though, that he knew we were in here, and that as soon as he comes to, he'll tell the others." "Not he. It was only his gammon to frighten us into speaking if we were there." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came again from below; and then from a distance came another hail, which the same voice answered--evidently from some distance below the mouth of the cave. "Ramsden! Here, my man; come along, they're not in there." "Hear that, Jem? Mr Jones." "Oh yes, I hear," growled Jem. "He don't know yet; but wait a bit till old Ram tells him." "We couldn't slip out yet, Jem?" "No; o' course not. They'd see us now. Look!" Jem was about to draw back, but feeling that a movement might betray them, Don held him fast, and they stood there in the shadow of the cave, looking on, for the boatswain's head appeared as he drew himself up the	let's roll up one of these here blanket things and make him a pillow, and cover him up with the other, poor fellow, so as he may get better and go and tell 'em we're here." "Don't talk like that, Jem!" cried Don. "Why not? Soon as he gets better he'll try and do us all the harm he can." "Poor fellow! I'm afraid he's dead," whispered Don. "Then he won't want no more cutlashes and pistols," said Jem, coolly appropriating the arms; "these here will be useful to us." "But they are the king's property, Jem." "Ah! Well, I dessay if the king knew how bad we wanted 'em, he'd lend 'em to us. He shall have 'em again when we've done with them." As he spoke Jem helped himself to the ammunition, and then stood looking on as Don dragged Ramsden's head round, so that the wind blew in his face. "How I should like to jump on him!" growled Jem. "I hate him like poison, and I would if I'd got on a pair o' boots. Shouldn't hurt him a bit like this." "Don't talk nonsense, Jem. Mr Jones might hear us. Let's hail; he can't be very far off." "I say, Mas' Don, did our ugly swim last night send you half mad?" "Mad? No!" "Then, p'r'aps it's because you had no sleep. Here's a chap comes hunting of us down with a cutlash, ready to do anything; and now he's floored and we're all right, you want to make a pet on him. Why, it's my belief that if you met a tiger with the toothache you'd want to take out his tusk." "Very likely, Jem," said Don, laughing. "Ah, and as soon as you'd done it, `thankye, my lad,' says the tiger, `that tooth's been so bad that I haven't made a comf'table meal for days, so here goes.'" "And then he'd eat me, Jem." "That's so, my lad." "Ah, well, this isn't a tiger, Jem." "Why, he's wuss than a tiger, Mas' Don; because he do know better, and tigers don't." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came from below them in the ravine. "Oh, crumpets!" exclaimed Jem. "Now we're done for. All that long swim for nothing." "Back into the cave," whispered Don. "Perhaps they have not seen us." He gave Jem a thrust, they backed in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening.<\|quote\|>CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.</\|quote\|>CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I arn't," muttered Jem. "You might cut him up like a heel; legs and arms and body, and every bit of him would try and do you a mischief." "I'm afraid, though, that he knew we were in here, and that as soon as he comes to, he'll tell the others." "Not he. It was only his gammon to frighten us into speaking if we were there." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came again from below; and then from a distance came another hail, which the same voice answered--evidently from some distance below the mouth of the cave. "Ramsden! Here, my man; come along, they're not in there." "Hear that, Jem? Mr Jones." "Oh yes, I hear," growled Jem. "He don't know yet; but wait a bit till old Ram tells him." "We couldn't slip out yet, Jem?" "No; o' course not. They'd see us now. Look!" Jem was about to draw back, but feeling that a movement might betray them, Don held him fast, and they stood there in the shadow of the cave, looking on, for the boatswain's head appeared as he drew himself up the precipitous place, and then stepped on the shelf. "Here, come out, sir! Are you asleep? Hah!" He caught sight of the prostrate sailor, and bent down over him. "Why, Ramsden, man!" he cried, as he tore open his sailor's shirt and placed his hand upon his throat. Then, starting up, he sent forth a tremendous hail. "Ahoy!" "Ahoy!" came back from several places, like the echoes of his call. "Come on here! Quick!" he shouted, with his hands to his mouth. "Ahoy!" came from a distance; and from nearer at hand, "Ay, ay, sir; ay, ay!" From where Don and Jem stood they could see the boatswain's every movement, as, after once more feeling the sailor's throat and wrist, he bent over him and poured water from his bottle between his lips, bathed his forehead and eyes, and then fanned him with his hat, but without effect. Then he looked out anxiously and hailed again, the replies coming from close by; and soon after first one and then another sailor, whose faces were quite familiar, climbed up to the shelf, when the boatswain explained hastily how he had left his companion. "Some one knocked him down?" said one of his	He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying." "I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice," said Jem, with a chuckle. "What shall us do?" "Do?" cried Don. "We must help him." "What, get him out? If we do, he'll be down on us." "We can't help that, Jem. We must not leave a fellow-creature to die," replied Don; and hurrying forward, he gave a glance toward the mouth of the cave, to satisfy himself that the good-natured boatswain was not there, and then, holding his breath, he stooped down and raised Ramsden into a sitting posture, Jem coming forward at once to help him. "Goes ag'in the grain, Mas' Don," he muttered; "but I s'pose we must." "Must? Yes! Now, what shall we do?" "Dunno," said Jem; "s'pose fresh air'd be best for him." "Let's get him to the mouth, then," said Don. "But the boatswain 'll see us, and we shall be took." "I can't help that, Jem; the man will die here." "Well, we don't want him. He's a hennymee." "Jem!" "Oh, all right, Mas' Don. I'll do as you say, but as I says, and I says it again, it goes ag'in the grain." They each took one hand and placed their arms beneath those of the prostrate man; and, little as they stooped, they inhaled sufficient of the powerful gas to make them wince and cough; but, rising upright, taking a full breath and starting off, they dragged Ramsden backwards as rapidly as they could to where the fresh air blew into the mouth of the cave, and there they laid the man down. But before doing so, Don went upon his knees, and placing his face close to the rocky floor, inhaled the air several times. "It seems all right here," he said. "Try it, Jem." "Oh! I'll try it," said Jem, grumpily; "only I don't see why we should take so much trouble about such a thing as this." "Yes; it's all right," he said, after puffing and blowing down by the ground. "Rum, arn't it, that the air should be bad yonder and not close in here!" "The cave goes downward," said Don; "and the foul air lies in the bottom, just as it does in a well. Do you think he's dead?" "Him dead!" said Jem, contemptuously; "I don't believe you could kill a thing like that. Here, let's roll up one of these here blanket things and make him a pillow, and cover him up with the other, poor fellow, so as he may get better and go and tell 'em we're here." "Don't talk like that, Jem!" cried Don. "Why not? Soon as he gets better he'll try and do us all the harm he can." "Poor fellow! I'm afraid he's dead," whispered Don. "Then he won't want no more cutlashes and pistols," said Jem, coolly appropriating the arms; "these here will be useful to us." "But they are the king's property, Jem." "Ah! Well, I dessay if the king knew how bad we wanted 'em, he'd lend 'em to us. He shall have 'em again when we've done with them." As he spoke Jem helped himself to the ammunition, and then stood looking on as Don dragged Ramsden's head round, so that the wind blew in his face. "How I should like to jump on him!" growled Jem. "I hate him like poison, and I would if I'd got on a pair o' boots. Shouldn't hurt him a bit like this." "Don't talk nonsense, Jem. Mr Jones might hear us. Let's hail; he can't be very far off." "I say, Mas' Don, did our ugly swim last night send you half mad?" "Mad? No!" "Then, p'r'aps it's because you had no sleep. Here's a chap comes hunting of us down with a cutlash, ready to do anything; and now he's floored and we're all right, you want to make a pet on him. Why, it's my belief that if you met a tiger with the toothache you'd want to take out his tusk." "Very likely, Jem," said Don, laughing. "Ah, and as soon as you'd done it, `thankye, my lad,' says the tiger, `that tooth's been so bad that I haven't made a comf'table meal for days, so here goes.'" "And then he'd eat me, Jem." "That's so, my lad." "Ah, well, this isn't a tiger, Jem." "Why, he's wuss than a tiger, Mas' Don; because he do know better, and tigers don't." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came from below them in the ravine. "Oh, crumpets!" exclaimed Jem. "Now we're done for. All that long swim for nothing." "Back into the cave," whispered Don. "Perhaps they have not seen us." He gave Jem a thrust, they backed in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening.<\|quote\|>CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.</\|quote\|>CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I arn't," muttered Jem. "You might cut him up like a heel; legs and arms and body, and every bit of him would try and do you a mischief." "I'm afraid, though, that he knew we were in here, and that as soon as he comes to, he'll tell the others." "Not he. It was only his gammon to frighten us into speaking if we were there." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came again from below; and then from a distance came another hail, which the same voice answered--evidently from some distance below the mouth of the cave. "Ramsden! Here, my man; come along, they're not in there." "Hear that, Jem? Mr Jones." "Oh yes, I hear," growled Jem. "He don't know yet; but wait a bit till old Ram tells him." "We couldn't slip out yet, Jem?" "No; o' course not. They'd see us now. Look!" Jem was about to draw back, but feeling that a movement might betray them, Don held him fast, and they stood there in the shadow of the cave, looking on, for the boatswain's head appeared as he drew himself up the precipitous place, and then stepped on the shelf. "Here, come out, sir! Are you asleep? Hah!" He caught sight of the prostrate sailor, and bent down over him. "Why, Ramsden, man!" he cried, as he tore open his sailor's shirt and placed his hand upon his throat. Then, starting up, he sent forth a tremendous hail. "Ahoy!" "Ahoy!" came back from several places, like the echoes of his call. "Come on here! Quick!" he shouted, with his hands to his mouth. "Ahoy!" came from a distance; and from nearer at hand, "Ay, ay, sir; ay, ay!" From where Don and Jem stood they could see the boatswain's every movement, as, after once more feeling the sailor's throat and wrist, he bent over him and poured water from his bottle between his lips, bathed his forehead and eyes, and then fanned him with his hat, but without effect. Then he looked out anxiously and hailed again, the replies coming from close by; and soon after first one and then another sailor, whose faces were quite familiar, climbed up to the shelf, when the boatswain explained hastily how he had left his companion. "Some one knocked him down?" said one of his men. "No; he's not hurt. I should say it's a fit. More water. Don't be afraid!" Each of the men who had climbed up carried a supply, and a quantity was dashed over Ramsden's face with the effect that he began to display signs of returning consciousness, and at last sat up and stared. "What's matter, mate?" said one of the men, as Don prepared to hurry back into the darkness, but longed to hear what Ramsden would say. It was a painful moment, for upon his words seemed to depend their safety. "Matter? I don't know--I--" He put his hand to his head. "Here, take a drink o' this, mate," said one of the men, and Ramsden swallowed some water with avidity. "Arn't seen a ghost, have you?" "I recollect now, Mr Jones. You left me in that hole." "And called to you to come out." "Yes, but--" Don's heart beat furiously. They were discovered, and now the betrayal was to come. "Well, what happened?" said the boatswain. "I felt sure that those two were in this place, and I went on farther into the darkness till I kicked against something and fell down." "Out here and stunned yourself." "No, no; in there! I'd got up and picked up my cutlash, and then something seemed to choke me, and I went down again." Jem squeezed Don's arm, for they both felt more hopeful. "And then one of they chaps came and give you a crack on the head?" said a sailor. Don's heart sank again. "Nonsense!" said his old friend, the boatswain. "Foul air. He must have staggered out and fallen down insensible." Jem gripped Don's arm with painful force here. "How do you feel? Can you walk?" Ramsden rose slowly, and staggered, but one of the men caught his arm. "I--I think I can." "Well, we must get you down to the boat as soon as we can walk, if you are able. If you can't, we must carry you." "But them chaps," said one of the party, just as Don and Jem were beginning to breathe freely. "Think they're in yonder, mate?" "I--I think so," said Ramsden faintly. "You had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?" said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief. "Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could the escaped men? Here, let's get him down." "Ay, ay, sir.	him!" growled Jem. "I hate him like poison, and I would if I'd got on a pair o' boots. Shouldn't hurt him a bit like this." "Don't talk nonsense, Jem. Mr Jones might hear us. Let's hail; he can't be very far off." "I say, Mas' Don, did our ugly swim last night send you half mad?" "Mad? No!" "Then, p'r'aps it's because you had no sleep. Here's a chap comes hunting of us down with a cutlash, ready to do anything; and now he's floored and we're all right, you want to make a pet on him. Why, it's my belief that if you met a tiger with the toothache you'd want to take out his tusk." "Very likely, Jem," said Don, laughing. "Ah, and as soon as you'd done it, `thankye, my lad,' says the tiger, `that tooth's been so bad that I haven't made a comf'table meal for days, so here goes.'" "And then he'd eat me, Jem." "That's so, my lad." "Ah, well, this isn't a tiger, Jem." "Why, he's wuss than a tiger, Mas' Don; because he do know better, and tigers don't." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came from below them in the ravine. "Oh, crumpets!" exclaimed Jem. "Now we're done for. All that long swim for nothing." "Back into the cave," whispered Don. "Perhaps they have not seen us." He gave Jem a thrust, they backed in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening.<\|quote\|>CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.</\|quote\|>CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I arn't," muttered Jem. "You might cut him up like a heel; legs and arms and body, and every bit of him would try and do you a mischief." "I'm afraid, though, that he knew we were in here, and that as soon as he comes to, he'll tell the others." "Not he. It was only his gammon to frighten us into speaking if we were there." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came again from below; and then from a distance came another hail, which the same voice answered--evidently from some distance below the mouth of the cave. "Ramsden! Here, my man; come along, they're not in there." "Hear that, Jem? Mr Jones." "Oh yes, I hear," growled Jem. "He don't know yet; but wait a bit till old Ram tells him." "We couldn't slip out yet, Jem?" "No; o' course not. They'd see us now. Look!" Jem was about to draw back, but feeling that a movement might betray them, Don held him fast, and they stood there in the shadow of the cave, looking on, for the boatswain's head appeared as he drew himself up the precipitous	Don Lavington
"Good night."	Tony Last	so tired. Good night, darling."<\|quote\|>"Good night."</\|quote\|>* * * * *	to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling."<\|quote\|>"Good night."</\|quote\|>* * * * * "Can I go and say	tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling."<\|quote\|>"Good night."</\|quote\|>* * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe,	to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more." "She's awful." "One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling."<\|quote\|>"Good night."</\|quote\|>* * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the	her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more." "She's awful." "One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling."<\|quote\|>"Good night."</\|quote\|>* * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the handles of the door, half in, half out of the room. "Have you had breakfast? Mummy said you wouldn't be awake." "I've been awake a long time. You see I was once very badly hurt, and now I don't always sleep well. Even the softest beds are too hard for me now." "Ooh. What did you do? Was it a motor-car accident?" "Not an accident, Johnny-boy, not an accident... but come in. It's cold with the door open. Look, there are some grapes here. Would you like to eat them?" Johnny climbed on to the bed. "What are you going	she said, "making the whole place stink." "Don't you like it? _I_ think it's lovely." Brenda took Polly up to Lyonesse. It was a large suite, fitted up with satinwood for King Edward when, as Prince of Wales, he was once expected at a shooting party; he never came. "How's it going?" she asked anxiously. "Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right." "She's got the wrong chap. John Andrew's mad about her... quite embarrassing." "I should say Tony was a slow starter. It's a pity she's got his name wrong. Ought we to tell her?" "No, let's leave it." When they were dressing, Tony said, "Brenda, who _is_ this joke-woman?" "Darling, don't you like her?" The disappointment and distress in her tone were so clear that Tony was touched. "I don't know about not liking her exactly. She's just a joke, isn't she?" "Is she... oh dear... She's had a terrible life, you know." "So I gathered." "Be nice to her, Tony, please." "Oh, I'll be nice to her. Is she a Jewess?" "I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is." Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more." "She's awful." "One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling."<\|quote\|>"Good night."</\|quote\|>* * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the handles of the door, half in, half out of the room. "Have you had breakfast? Mummy said you wouldn't be awake." "I've been awake a long time. You see I was once very badly hurt, and now I don't always sleep well. Even the softest beds are too hard for me now." "Ooh. What did you do? Was it a motor-car accident?" "Not an accident, Johnny-boy, not an accident... but come in. It's cold with the door open. Look, there are some grapes here. Would you like to eat them?" Johnny climbed on to the bed. "What are you going to do to-day?" "I don't know yet. I haven't been told." "Well, I'll tell you. We'll go to church in the morning because I have to and then we'll go and look at Thunderclap and I'll show you the place we jump and then you can come with me while I have dinner because I have it early and afterwards we can go down to Bruton Wood and we needn't take nanny because it makes her so muddy and you can see where they dug out a fox in the drain just outside the wood, he nearly got away, and then you can come and have tea in the nursery and I've got a little gramophone Uncle Reggie gave me for Christmas and it plays "When Father Papered the Parlour", do you know that song? Ben can sing it and I've got some books to show you and a picture I did of the battle of Marston Moor." "I think that sounds a lovely day. But don't you think I ought to spend some time with daddy and mummy and Lady Cockpurse?" "Oh, _them_... besides, it's all my foot about Lady Cockpurse having a tail. Please, you _will_ spend the	stopped painting my picture." But when nanny came to fetch him, John, without invitation, went over and kissed Jenny good night. "Good night, Johnny-boy," she said. "What did you call me?" "Johnny-boy." "You are funny with names." Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said, "Nanny, I do think that Princess is beautiful, don't you?" Nanny sniffed. "It would be a dull world if we all thought alike," she said. "She's more beautiful than Miss Tendril, even. I think she's the most beautiful lady I've ever seen... D'you think she'd like to watch me have my bath?" Downstairs, Jenny said, "What a heavenly child... I love children. That has been my great tragedy. It was when he found I couldn't have children that the Moulay first showed the Other Side of his Nature. It wasn't my fault... you see my womb is out of place... I don't know why I'm telling you all this, but I feel you'll understand. It's such a _waste of time_, isn't it, when one knows one is going to like someone and one goes on _pretending_... I know at once if someone is going to be a real friend..." Polly and Brenda arrived just before seven. Brenda went straight up to the nursery. "Oh, mummy," said John, "there's such a beautiful lady downstairs. Do ask her to come and say good night. Nanny doesn't think she'd want to." "Did daddy seem to like her?" "He didn't talk much... She doesn't know anything about horses or natives but she _is_ beautiful. Please tell her to come up." Brenda went downstairs and found Jenny with Polly and Tony in the smoking-room. "You've made a wild success with John Andrew. He won't go to sleep until he's seen you again." They went up together, and Jenny said, "They're both such dears." "Did you and Tony get on? I was so sorry not to be here when you arrived." "He was _so_ sympathetic and gentle... and so wistful." They sat on John's small bed in the night-nursery. He threw the clothes back and crawled out, nestling against Jenny. "Back to bed," she said, "or I shall spank you." "Would you do it hard? I shouldn't mind." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what a terrible effect you seem to have. He's never like this as a rule." When they had gone nanny threw open another window. "Poof!" she said, "making the whole place stink." "Don't you like it? _I_ think it's lovely." Brenda took Polly up to Lyonesse. It was a large suite, fitted up with satinwood for King Edward when, as Prince of Wales, he was once expected at a shooting party; he never came. "How's it going?" she asked anxiously. "Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right." "She's got the wrong chap. John Andrew's mad about her... quite embarrassing." "I should say Tony was a slow starter. It's a pity she's got his name wrong. Ought we to tell her?" "No, let's leave it." When they were dressing, Tony said, "Brenda, who _is_ this joke-woman?" "Darling, don't you like her?" The disappointment and distress in her tone were so clear that Tony was touched. "I don't know about not liking her exactly. She's just a joke, isn't she?" "Is she... oh dear... She's had a terrible life, you know." "So I gathered." "Be nice to her, Tony, please." "Oh, I'll be nice to her. Is she a Jewess?" "I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is." Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more." "She's awful." "One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling."<\|quote\|>"Good night."</\|quote\|>* * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the handles of the door, half in, half out of the room. "Have you had breakfast? Mummy said you wouldn't be awake." "I've been awake a long time. You see I was once very badly hurt, and now I don't always sleep well. Even the softest beds are too hard for me now." "Ooh. What did you do? Was it a motor-car accident?" "Not an accident, Johnny-boy, not an accident... but come in. It's cold with the door open. Look, there are some grapes here. Would you like to eat them?" Johnny climbed on to the bed. "What are you going to do to-day?" "I don't know yet. I haven't been told." "Well, I'll tell you. We'll go to church in the morning because I have to and then we'll go and look at Thunderclap and I'll show you the place we jump and then you can come with me while I have dinner because I have it early and afterwards we can go down to Bruton Wood and we needn't take nanny because it makes her so muddy and you can see where they dug out a fox in the drain just outside the wood, he nearly got away, and then you can come and have tea in the nursery and I've got a little gramophone Uncle Reggie gave me for Christmas and it plays "When Father Papered the Parlour", do you know that song? Ben can sing it and I've got some books to show you and a picture I did of the battle of Marston Moor." "I think that sounds a lovely day. But don't you think I ought to spend some time with daddy and mummy and Lady Cockpurse?" "Oh, _them_... besides, it's all my foot about Lady Cockpurse having a tail. Please, you _will_ spend the day with me?" "Well, we'll see." * * * * * "She's gone to church with him. That's a good sign, isn't it?" "Well, not really, Polly. He likes going alone, or with me. It's the time he gossips to the village." "She won't stop him." "I'm afraid you don't understand the old boy altogether. He's much odder than you'd think." * * * * * "I could see from your sermon that you knew the East, Rector." "Yes, yes, most of my life." "It has an uncanny fascination, hasn't it?" "Oh, come on," said John, pulling at her coat. "We must go and see Thunderclap." So Tony returned alone with the buttonholes. After luncheon Brenda said, "Why don't you show Jenny the house?" "Oh yes, _do_." When they reached the morning-room he said, "Brenda's having it done up." There were planks and ladders and heaps of plaster about. "Oh, Teddy, what a shame. I do hate seeing things modernized." "It isn't a room we used very much." "No, but still..." She stirred the mouldings of fleur-de-lis that littered the floor, fragments of tarnished gilding and dusty stencil-work. "You know, Brenda's been a wonderful friend to me. I wouldn't say anything against her... but ever since I came here I've been wondering whether she really understands this beautiful place and all it means to you." "Tell me more about your terrible life," said Tony, leading her back to the central hall. "You _are_ shy of talking about yourself, aren't you, Teddy? It's a mistake, you know, to keep things bottled up. I've been very unhappy too." Tony looked about him desperately in search of help; and help came. "Oh, there you are," said a firm, child's voice. "Come on. We're going down to the woods now. We must hurry, otherwise it will be dark." "Oh, Johnny-boy, must I really? I was just talking to daddy." "_Come on._ It's all arranged. And afterwards you're to be allowed to have tea with me upstairs." Tony crept into the library, habitable to-day, since the workmen were at rest. Brenda found him there two hours later. "_Tony_, here all alone? We thought you were with Jenny. What have you done with her?" "John took her off... just in time before I said something rude." "Oh dear... well there's only me and Polly in the smoking-room. Come and have some tea. You look all funny--have	just before seven. Brenda went straight up to the nursery. "Oh, mummy," said John, "there's such a beautiful lady downstairs. Do ask her to come and say good night. Nanny doesn't think she'd want to." "Did daddy seem to like her?" "He didn't talk much... She doesn't know anything about horses or natives but she _is_ beautiful. Please tell her to come up." Brenda went downstairs and found Jenny with Polly and Tony in the smoking-room. "You've made a wild success with John Andrew. He won't go to sleep until he's seen you again." They went up together, and Jenny said, "They're both such dears." "Did you and Tony get on? I was so sorry not to be here when you arrived." "He was _so_ sympathetic and gentle... and so wistful." They sat on John's small bed in the night-nursery. He threw the clothes back and crawled out, nestling against Jenny. "Back to bed," she said, "or I shall spank you." "Would you do it hard? I shouldn't mind." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what a terrible effect you seem to have. He's never like this as a rule." When they had gone nanny threw open another window. "Poof!" she said, "making the whole place stink." "Don't you like it? _I_ think it's lovely." Brenda took Polly up to Lyonesse. It was a large suite, fitted up with satinwood for King Edward when, as Prince of Wales, he was once expected at a shooting party; he never came. "How's it going?" she asked anxiously. "Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right." "She's got the wrong chap. John Andrew's mad about her... quite embarrassing." "I should say Tony was a slow starter. It's a pity she's got his name wrong. Ought we to tell her?" "No, let's leave it." When they were dressing, Tony said, "Brenda, who _is_ this joke-woman?" "Darling, don't you like her?" The disappointment and distress in her tone were so clear that Tony was touched. "I don't know about not liking her exactly. She's just a joke, isn't she?" "Is she... oh dear... She's had a terrible life, you know." "So I gathered." "Be nice to her, Tony, please." "Oh, I'll be nice to her. Is she a Jewess?" "I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is." Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more." "She's awful." "One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling."<\|quote\|>"Good night."</\|quote\|>* * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the handles of the door, half in, half out of the room. "Have you had breakfast? Mummy said you wouldn't be awake." "I've been awake a long time. You see I was once very badly hurt, and now I don't always sleep well. Even the softest beds are too hard for me now." "Ooh. What did you do? Was it a motor-car accident?" "Not an accident, Johnny-boy, not an accident... but come in. It's cold with the door open. Look, there are some grapes here. Would you like to eat them?" Johnny climbed on to the bed. "What are you going to do to-day?" "I don't know yet. I haven't been told." "Well, I'll tell you. We'll go to church in the morning because I have to and then we'll go and look at Thunderclap and I'll show you the place we jump and then you can come with me while I have dinner because I have it early and afterwards we can go down to Bruton Wood and we needn't take nanny because it makes her so muddy and you can see where they dug out a fox in the drain just outside the wood, he nearly got away, and then you can come and have tea in the nursery and I've got a little gramophone Uncle Reggie gave me for Christmas and it plays "When Father Papered the Parlour", do you know that song? Ben can sing it and I've got some books to show you and a picture I did of the battle of Marston Moor." "I think that sounds a lovely day. But don't you think I ought	A Handful Of Dust
Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?'	No speaker	about you, not to you."<\|quote\|>Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?'</\|quote\|>"he asks." As Mrs. Pontellier	to end?" "It was written about you, not to you."<\|quote\|>Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?'</\|quote\|>"he asks." As Mrs. Pontellier says,' "or" as Mrs. Pontellier	to end." "Let me see it," requested the young woman, entreatingly. "No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one to whom it is written." "Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?" "It was written about you, not to you."<\|quote\|>Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?'</\|quote\|>"he asks." As Mrs. Pontellier says,' "or" as Mrs. Pontellier once said.' If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play for her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it	the City of Mexico." "Wrote to _you_?" repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently. "Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your coffee; drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end." "Let me see it," requested the young woman, entreatingly. "No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one to whom it is written." "Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?" "It was written about you, not to you."<\|quote\|>Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?'</\|quote\|>"he asks." As Mrs. Pontellier says,' "or" as Mrs. Pontellier once said.' If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play for her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it affects her,' "and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each other's society." "Let me see the letter." "Oh, no." "Have you answered it?" "No." "Let me see the letter." "No, and again, no." "Then play the Impromptu for me." "It is growing late; what time do	region of the gasoline stove and rewarding her guest with the promised cup of coffee. The coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved very acceptable to Edna, who had declined refreshment at Madame Lebrun's and was now beginning to feel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which she brought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself once again on the lumpy sofa. "I have had a letter from your friend," she remarked, as she poured a little cream into Edna's cup and handed it to her. "My friend?" "Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico." "Wrote to _you_?" repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently. "Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your coffee; drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end." "Let me see it," requested the young woman, entreatingly. "No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one to whom it is written." "Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?" "It was written about you, not to you."<\|quote\|>Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?'</\|quote\|>"he asks." As Mrs. Pontellier says,' "or" as Mrs. Pontellier once said.' If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play for her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it affects her,' "and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each other's society." "Let me see the letter." "Oh, no." "Have you answered it?" "No." "Let me see the letter." "No, and again, no." "Then play the Impromptu for me." "It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?" "Time doesn't concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the Impromptu." "But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?" "Painting!" laughed Edna. "I am becoming an artist. Think of it!" "Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame." "Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?" "I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or your temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many gifts absolute gifts which have not been acquired by one's own effort. And,	her head. "So you remembered me at last," said Mademoiselle. "I had said to myself," Ah, bah! she will never come.'" "Did you want me to come?" asked Edna with a smile. "I had not thought much about it," answered Mademoiselle. The two had seated themselves on a little bumpy sofa which stood against the wall. "I am glad, however, that you came. I have the water boiling back there, and was just about to make some coffee. You will drink a cup with me. And how is _la belle dame?_ Always handsome! always healthy! always contented!" She took Edna's hand between her strong wiry fingers, holding it loosely without warmth, and executing a sort of double theme upon the back and palm. "Yes," she went on; "I sometimes thought:" She will never come. She promised as those women in society always do, without meaning it. She will not come.' "For I really don't believe you like me, Mrs. Pontellier." "I don't know whether I like you or not," replied Edna, gazing down at the little woman with a quizzical look. The candor of Mrs. Pontellier's admission greatly pleased Mademoiselle Reisz. She expressed her gratification by repairing forthwith to the region of the gasoline stove and rewarding her guest with the promised cup of coffee. The coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved very acceptable to Edna, who had declined refreshment at Madame Lebrun's and was now beginning to feel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which she brought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself once again on the lumpy sofa. "I have had a letter from your friend," she remarked, as she poured a little cream into Edna's cup and handed it to her. "My friend?" "Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico." "Wrote to _you_?" repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently. "Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your coffee; drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end." "Let me see it," requested the young woman, entreatingly. "No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one to whom it is written." "Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?" "It was written about you, not to you."<\|quote\|>Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?'</\|quote\|>"he asks." As Mrs. Pontellier says,' "or" as Mrs. Pontellier once said.' If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play for her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it affects her,' "and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each other's society." "Let me see the letter." "Oh, no." "Have you answered it?" "No." "Let me see the letter." "No, and again, no." "Then play the Impromptu for me." "It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?" "Time doesn't concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the Impromptu." "But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?" "Painting!" laughed Edna. "I am becoming an artist. Think of it!" "Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame." "Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?" "I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or your temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many gifts absolute gifts which have not been acquired by one's own effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul." "What do you mean by the courageous soul?" "Courageous, _ma foi!_ The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies." "Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?" "It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated," replied Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh. The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table upon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened the drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna's hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano. Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat low at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of the Chopin Impromptu. Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa corner reading Robert's letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle had glided from the	in which she had left home began again to overtake her, and she remembered that she wished to find Mademoiselle Reisz. Madame Lebrun knew where Mademoiselle Reisz lived. She gave Edna the address, regretting that she would not consent to stay and spend the remainder of the afternoon, and pay a visit to Mademoiselle Reisz some other day. The afternoon was already well advanced. Victor escorted her out upon the banquette, lifted her parasol, and held it over her while he walked to the car with her. He entreated her to bear in mind that the disclosures of the afternoon were strictly confidential. She laughed and bantered him a little, remembering too late that she should have been dignified and reserved. "How handsome Mrs. Pontellier looked!" said Madame Lebrun to her son. "Ravishing!" he admitted. "The city atmosphere has improved her. Some way she doesn't seem like the same woman." XXI Some people contended that the reason Mademoiselle Reisz always chose apartments up under the roof was to discourage the approach of beggars, peddlars and callers. There were plenty of windows in her little front room. They were for the most part dingy, but as they were nearly always open it did not make so much difference. They often admitted into the room a good deal of smoke and soot; but at the same time all the light and air that there was came through them. From her windows could be seen the crescent of the river, the masts of ships and the big chimneys of the Mississippi steamers. A magnificent piano crowded the apartment. In the next room she slept, and in the third and last she harbored a gasoline stove on which she cooked her meals when disinclined to descend to the neighboring restaurant. It was there also that she ate, keeping her belongings in a rare old buffet, dingy and battered from a hundred years of use. When Edna knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz's front room door and entered, she discovered that person standing beside the window, engaged in mending or patching an old prunella gaiter. The little musician laughed all over when she saw Edna. Her laugh consisted of a contortion of the face and all the muscles of the body. She seemed strikingly homely, standing there in the afternoon light. She still wore the shabby lace and the artificial bunch of violets on the side of her head. "So you remembered me at last," said Mademoiselle. "I had said to myself," Ah, bah! she will never come.'" "Did you want me to come?" asked Edna with a smile. "I had not thought much about it," answered Mademoiselle. The two had seated themselves on a little bumpy sofa which stood against the wall. "I am glad, however, that you came. I have the water boiling back there, and was just about to make some coffee. You will drink a cup with me. And how is _la belle dame?_ Always handsome! always healthy! always contented!" She took Edna's hand between her strong wiry fingers, holding it loosely without warmth, and executing a sort of double theme upon the back and palm. "Yes," she went on; "I sometimes thought:" She will never come. She promised as those women in society always do, without meaning it. She will not come.' "For I really don't believe you like me, Mrs. Pontellier." "I don't know whether I like you or not," replied Edna, gazing down at the little woman with a quizzical look. The candor of Mrs. Pontellier's admission greatly pleased Mademoiselle Reisz. She expressed her gratification by repairing forthwith to the region of the gasoline stove and rewarding her guest with the promised cup of coffee. The coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved very acceptable to Edna, who had declined refreshment at Madame Lebrun's and was now beginning to feel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which she brought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself once again on the lumpy sofa. "I have had a letter from your friend," she remarked, as she poured a little cream into Edna's cup and handed it to her. "My friend?" "Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico." "Wrote to _you_?" repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently. "Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your coffee; drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end." "Let me see it," requested the young woman, entreatingly. "No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one to whom it is written." "Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?" "It was written about you, not to you."<\|quote\|>Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?'</\|quote\|>"he asks." As Mrs. Pontellier says,' "or" as Mrs. Pontellier once said.' If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play for her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it affects her,' "and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each other's society." "Let me see the letter." "Oh, no." "Have you answered it?" "No." "Let me see the letter." "No, and again, no." "Then play the Impromptu for me." "It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?" "Time doesn't concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the Impromptu." "But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?" "Painting!" laughed Edna. "I am becoming an artist. Think of it!" "Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame." "Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?" "I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or your temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many gifts absolute gifts which have not been acquired by one's own effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul." "What do you mean by the courageous soul?" "Courageous, _ma foi!_ The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies." "Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?" "It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated," replied Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh. The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table upon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened the drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna's hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano. Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat low at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of the Chopin Impromptu. Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa corner reading Robert's letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle had glided from the Chopin into the quivering love notes of Isolde's song, and back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing. The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and fantastic turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. The shadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the night, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of the upper air. Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take her departure. "May I come again, Mademoiselle?" she asked at the threshold. "Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are dark; don't stumble." Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was on the floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the envelope, and replaced it in the table drawer. XXII One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. He bore a reputation for wisdom rather than skill leaving the active practice of medicine to his assistants and younger contemporaries and was much sought for in matters of consultation. A few families, united to him by bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required the services of a physician. The Pontelliers were among these. Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his study. His house stood rather far back from the street, in the center of a delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the old gentleman's study window. He was a great reader. He stared up disapprovingly over his eye-glasses as Mr. Pontellier entered, wondering who had the temerity to disturb him at that hour of the morning. "Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do you bring this morning?" He was quite portly, with a profusion of gray hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their brightness but none of their penetration. "Oh! I'm never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough fiber of that old Creole race of	bah! she will never come.'" "Did you want me to come?" asked Edna with a smile. "I had not thought much about it," answered Mademoiselle. The two had seated themselves on a little bumpy sofa which stood against the wall. "I am glad, however, that you came. I have the water boiling back there, and was just about to make some coffee. You will drink a cup with me. And how is _la belle dame?_ Always handsome! always healthy! always contented!" She took Edna's hand between her strong wiry fingers, holding it loosely without warmth, and executing a sort of double theme upon the back and palm. "Yes," she went on; "I sometimes thought:" She will never come. She promised as those women in society always do, without meaning it. She will not come.' "For I really don't believe you like me, Mrs. Pontellier." "I don't know whether I like you or not," replied Edna, gazing down at the little woman with a quizzical look. The candor of Mrs. Pontellier's admission greatly pleased Mademoiselle Reisz. She expressed her gratification by repairing forthwith to the region of the gasoline stove and rewarding her guest with the promised cup of coffee. The coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved very acceptable to Edna, who had declined refreshment at Madame Lebrun's and was now beginning to feel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which she brought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself once again on the lumpy sofa. "I have had a letter from your friend," she remarked, as she poured a little cream into Edna's cup and handed it to her. "My friend?" "Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico." "Wrote to _you_?" repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently. "Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your coffee; drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end." "Let me see it," requested the young woman, entreatingly. "No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one to whom it is written." "Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?" "It was written about you, not to you."<\|quote\|>Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?'</\|quote\|>"he asks." As Mrs. Pontellier says,' "or" as Mrs. Pontellier once said.' If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play for her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it affects her,' "and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each other's society." "Let me see the letter." "Oh, no." "Have you answered it?" "No." "Let me see the letter." "No, and again, no." "Then play the Impromptu for me." "It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?" "Time doesn't concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the Impromptu." "But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?" "Painting!" laughed Edna. "I am becoming an artist. Think of it!" "Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame." "Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?" "I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or your temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many gifts absolute gifts which have not been acquired by one's own effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul." "What do you mean by the courageous soul?" "Courageous, _ma foi!_ The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies." "Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?" "It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated," replied Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh. The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table upon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened the drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna's hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano. Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat low at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of the Chopin Impromptu. Edna did not know when the Impromptu began	The Awakening
"I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning."	Winterbourne	Daisy. "It s too imperious."<\|quote\|>"I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning."</\|quote\|>The young girl looked at	way you say that," said Daisy. "It s too imperious."<\|quote\|>"I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning."</\|quote\|>The young girl looked at him more gravely, but with	looked at him, without a sign of troubled consciousness in her face, with nothing but the presence of her charming eyes and her happy dimples. "Well, she s a cool one!" thought the young man. "I don t like the way you say that," said Daisy. "It s too imperious."<\|quote\|>"I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning."</\|quote\|>The young girl looked at him more gravely, but with eyes that were prettier than ever. "I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or to interfere with anything I do." "I think you have made a mistake," said Winterbourne. "You should sometimes listen to a gentleman--the right	Winterbourne looked at him a moment and then said, "Do you mean to speak to that man?" "Do I mean to speak to him? Why, you don t suppose I mean to communicate by signs?" "Pray understand, then," said Winterbourne, "that I intend to remain with you." Daisy stopped and looked at him, without a sign of troubled consciousness in her face, with nothing but the presence of her charming eyes and her happy dimples. "Well, she s a cool one!" thought the young man. "I don t like the way you say that," said Daisy. "It s too imperious."<\|quote\|>"I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning."</\|quote\|>The young girl looked at him more gravely, but with eyes that were prettier than ever. "I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or to interfere with anything I do." "I think you have made a mistake," said Winterbourne. "You should sometimes listen to a gentleman--the right one." Daisy began to laugh again. "I do nothing but listen to gentlemen!" she exclaimed. "Tell me if Mr. Giovanelli is the right one?" The gentleman with the nosegay in his bosom had now perceived our two friends, and was approaching the young girl with obsequious rapidity. He bowed to	not help you to find him," Winterbourne declared. "Then I shall find him without you," cried Miss Daisy. "You certainly won t leave me!" cried Winterbourne. She burst into her little laugh. "Are you afraid you ll get lost--or run over? But there s Giovanelli, leaning against that tree. He s staring at the women in the carriages: did you ever see anything so cool?" Winterbourne perceived at some distance a little man standing with folded arms nursing his cane. He had a handsome face, an artfully poised hat, a glass in one eye, and a nosegay in his buttonhole. Winterbourne looked at him a moment and then said, "Do you mean to speak to that man?" "Do I mean to speak to him? Why, you don t suppose I mean to communicate by signs?" "Pray understand, then," said Winterbourne, "that I intend to remain with you." Daisy stopped and looked at him, without a sign of troubled consciousness in her face, with nothing but the presence of her charming eyes and her happy dimples. "Well, she s a cool one!" thought the young man. "I don t like the way you say that," said Daisy. "It s too imperious."<\|quote\|>"I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning."</\|quote\|>The young girl looked at him more gravely, but with eyes that were prettier than ever. "I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or to interfere with anything I do." "I think you have made a mistake," said Winterbourne. "You should sometimes listen to a gentleman--the right one." Daisy began to laugh again. "I do nothing but listen to gentlemen!" she exclaimed. "Tell me if Mr. Giovanelli is the right one?" The gentleman with the nosegay in his bosom had now perceived our two friends, and was approaching the young girl with obsequious rapidity. He bowed to Winterbourne as well as to the latter s companion; he had a brilliant smile, an intelligent eye; Winterbourne thought him not a bad-looking fellow. But he nevertheless said to Daisy, "No, he s not the right one." Daisy evidently had a natural talent for performing introductions; she mentioned the name of each of her companions to the other. She strolled alone with one of them on each side of her; Mr. Giovanelli, who spoke English very cleverly--Winterbourne afterward learned that he had practiced the idiom upon a great many American heiresses--addressed her a great deal of very polite nonsense; he	stay then. It s a great deal nicer than I thought; I thought it would be fearfully quiet; I was sure it would be awfully poky. I was sure we should be going round all the time with one of those dreadful old men that explain about the pictures and things. But we only had about a week of that, and now I m enjoying myself. I know ever so many people, and they are all so charming. The society s extremely select. There are all kinds--English, and Germans, and Italians. I think I like the English best. I like their style of conversation. But there are some lovely Americans. I never saw anything so hospitable. There s something or other every day. There s not much dancing; but I must say I never thought dancing was everything. I was always fond of conversation. I guess I shall have plenty at Mrs. Walker s, her rooms are so small." When they had passed the gate of the Pincian Gardens, Miss Miller began to wonder where Mr. Giovanelli might be. "We had better go straight to that place in front," she said, "where you look at the view." "I certainly shall not help you to find him," Winterbourne declared. "Then I shall find him without you," cried Miss Daisy. "You certainly won t leave me!" cried Winterbourne. She burst into her little laugh. "Are you afraid you ll get lost--or run over? But there s Giovanelli, leaning against that tree. He s staring at the women in the carriages: did you ever see anything so cool?" Winterbourne perceived at some distance a little man standing with folded arms nursing his cane. He had a handsome face, an artfully poised hat, a glass in one eye, and a nosegay in his buttonhole. Winterbourne looked at him a moment and then said, "Do you mean to speak to that man?" "Do I mean to speak to him? Why, you don t suppose I mean to communicate by signs?" "Pray understand, then," said Winterbourne, "that I intend to remain with you." Daisy stopped and looked at him, without a sign of troubled consciousness in her face, with nothing but the presence of her charming eyes and her happy dimples. "Well, she s a cool one!" thought the young man. "I don t like the way you say that," said Daisy. "It s too imperious."<\|quote\|>"I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning."</\|quote\|>The young girl looked at him more gravely, but with eyes that were prettier than ever. "I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or to interfere with anything I do." "I think you have made a mistake," said Winterbourne. "You should sometimes listen to a gentleman--the right one." Daisy began to laugh again. "I do nothing but listen to gentlemen!" she exclaimed. "Tell me if Mr. Giovanelli is the right one?" The gentleman with the nosegay in his bosom had now perceived our two friends, and was approaching the young girl with obsequious rapidity. He bowed to Winterbourne as well as to the latter s companion; he had a brilliant smile, an intelligent eye; Winterbourne thought him not a bad-looking fellow. But he nevertheless said to Daisy, "No, he s not the right one." Daisy evidently had a natural talent for performing introductions; she mentioned the name of each of her companions to the other. She strolled alone with one of them on each side of her; Mr. Giovanelli, who spoke English very cleverly--Winterbourne afterward learned that he had practiced the idiom upon a great many American heiresses--addressed her a great deal of very polite nonsense; he was extremely urbane, and the young American, who said nothing, reflected upon that profundity of Italian cleverness which enables people to appear more gracious in proportion as they are more acutely disappointed. Giovanelli, of course, had counted upon something more intimate; he had not bargained for a party of three. But he kept his temper in a manner which suggested far-stretching intentions. Winterbourne flattered himself that he had taken his measure. "He is not a gentleman," said the young American; "he is only a clever imitation of one. He is a music master, or a penny-a-liner, or a third-rate artist. D__n his good looks!" Mr. Giovanelli had certainly a very pretty face; but Winterbourne felt a superior indignation at his own lovely fellow countrywoman s not knowing the difference between a spurious gentleman and a real one. Giovanelli chattered and jested and made himself wonderfully agreeable. It was true that, if he was an imitation, the imitation was brilliant. "Nevertheless," Winterbourne said to himself, "a nice girl ought to know!" And then he came back to the question whether this was, in fact, a nice girl. Would a nice girl, even allowing for her being a little American flirt, make	easy way to settle it." She continued to glance at Winterbourne. "The Pincio is only a hundred yards distant; and if Mr. Winterbourne were as polite as he pretends, he would offer to walk with me!" Winterbourne s politeness hastened to affirm itself, and the young girl gave him gracious leave to accompany her. They passed downstairs before her mother, and at the door Winterbourne perceived Mrs. Miller s carriage drawn up, with the ornamental courier whose acquaintance he had made at Vevey seated within. "Goodbye, Eugenio!" cried Daisy; "I m going to take a walk." The distance from the Via Gregoriana to the beautiful garden at the other end of the Pincian Hill is, in fact, rapidly traversed. As the day was splendid, however, and the concourse of vehicles, walkers, and loungers numerous, the young Americans found their progress much delayed. This fact was highly agreeable to Winterbourne, in spite of his consciousness of his singular situation. The slow-moving, idly gazing Roman crowd bestowed much attention upon the extremely pretty young foreign lady who was passing through it upon his arm; and he wondered what on earth had been in Daisy s mind when she proposed to expose herself, unattended, to its appreciation. His own mission, to her sense, apparently, was to consign her to the hands of Mr. Giovanelli; but Winterbourne, at once annoyed and gratified, resolved that he would do no such thing. "Why haven t you been to see me?" asked Daisy. "You can t get out of that." "I have had the honor of telling you that I have only just stepped out of the train." "You must have stayed in the train a good while after it stopped!" cried the young girl with her little laugh. "I suppose you were asleep. You have had time to go to see Mrs. Walker." "I knew Mrs. Walker--" Winterbourne began to explain. "I know where you knew her. You knew her at Geneva. She told me so. Well, you knew me at Vevey. That s just as good. So you ought to have come." She asked him no other question than this; she began to prattle about her own affairs. "We ve got splendid rooms at the hotel; Eugenio says they re the best rooms in Rome. We are going to stay all winter, if we don t die of the fever; and I guess we ll stay then. It s a great deal nicer than I thought; I thought it would be fearfully quiet; I was sure it would be awfully poky. I was sure we should be going round all the time with one of those dreadful old men that explain about the pictures and things. But we only had about a week of that, and now I m enjoying myself. I know ever so many people, and they are all so charming. The society s extremely select. There are all kinds--English, and Germans, and Italians. I think I like the English best. I like their style of conversation. But there are some lovely Americans. I never saw anything so hospitable. There s something or other every day. There s not much dancing; but I must say I never thought dancing was everything. I was always fond of conversation. I guess I shall have plenty at Mrs. Walker s, her rooms are so small." When they had passed the gate of the Pincian Gardens, Miss Miller began to wonder where Mr. Giovanelli might be. "We had better go straight to that place in front," she said, "where you look at the view." "I certainly shall not help you to find him," Winterbourne declared. "Then I shall find him without you," cried Miss Daisy. "You certainly won t leave me!" cried Winterbourne. She burst into her little laugh. "Are you afraid you ll get lost--or run over? But there s Giovanelli, leaning against that tree. He s staring at the women in the carriages: did you ever see anything so cool?" Winterbourne perceived at some distance a little man standing with folded arms nursing his cane. He had a handsome face, an artfully poised hat, a glass in one eye, and a nosegay in his buttonhole. Winterbourne looked at him a moment and then said, "Do you mean to speak to that man?" "Do I mean to speak to him? Why, you don t suppose I mean to communicate by signs?" "Pray understand, then," said Winterbourne, "that I intend to remain with you." Daisy stopped and looked at him, without a sign of troubled consciousness in her face, with nothing but the presence of her charming eyes and her happy dimples. "Well, she s a cool one!" thought the young man. "I don t like the way you say that," said Daisy. "It s too imperious."<\|quote\|>"I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning."</\|quote\|>The young girl looked at him more gravely, but with eyes that were prettier than ever. "I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or to interfere with anything I do." "I think you have made a mistake," said Winterbourne. "You should sometimes listen to a gentleman--the right one." Daisy began to laugh again. "I do nothing but listen to gentlemen!" she exclaimed. "Tell me if Mr. Giovanelli is the right one?" The gentleman with the nosegay in his bosom had now perceived our two friends, and was approaching the young girl with obsequious rapidity. He bowed to Winterbourne as well as to the latter s companion; he had a brilliant smile, an intelligent eye; Winterbourne thought him not a bad-looking fellow. But he nevertheless said to Daisy, "No, he s not the right one." Daisy evidently had a natural talent for performing introductions; she mentioned the name of each of her companions to the other. She strolled alone with one of them on each side of her; Mr. Giovanelli, who spoke English very cleverly--Winterbourne afterward learned that he had practiced the idiom upon a great many American heiresses--addressed her a great deal of very polite nonsense; he was extremely urbane, and the young American, who said nothing, reflected upon that profundity of Italian cleverness which enables people to appear more gracious in proportion as they are more acutely disappointed. Giovanelli, of course, had counted upon something more intimate; he had not bargained for a party of three. But he kept his temper in a manner which suggested far-stretching intentions. Winterbourne flattered himself that he had taken his measure. "He is not a gentleman," said the young American; "he is only a clever imitation of one. He is a music master, or a penny-a-liner, or a third-rate artist. D__n his good looks!" Mr. Giovanelli had certainly a very pretty face; but Winterbourne felt a superior indignation at his own lovely fellow countrywoman s not knowing the difference between a spurious gentleman and a real one. Giovanelli chattered and jested and made himself wonderfully agreeable. It was true that, if he was an imitation, the imitation was brilliant. "Nevertheless," Winterbourne said to himself, "a nice girl ought to know!" And then he came back to the question whether this was, in fact, a nice girl. Would a nice girl, even allowing for her being a little American flirt, make a rendezvous with a presumably low-lived foreigner? The rendezvous in this case, indeed, had been in broad daylight and in the most crowded corner of Rome, but was it not impossible to regard the choice of these circumstances as a proof of extreme cynicism? Singular though it may seem, Winterbourne was vexed that the young girl, in joining her amoroso, should not appear more impatient of his own company, and he was vexed because of his inclination. It was impossible to regard her as a perfectly well-conducted young lady; she was wanting in a certain indispensable delicacy. It would therefore simplify matters greatly to be able to treat her as the object of one of those sentiments which are called by romancers "lawless passions." That she should seem to wish to get rid of him would help him to think more lightly of her, and to be able to think more lightly of her would make her much less perplexing. But Daisy, on this occasion, continued to present herself as an inscrutable combination of audacity and innocence. She had been walking some quarter of an hour, attended by her two cavaliers, and responding in a tone of very childish gaiety, as it seemed to Winterbourne, to the pretty speeches of Mr. Giovanelli, when a carriage that had detached itself from the revolving train drew up beside the path. At the same moment Winterbourne perceived that his friend Mrs. Walker--the lady whose house he had lately left--was seated in the vehicle and was beckoning to him. Leaving Miss Miller s side, he hastened to obey her summons. Mrs. Walker was flushed; she wore an excited air. "It is really too dreadful," she said. "That girl must not do this sort of thing. She must not walk here with you two men. Fifty people have noticed her." Winterbourne raised his eyebrows. "I think it s a pity to make too much fuss about it." "It s a pity to let the girl ruin herself!" "She is very innocent," said Winterbourne. "She s very crazy!" cried Mrs. Walker. "Did you ever see anything so imbecile as her mother? After you had all left me just now, I could not sit still for thinking of it. It seemed too pitiful, not even to attempt to save her. I ordered the carriage and put on my bonnet, and came here as quickly as possible. Thank	kinds--English, and Germans, and Italians. I think I like the English best. I like their style of conversation. But there are some lovely Americans. I never saw anything so hospitable. There s something or other every day. There s not much dancing; but I must say I never thought dancing was everything. I was always fond of conversation. I guess I shall have plenty at Mrs. Walker s, her rooms are so small." When they had passed the gate of the Pincian Gardens, Miss Miller began to wonder where Mr. Giovanelli might be. "We had better go straight to that place in front," she said, "where you look at the view." "I certainly shall not help you to find him," Winterbourne declared. "Then I shall find him without you," cried Miss Daisy. "You certainly won t leave me!" cried Winterbourne. She burst into her little laugh. "Are you afraid you ll get lost--or run over? But there s Giovanelli, leaning against that tree. He s staring at the women in the carriages: did you ever see anything so cool?" Winterbourne perceived at some distance a little man standing with folded arms nursing his cane. He had a handsome face, an artfully poised hat, a glass in one eye, and a nosegay in his buttonhole. Winterbourne looked at him a moment and then said, "Do you mean to speak to that man?" "Do I mean to speak to him? Why, you don t suppose I mean to communicate by signs?" "Pray understand, then," said Winterbourne, "that I intend to remain with you." Daisy stopped and looked at him, without a sign of troubled consciousness in her face, with nothing but the presence of her charming eyes and her happy dimples. "Well, she s a cool one!" thought the young man. "I don t like the way you say that," said Daisy. "It s too imperious."<\|quote\|>"I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning."</\|quote\|>The young girl looked at him more gravely, but with eyes that were prettier than ever. "I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or to interfere with anything I do." "I think you have made a mistake," said Winterbourne. "You should sometimes listen to a gentleman--the right one." Daisy began to laugh again. "I do nothing but listen to gentlemen!" she exclaimed. "Tell me if Mr. Giovanelli is the right one?" The gentleman with the nosegay in his bosom had now perceived our two friends, and was approaching the young girl with obsequious rapidity. He bowed to Winterbourne as well as to the latter s companion; he had a brilliant smile, an intelligent eye; Winterbourne thought him not a bad-looking fellow. But he nevertheless said to Daisy, "No, he s not the right one." Daisy evidently had a natural talent for performing introductions; she mentioned the name of each of her companions to the other. She strolled alone with one of them on each side of her; Mr. Giovanelli, who spoke English very cleverly--Winterbourne afterward learned that he had practiced the idiom upon a great many American heiresses--addressed her a great deal of very polite nonsense; he was extremely urbane, and the young American, who said nothing, reflected upon that profundity of Italian cleverness which enables people to appear more gracious in proportion as they are more acutely disappointed. Giovanelli, of course, had counted upon something more intimate; he had not bargained for a party of three. But he kept his temper in a manner which suggested far-stretching intentions. Winterbourne flattered himself that he had taken his measure. "He is not a gentleman," said the young American; "he	Daisy Miller
"Certainly!"	Mr. Lucian Gregory	either condition. May I smoke?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly!"</\|quote\|>said Gregory, producing a cigar-case.	behave like a gentleman in either condition. May I smoke?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly!"</\|quote\|>said Gregory, producing a cigar-case. "Try one of mine." Syme	a little, don't put it down to your inroads into the champagne. I don't wish you to do yourself an injustice." "Well, if I am not drunk, I am mad," replied Syme with perfect calm; "but I trust I can behave like a gentleman in either condition. May I smoke?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly!"</\|quote\|>said Gregory, producing a cigar-case. "Try one of mine." Syme took the cigar, clipped the end off with a cigar-cutter out of his waistcoat pocket, put it in his mouth, lit it slowly, and let out a long cloud of smoke. It is not a little to his credit that	quite simple," replied Gregory. "_We_ are the serious anarchists, in whom you do not believe." "Oh!" said Syme shortly. "You do yourselves well in drinks." "Yes, we are serious about everything," answered Gregory. Then after a pause he added "If in a few moments this table begins to turn round a little, don't put it down to your inroads into the champagne. I don't wish you to do yourself an injustice." "Well, if I am not drunk, I am mad," replied Syme with perfect calm; "but I trust I can behave like a gentleman in either condition. May I smoke?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly!"</\|quote\|>said Gregory, producing a cigar-case. "Try one of mine." Syme took the cigar, clipped the end off with a cigar-cutter out of his waistcoat pocket, put it in his mouth, lit it slowly, and let out a long cloud of smoke. It is not a little to his credit that he performed these rites with so much composure, for almost before he had begun them the table at which he sat had begun to revolve, first slowly, and then rapidly, as if at an insane seance. "You must not mind it," said Gregory; "it's a kind of screw." "Quite so,"	me for a nightmare to lead to a lobster. It is commonly the other way." "You are not asleep, I assure you," said Gregory. "You are, on the contrary, close to the most actual and rousing moment of your existence. Ah, here comes your champagne! I admit that there may be a slight disproportion, let us say, between the inner arrangements of this excellent hotel and its simple and unpretentious exterior. But that is all our modesty. We are the most modest men that ever lived on earth." "And who are _we?_" asked Syme, emptying his champagne glass. "It is quite simple," replied Gregory. "_We_ are the serious anarchists, in whom you do not believe." "Oh!" said Syme shortly. "You do yourselves well in drinks." "Yes, we are serious about everything," answered Gregory. Then after a pause he added "If in a few moments this table begins to turn round a little, don't put it down to your inroads into the champagne. I don't wish you to do yourself an injustice." "Well, if I am not drunk, I am mad," replied Syme with perfect calm; "but I trust I can behave like a gentleman in either condition. May I smoke?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly!"</\|quote\|>said Gregory, producing a cigar-case. "Try one of mine." Syme took the cigar, clipped the end off with a cigar-cutter out of his waistcoat pocket, put it in his mouth, lit it slowly, and let out a long cloud of smoke. It is not a little to his credit that he performed these rites with so much composure, for almost before he had begun them the table at which he sat had begun to revolve, first slowly, and then rapidly, as if at an insane seance. "You must not mind it," said Gregory; "it's a kind of screw." "Quite so," said Syme placidly, "a kind of screw. How simple that is!" The next moment the smoke of his cigar, which had been wavering across the room in snaky twists, went straight up as if from a factory chimney, and the two, with their chairs and table, shot down through the floor as if the earth had swallowed them. They went rattling down a kind of roaring chimney as rapidly as a lift cut loose, and they came with an abrupt bump to the bottom. But when Gregory threw open a pair of doors and let in a red subterranean light,	and bearded. "Will you take a little supper?" asked Gregory politely. "The _p t de foie gras_ is not good here, but I can recommend the game." Syme received the remark with stolidity, imagining it to be a joke. Accepting the vein of humour, he said, with a well-bred indifference "Oh, bring me some lobster mayonnaise." To his indescribable astonishment, the man only said "Certainly, sir!" and went away apparently to get it. "What will you drink?" resumed Gregory, with the same careless yet apologetic air. "I shall only have a _cr me de menthe_ myself; I have dined. But the champagne can really be trusted. Do let me start you with a half-bottle of Pommery at least?" "Thank you!" said the motionless Syme. "You are very good." His further attempts at conversation, somewhat disorganised in themselves, were cut short finally as by a thunderbolt by the actual appearance of the lobster. Syme tasted it, and found it particularly good. Then he suddenly began to eat with great rapidity and appetite. "Excuse me if I enjoy myself rather obviously!" he said to Gregory, smiling. "I don't often have the luck to have a dream like this. It is new to me for a nightmare to lead to a lobster. It is commonly the other way." "You are not asleep, I assure you," said Gregory. "You are, on the contrary, close to the most actual and rousing moment of your existence. Ah, here comes your champagne! I admit that there may be a slight disproportion, let us say, between the inner arrangements of this excellent hotel and its simple and unpretentious exterior. But that is all our modesty. We are the most modest men that ever lived on earth." "And who are _we?_" asked Syme, emptying his champagne glass. "It is quite simple," replied Gregory. "_We_ are the serious anarchists, in whom you do not believe." "Oh!" said Syme shortly. "You do yourselves well in drinks." "Yes, we are serious about everything," answered Gregory. Then after a pause he added "If in a few moments this table begins to turn round a little, don't put it down to your inroads into the champagne. I don't wish you to do yourself an injustice." "Well, if I am not drunk, I am mad," replied Syme with perfect calm; "but I trust I can behave like a gentleman in either condition. May I smoke?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly!"</\|quote\|>said Gregory, producing a cigar-case. "Try one of mine." Syme took the cigar, clipped the end off with a cigar-cutter out of his waistcoat pocket, put it in his mouth, lit it slowly, and let out a long cloud of smoke. It is not a little to his credit that he performed these rites with so much composure, for almost before he had begun them the table at which he sat had begun to revolve, first slowly, and then rapidly, as if at an insane seance. "You must not mind it," said Gregory; "it's a kind of screw." "Quite so," said Syme placidly, "a kind of screw. How simple that is!" The next moment the smoke of his cigar, which had been wavering across the room in snaky twists, went straight up as if from a factory chimney, and the two, with their chairs and table, shot down through the floor as if the earth had swallowed them. They went rattling down a kind of roaring chimney as rapidly as a lift cut loose, and they came with an abrupt bump to the bottom. But when Gregory threw open a pair of doors and let in a red subterranean light, Syme was still smoking with one leg thrown over the other, and had not turned a yellow hair. Gregory led him down a low, vaulted passage, at the end of which was the red light. It was an enormous crimson lantern, nearly as big as a fireplace, fixed over a small but heavy iron door. In the door there was a sort of hatchway or grating, and on this Gregory struck five times. A heavy voice with a foreign accent asked him who he was. To this he gave the more or less unexpected reply, "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." The heavy hinges began to move; it was obviously some kind of password. Inside the doorway the passage gleamed as if it were lined with a network of steel. On a second glance, Syme saw that the glittering pattern was really made up of ranks and ranks of rifles and revolvers, closely packed or interlocked. "I must ask you to forgive me all these formalities," said Gregory; "we have to be very strict here." "Oh, don't apologise," said Syme. "I know your passion for law and order," and he stepped into the passage lined with the steel weapons. With his long, fair	than all this talking something more serious, whether it was religion or only drink." "Very well," said Gregory, his face darkening, "you shall see something more serious than either drink or religion." Syme stood waiting with his usual air of mildness until Gregory again opened his lips. "You spoke just now of having a religion. Is it really true that you have one?" "Oh," said Syme with a beaming smile, "we are all Catholics now." "Then may I ask you to swear by whatever gods or saints your religion involves that you will not reveal what I am now going to tell you to any son of Adam, and especially not to the police? Will you swear that! If you will take upon yourself this awful abnegation if you will consent to burden your soul with a vow that you should never make and a knowledge you should never dream about, I will promise you in return" "You will promise me in return?" inquired Syme, as the other paused. "I will promise you a very entertaining evening." Syme suddenly took off his hat. "Your offer," he said, "is far too idiotic to be declined. You say that a poet is always an anarchist. I disagree; but I hope at least that he is always a sportsman. Permit me, here and now, to swear as a Christian, and promise as a good comrade and a fellow-artist, that I will not report anything of this, whatever it is, to the police. And now, in the name of Colney Hatch, what is it?" "I think," said Gregory, with placid irrelevancy, "that we will call a cab." He gave two long whistles, and a hansom came rattling down the road. The two got into it in silence. Gregory gave through the trap the address of an obscure public-house on the Chiswick bank of the river. The cab whisked itself away again, and in it these two fantastics quitted their fantastic town. CHAPTER II. THE SECRET OF GABRIEL SYME The cab pulled up before a particularly dreary and greasy beershop, into which Gregory rapidly conducted his companion. They seated themselves in a close and dim sort of bar-parlour, at a stained wooden table with one wooden leg. The room was so small and dark, that very little could be seen of the attendant who was summoned, beyond a vague and dark impression of something bulky and bearded. "Will you take a little supper?" asked Gregory politely. "The _p t de foie gras_ is not good here, but I can recommend the game." Syme received the remark with stolidity, imagining it to be a joke. Accepting the vein of humour, he said, with a well-bred indifference "Oh, bring me some lobster mayonnaise." To his indescribable astonishment, the man only said "Certainly, sir!" and went away apparently to get it. "What will you drink?" resumed Gregory, with the same careless yet apologetic air. "I shall only have a _cr me de menthe_ myself; I have dined. But the champagne can really be trusted. Do let me start you with a half-bottle of Pommery at least?" "Thank you!" said the motionless Syme. "You are very good." His further attempts at conversation, somewhat disorganised in themselves, were cut short finally as by a thunderbolt by the actual appearance of the lobster. Syme tasted it, and found it particularly good. Then he suddenly began to eat with great rapidity and appetite. "Excuse me if I enjoy myself rather obviously!" he said to Gregory, smiling. "I don't often have the luck to have a dream like this. It is new to me for a nightmare to lead to a lobster. It is commonly the other way." "You are not asleep, I assure you," said Gregory. "You are, on the contrary, close to the most actual and rousing moment of your existence. Ah, here comes your champagne! I admit that there may be a slight disproportion, let us say, between the inner arrangements of this excellent hotel and its simple and unpretentious exterior. But that is all our modesty. We are the most modest men that ever lived on earth." "And who are _we?_" asked Syme, emptying his champagne glass. "It is quite simple," replied Gregory. "_We_ are the serious anarchists, in whom you do not believe." "Oh!" said Syme shortly. "You do yourselves well in drinks." "Yes, we are serious about everything," answered Gregory. Then after a pause he added "If in a few moments this table begins to turn round a little, don't put it down to your inroads into the champagne. I don't wish you to do yourself an injustice." "Well, if I am not drunk, I am mad," replied Syme with perfect calm; "but I trust I can behave like a gentleman in either condition. May I smoke?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly!"</\|quote\|>said Gregory, producing a cigar-case. "Try one of mine." Syme took the cigar, clipped the end off with a cigar-cutter out of his waistcoat pocket, put it in his mouth, lit it slowly, and let out a long cloud of smoke. It is not a little to his credit that he performed these rites with so much composure, for almost before he had begun them the table at which he sat had begun to revolve, first slowly, and then rapidly, as if at an insane seance. "You must not mind it," said Gregory; "it's a kind of screw." "Quite so," said Syme placidly, "a kind of screw. How simple that is!" The next moment the smoke of his cigar, which had been wavering across the room in snaky twists, went straight up as if from a factory chimney, and the two, with their chairs and table, shot down through the floor as if the earth had swallowed them. They went rattling down a kind of roaring chimney as rapidly as a lift cut loose, and they came with an abrupt bump to the bottom. But when Gregory threw open a pair of doors and let in a red subterranean light, Syme was still smoking with one leg thrown over the other, and had not turned a yellow hair. Gregory led him down a low, vaulted passage, at the end of which was the red light. It was an enormous crimson lantern, nearly as big as a fireplace, fixed over a small but heavy iron door. In the door there was a sort of hatchway or grating, and on this Gregory struck five times. A heavy voice with a foreign accent asked him who he was. To this he gave the more or less unexpected reply, "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." The heavy hinges began to move; it was obviously some kind of password. Inside the doorway the passage gleamed as if it were lined with a network of steel. On a second glance, Syme saw that the glittering pattern was really made up of ranks and ranks of rifles and revolvers, closely packed or interlocked. "I must ask you to forgive me all these formalities," said Gregory; "we have to be very strict here." "Oh, don't apologise," said Syme. "I know your passion for law and order," and he stepped into the passage lined with the steel weapons. With his long, fair hair and rather foppish frock-coat, he looked a singularly frail and fanciful figure as he walked down that shining avenue of death. They passed through several such passages, and came out at last into a queer steel chamber with curved walls, almost spherical in shape, but presenting, with its tiers of benches, something of the appearance of a scientific lecture-theatre. There were no rifles or pistols in this apartment, but round the walls of it were hung more dubious and dreadful shapes, things that looked like the bulbs of iron plants, or the eggs of iron birds. They were bombs, and the very room itself seemed like the inside of a bomb. Syme knocked his cigar ash off against the wall, and went in. "And now, my dear Mr. Syme," said Gregory, throwing himself in an expansive manner on the bench under the largest bomb, "now we are quite cosy, so let us talk properly. Now no human words can give you any notion of why I brought you here. It was one of those quite arbitrary emotions, like jumping off a cliff or falling in love. Suffice it to say that you were an inexpressibly irritating fellow, and, to do you justice, you are still. I would break twenty oaths of secrecy for the pleasure of taking you down a peg. That way you have of lighting a cigar would make a priest break the seal of confession. Well, you said that you were quite certain I was not a serious anarchist. Does this place strike you as being serious?" "It does seem to have a moral under all its gaiety," assented Syme; "but may I ask you two questions? You need not fear to give me information, because, as you remember, you very wisely extorted from me a promise not to tell the police, a promise I shall certainly keep. So it is in mere curiosity that I make my queries. First of all, what is it really all about? What is it you object to? You want to abolish Government?" "To abolish God!" said Gregory, opening the eyes of a fanatic. "We do not only want to upset a few despotisms and police regulations; that sort of anarchism does exist, but it is a mere branch of the Nonconformists. We dig deeper and we blow you higher. We wish to deny all those arbitrary distinctions of vice	finally as by a thunderbolt by the actual appearance of the lobster. Syme tasted it, and found it particularly good. Then he suddenly began to eat with great rapidity and appetite. "Excuse me if I enjoy myself rather obviously!" he said to Gregory, smiling. "I don't often have the luck to have a dream like this. It is new to me for a nightmare to lead to a lobster. It is commonly the other way." "You are not asleep, I assure you," said Gregory. "You are, on the contrary, close to the most actual and rousing moment of your existence. Ah, here comes your champagne! I admit that there may be a slight disproportion, let us say, between the inner arrangements of this excellent hotel and its simple and unpretentious exterior. But that is all our modesty. We are the most modest men that ever lived on earth." "And who are _we?_" asked Syme, emptying his champagne glass. "It is quite simple," replied Gregory. "_We_ are the serious anarchists, in whom you do not believe." "Oh!" said Syme shortly. "You do yourselves well in drinks." "Yes, we are serious about everything," answered Gregory. Then after a pause he added "If in a few moments this table begins to turn round a little, don't put it down to your inroads into the champagne. I don't wish you to do yourself an injustice." "Well, if I am not drunk, I am mad," replied Syme with perfect calm; "but I trust I can behave like a gentleman in either condition. May I smoke?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly!"</\|quote\|>said Gregory, producing a cigar-case. "Try one of mine." Syme took the cigar, clipped the end off with a cigar-cutter out of his waistcoat pocket, put it in his mouth, lit it slowly, and let out a long cloud of smoke. It is not a little to his credit that he performed these rites with so much composure, for almost before he had begun them the table at which he sat had begun to revolve, first slowly, and then rapidly, as if at an insane seance. "You must not mind it," said Gregory; "it's a kind of screw." "Quite so," said Syme placidly, "a kind of screw. How simple that is!" The next moment the smoke of his cigar, which had been wavering across the room in snaky twists, went straight up as if from a factory chimney, and the two, with their chairs and table, shot down through the floor as if the earth had swallowed them. They went rattling down a kind of roaring chimney as rapidly as a lift cut loose, and they came with an abrupt bump to the bottom. But when Gregory threw open a pair of doors and let in a red subterranean light, Syme was still smoking with one leg thrown over the other, and had not turned a yellow hair. Gregory led him down a low, vaulted passage, at the end of which was the red light. It was an enormous crimson lantern, nearly as big as a fireplace, fixed over a small but heavy iron door. In the door there was a sort of hatchway or grating, and on this Gregory struck five times. A heavy voice with a foreign accent asked him who he was. To this he gave the more or less unexpected reply, "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." The heavy hinges began to move; it was obviously some kind of password. Inside the doorway the passage gleamed as if it were lined with a network of steel. On a second glance, Syme saw that the glittering pattern was really made up of ranks and ranks of rifles and revolvers, closely packed or interlocked. "I must ask you to forgive me all these formalities," said Gregory; "we have to be very strict here." "Oh, don't apologise," said Syme. "I know your passion for law and order," and he stepped into the passage lined with the steel weapons. With his long, fair hair and rather foppish frock-coat, he looked a singularly frail and fanciful figure as he walked down that shining avenue of death. They passed through several such passages, and came out at last into a queer steel chamber with curved walls, almost spherical in shape, but presenting, with its tiers of benches, something of the appearance of a scientific lecture-theatre. There were no rifles or pistols in this apartment, but round the walls of it were hung more dubious and dreadful shapes, things that looked like the bulbs of iron plants, or the eggs of iron birds. They were bombs, and the very room itself seemed like the inside of a bomb. Syme knocked his cigar ash off against the wall, and went in. "And now, my dear Mr. Syme," said Gregory, throwing himself in an expansive manner on the bench under the largest bomb, "now we are quite cosy, so let	The Man Who Was Thursday
"This meat has surely been used for soup,"	Miss Bartlett	is one's being so tired."<\|quote\|>"This meat has surely been used for soup,"</\|quote\|>said Miss Bartlett, laying down	just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired."<\|quote\|>"This meat has surely been used for soup,"</\|quote\|>said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. "I want so	the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired."<\|quote\|>"This meat has surely been used for soup,"</\|quote\|>said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. "I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!" "Any nook does for me," Miss	people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired."<\|quote\|>"This meat has surely been used for soup,"</\|quote\|>said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. "I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!" "Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view." Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front--" "You must have it," said Miss	PART ONE Chapter I: The Bertolini "The Signora had no business to do it," said Miss Bartlett, "no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!" "And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora's unexpected accent. "It might be London." She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired."<\|quote\|>"This meat has surely been used for soup,"</\|quote\|>said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. "I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!" "Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view." Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front--" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother--a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion. "No, no. You must have it." "I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy." "She would never forgive me." The ladies' voices grew animated, and--if the sad truth be owned--a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them--one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad--leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said: "I	PART ONE Chapter I: The Bertolini "The Signora had no business to do it," said Miss Bartlett, "no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!" "And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora's unexpected accent. "It might be London." She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired."<\|quote\|>"This meat has surely been used for soup,"</\|quote\|>said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. "I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!" "Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view." Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front--" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother--a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion. "No, no. You must have it." "I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy." "She would never forgive me." The ladies' voices grew animated, and--if the sad truth be owned--a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them--one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad--leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said: "I have a view, I have a view." Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would "do" till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility. What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: "A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!" "This is my son," said the old man; "his name's George. He has a view too." "Ah," said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak. "What I mean," he continued, "is that you can have our rooms, and we'll have yours. We'll change." The better class of tourist was shocked at	PART ONE Chapter I: The Bertolini "The Signora had no business to do it," said Miss Bartlett, "no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!" "And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora's unexpected accent. "It might be London." She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired."<\|quote\|>"This meat has surely been used for soup,"</\|quote\|>said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. "I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!" "Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view." Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front--" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother--a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion. "No, no. You must have it." "I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy." "She would never forgive me." The ladies' voices grew animated, and--if the sad truth be owned--a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them--one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad--leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said: "I have a view, I have a view." Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would "do" till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility. What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: "A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!" "This is my son," said the old man; "his name's George. He has a view too." "Ah," said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak. "What I mean," he continued, "is that you can have our rooms, and we'll have yours. We'll change." The better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said "Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the question." "Why?" said the old man, with both fists on the table. "Because it is quite out of the question, thank you." "You see, we don't like to take--" began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her. "But why?" he persisted. "Women like looking at a view; men don't." And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son, saying, "George, persuade them!" "It's so obvious they should have the rooms," said the son. "There's nothing else to say." He did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed and sorrowful. Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for what is known as "quite a scene," and she had an odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the contest widened and deepened till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but with--well, with something quite different, whose existence she had not realized before. Now the old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half an hour. Miss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub any one so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked around as much as to say, "Are you all like this?" And two little old ladies, who were sitting further up the table, with shawls hanging over the backs of the chairs, looked back, clearly indicating "We are not; we are genteel." "Eat your dinner, dear," she said to Lucy, and began to toy again with the meat that she had once censured. Lucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite. "Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. To-morrow we will make a change." Hardly had she announced this fell decision when she reversed it. The curtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout but attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table, cheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to her feet, exclaiming: "Oh, oh! Why, it's Mr. Beebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte,	PART ONE Chapter I: The Bertolini "The Signora had no business to do it," said Miss Bartlett, "no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!" "And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora's unexpected accent. "It might be London." She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired."<\|quote\|>"This meat has surely been used for soup,"</\|quote\|>said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. "I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!" "Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view." Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front--" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother--a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion. "No, no. You must have it." "I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy." "She would never forgive me." The ladies' voices grew animated, and--if the sad truth be owned--a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them--one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad--leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said: "I have a view, I have a view." Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would "do" till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness	A Room With A View
Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said,	No speaker	now to walk very well."<\|quote\|>Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said,</\|quote\|>"But where is Fanny? Is	know I am strong enough now to walk very well."<\|quote\|>Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said,</\|quote\|>"But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?" "No,	with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides only for pleasure; _you_ for health." "I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly," said Fanny; "I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong enough now to walk very well."<\|quote\|>Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said,</\|quote\|>"But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?" "No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was here a moment ago." Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa.	in short. She has a great desire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal to it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry to interfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides only for pleasure; _you_ for health." "I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly," said Fanny; "I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong enough now to walk very well."<\|quote\|>Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said,</\|quote\|>"But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?" "No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was here a moment ago." Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began scolding. "That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as _we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor basket.	added Maria, "and her spirits are as good, and she has the same energy of character. I cannot but think that good horsemanship has a great deal to do with the mind." When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant to ride the next day. "No, I do not know not if you want the mare," was her answer. "I do not want her at all for myself," said he; "but whenever you are next inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad to have her a longer time for a whole morning, in short. She has a great desire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal to it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry to interfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides only for pleasure; _you_ for health." "I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly," said Fanny; "I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong enough now to walk very well."<\|quote\|>Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said,</\|quote\|>"But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?" "No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was here a moment ago." Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began scolding. "That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as _we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week, not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. You should learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa." Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table, and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high good-humour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, "I must say, ma'am,	part of the park; her feelings of discomfort not lightened by seeing, as she looked back, that the others were walking down the hill together to the village; nor did her attendant do her much good by his comments on Miss Crawford's great cleverness as a horse-woman, which he had been watching with an interest almost equal to her own. "It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart for riding!" said he. "I never see one sit a horse better. She did not seem to have a thought of fear. Very different from you, miss, when you first began, six years ago come next Easter. Lord bless you! how you did tremble when Sir Thomas first had you put on!" In the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also celebrated. Her merit in being gifted by Nature with strength and courage was fully appreciated by the Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding was like their own; her early excellence in it was like their own, and they had great pleasure in praising it. "I was sure she would ride well," said Julia; "she has the make for it. Her figure is as neat as her brother's." "Yes," added Maria, "and her spirits are as good, and she has the same energy of character. I cannot but think that good horsemanship has a great deal to do with the mind." When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant to ride the next day. "No, I do not know not if you want the mare," was her answer. "I do not want her at all for myself," said he; "but whenever you are next inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad to have her a longer time for a whole morning, in short. She has a great desire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal to it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry to interfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides only for pleasure; _you_ for health." "I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly," said Fanny; "I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong enough now to walk very well."<\|quote\|>Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said,</\|quote\|>"But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?" "No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was here a moment ago." Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began scolding. "That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as _we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week, not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. You should learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa." Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table, and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high good-humour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, "I must say, ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the house." "Fanny," said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, "I am sure you have the headache." She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad. "I can hardly believe you," he replied; "I know your looks too well. How long have you had it?" "Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat." "Did you go out in the heat?" "Go out! to be sure she did," said Mrs. Norris: "would you have her stay within such a fine day as this? Were not we _all_ out? Even your mother was out to-day for above an hour." "Yes, indeed, Edmund," added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand to Fanny; "I was out above an hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the coming home again." "Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?" "Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor	but Mr. Crawford, with all his boasted good-nature, and all his coachmanship, probably knew nothing of the matter, and had no active kindness in comparison of Edmund. She began to think it rather hard upon the mare to have such double duty; if she were forgotten, the poor mare should be remembered. Her feelings for one and the other were soon a little tranquillised by seeing the party in the meadow disperse, and Miss Crawford still on horseback, but attended by Edmund on foot, pass through a gate into the lane, and so into the park, and make towards the spot where she stood. She began then to be afraid of appearing rude and impatient; and walked to meet them with a great anxiety to avoid the suspicion. "My dear Miss Price," said Miss Crawford, as soon as she was at all within hearing, "I am come to make my own apologies for keeping you waiting; but I have nothing in the world to say for myself I knew it was very late, and that I was behaving extremely ill; and therefore, if you please, you must forgive me. Selfishness must always be forgiven, you know, because there is no hope of a cure." Fanny's answer was extremely civil, and Edmund added his conviction that she could be in no hurry. "For there is more than time enough for my cousin to ride twice as far as she ever goes," said he, "and you have been promoting her comfort by preventing her from setting off half an hour sooner: clouds are now coming up, and she will not suffer from the heat as she would have done then. I wish _you_ may not be fatigued by so much exercise. I wish you had saved yourself this walk home." "No part of it fatigues me but getting off this horse, I assure you," said she, as she sprang down with his help; "I am very strong. Nothing ever fatigues me but doing what I do not like. Miss Price, I give way to you with a very bad grace; but I sincerely hope you will have a pleasant ride, and that I may have nothing but good to hear of this dear, delightful, beautiful animal." The old coachman, who had been waiting about with his own horse, now joining them, Fanny was lifted on hers, and they set off across another part of the park; her feelings of discomfort not lightened by seeing, as she looked back, that the others were walking down the hill together to the village; nor did her attendant do her much good by his comments on Miss Crawford's great cleverness as a horse-woman, which he had been watching with an interest almost equal to her own. "It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart for riding!" said he. "I never see one sit a horse better. She did not seem to have a thought of fear. Very different from you, miss, when you first began, six years ago come next Easter. Lord bless you! how you did tremble when Sir Thomas first had you put on!" In the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also celebrated. Her merit in being gifted by Nature with strength and courage was fully appreciated by the Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding was like their own; her early excellence in it was like their own, and they had great pleasure in praising it. "I was sure she would ride well," said Julia; "she has the make for it. Her figure is as neat as her brother's." "Yes," added Maria, "and her spirits are as good, and she has the same energy of character. I cannot but think that good horsemanship has a great deal to do with the mind." When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant to ride the next day. "No, I do not know not if you want the mare," was her answer. "I do not want her at all for myself," said he; "but whenever you are next inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad to have her a longer time for a whole morning, in short. She has a great desire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal to it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry to interfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides only for pleasure; _you_ for health." "I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly," said Fanny; "I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong enough now to walk very well."<\|quote\|>Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said,</\|quote\|>"But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?" "No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was here a moment ago." Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began scolding. "That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as _we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week, not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. You should learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa." Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table, and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high good-humour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, "I must say, ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the house." "Fanny," said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, "I am sure you have the headache." She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad. "I can hardly believe you," he replied; "I know your looks too well. How long have you had it?" "Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat." "Did you go out in the heat?" "Go out! to be sure she did," said Mrs. Norris: "would you have her stay within such a fine day as this? Were not we _all_ out? Even your mother was out to-day for above an hour." "Yes, indeed, Edmund," added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand to Fanny; "I was out above an hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the coming home again." "Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?" "Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! _She_ found it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could not wait." "There was no help for it, certainly," rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a rather softened voice; "but I question whether her headache might not be caught _then_, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as standing and stooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well to-morrow. Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always forget to have mine filled." "She has got it," said Lady Bertram; "she has had it ever since she came back from your house the second time." "What!" cried Edmund; "has she been walking as well as cutting roses; walking across the hot park to your house, and doing it twice, ma'am? No wonder her head aches." Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear. "I was afraid it would be too much for her," said Lady Bertram; "but when the roses were gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and then you know they must be taken home." "But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?" "No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry; and, unluckily, Fanny forgot to lock the door of the room and bring away the key, so she was obliged to go again." Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying, "And could nobody be employed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word, ma'am, it has been a very ill-managed business." "I am sure I do not know how it was to have been done better," cried Mrs. Norris, unable to be longer deaf; "unless I had gone myself, indeed; but I cannot be in two places at once; and I was talking to Mr. Green at that very time about your mother's dairymaid, by _her_ desire, and had promised John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies about his son, and the poor fellow was waiting for me half an hour. I think nobody can justly accuse me of sparing myself upon any occasion, but really I cannot do everything at once. And as for Fanny's just stepping down to my house for me it is not much above a quarter of a mile I cannot think I was unreasonable to ask it. How often do I pace it three times a day, early	She did not seem to have a thought of fear. Very different from you, miss, when you first began, six years ago come next Easter. Lord bless you! how you did tremble when Sir Thomas first had you put on!" In the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also celebrated. Her merit in being gifted by Nature with strength and courage was fully appreciated by the Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding was like their own; her early excellence in it was like their own, and they had great pleasure in praising it. "I was sure she would ride well," said Julia; "she has the make for it. Her figure is as neat as her brother's." "Yes," added Maria, "and her spirits are as good, and she has the same energy of character. I cannot but think that good horsemanship has a great deal to do with the mind." When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant to ride the next day. "No, I do not know not if you want the mare," was her answer. "I do not want her at all for myself," said he; "but whenever you are next inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad to have her a longer time for a whole morning, in short. She has a great desire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal to it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry to interfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides only for pleasure; _you_ for health." "I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly," said Fanny; "I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong enough now to walk very well."<\|quote\|>Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said,</\|quote\|>"But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?" "No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was here a moment ago." Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began scolding. "That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as _we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week, not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. You should learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa." Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table, and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high good-humour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, "I must say, ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the house." "Fanny," said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, "I am sure you have the headache." She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad. "I can hardly believe you," he replied; "I know your looks too well. How long have you had it?" "Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat." "Did you go out in the heat?" "Go out! to be sure she did," said Mrs. Norris: "would you have her stay within such a fine day as this? Were not we _all_ out? Even your mother was out to-day for above an hour." "Yes, indeed, Edmund," added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand to Fanny; "I was out above an hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the coming home again." "Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?" "Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! _She_ found it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could not wait." "There was no help for it, certainly," rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a rather softened voice; "but I question whether her headache might not be caught _then_, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as standing and stooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well to-morrow. Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always forget to have mine filled." "She has got it," said Lady Bertram; "she has had it ever since she came back from your house the second time." "What!" cried Edmund; "has she been walking as well as cutting roses; walking across the hot park to your house, and doing it twice, ma'am? No wonder her head aches." Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear. "I was afraid it would be	Mansfield Park
But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said,	No speaker	is your sash my dear?"<\|quote\|>But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said,</\|quote\|>"What is the matter mamma?	be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?"<\|quote\|>But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said,</\|quote\|>"What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking	be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago." "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?"<\|quote\|>But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said,</\|quote\|>"What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?" "Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty,	and with her hair half finished, crying out, "My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is come.--He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair." "We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago." "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?"<\|quote\|>But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said,</\|quote\|>"What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?" "Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here, my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her intreaty that _she_ would not give into it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door	with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. "Next time you call," said she, "I hope we shall be more lucky." He should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them. "Can you come to-morrow?" Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was accepted with alacrity. He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out, "My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is come.--He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair." "We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago." "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?"<\|quote\|>But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said,</\|quote\|>"What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?" "Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here, my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her intreaty that _she_ would not give into it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out, "Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you." Elizabeth was forced to go. "We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her mother as soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in my dressing-room." Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His	his conversation as an agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied from what his manners now are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing than any other man." "You are very cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me smile, and are provoking me to it every moment." "How hard it is in some cases to be believed!" "And how impossible in others!" "But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I acknowledge?" "That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make _me_ your confidante." CHAPTER XIII. A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. "Next time you call," said she, "I hope we shall be more lucky." He should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them. "Can you come to-morrow?" Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was accepted with alacrity. He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out, "My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is come.--He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair." "We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago." "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?"<\|quote\|>But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said,</\|quote\|>"What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?" "Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here, my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her intreaty that _she_ would not give into it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out, "Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you." Elizabeth was forced to go. "We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her mother as soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in my dressing-room." Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command of countenance, particularly grateful to the daughter. He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband. After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's concurrence. Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley, that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric than the other had ever seen him. Bingley	all her views were overthrown, by seeing him fall a victim to her mother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated with the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure. They were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had nothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side of the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself. Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them. "Well girls," said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, "What say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly well, I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The venison was roasted to a turn--and everybody said, they never saw so fat a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the Lucas's last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges were remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French cooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater beauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And what do you think she said besides?" 'Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her at Netherfield at last.' "She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good a creature as ever lived--and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls, and not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously." Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of Bingley's behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get him at last; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at not seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals. "It has been a very agreeable day," said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. "The party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we may often meet again." Elizabeth smiled. "Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied from what his manners now are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing than any other man." "You are very cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me smile, and are provoking me to it every moment." "How hard it is in some cases to be believed!" "And how impossible in others!" "But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I acknowledge?" "That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make _me_ your confidante." CHAPTER XIII. A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. "Next time you call," said she, "I hope we shall be more lucky." He should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them. "Can you come to-morrow?" Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was accepted with alacrity. He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out, "My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is come.--He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair." "We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago." "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?"<\|quote\|>But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said,</\|quote\|>"What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?" "Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here, my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her intreaty that _she_ would not give into it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out, "Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you." Elizabeth was forced to go. "We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her mother as soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in my dressing-room." Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command of countenance, particularly grateful to the daughter. He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband. After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's concurrence. Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley, that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric than the other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted to counteract her mother's schemes. But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both as they hastily turned round, and moved away from each other, would have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _her's_ she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world. "'Tis too much!" she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?" Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said, for the present. "I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much happiness!" She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at	you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied from what his manners now are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing than any other man." "You are very cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me smile, and are provoking me to it every moment." "How hard it is in some cases to be believed!" "And how impossible in others!" "But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I acknowledge?" "That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make _me_ your confidante." CHAPTER XIII. A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. "Next time you call," said she, "I hope we shall be more lucky." He should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them. "Can you come to-morrow?" Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was accepted with alacrity. He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out, "My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is come.--He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair." "We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago." "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?"<\|quote\|>But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said,</\|quote\|>"What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?" "Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here, my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her intreaty that _she_ would not give into it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out, "Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you." Elizabeth was forced to go. "We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her mother as soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in my dressing-room." Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command of countenance, particularly grateful to the daughter. He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband. After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's concurrence. Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley, that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric than the other had ever seen him. Bingley of	Pride And Prejudice
"My dear Emma,"	Mr. Knightley	neglect in such a cause.<\|quote\|>"My dear Emma,"</\|quote\|>said he at last, with	rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.<\|quote\|>"My dear Emma,"</\|quote\|>said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think	confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.<\|quote\|>"My dear Emma,"</\|quote\|>said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?" "Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?" "Have you never at any time	"The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill." He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference--fruitless interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.<\|quote\|>"My dear Emma,"</\|quote\|>said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?" "Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?" "Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?" "Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--" "Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your head?" "I have lately imagined	duty. "Pray, Emma," said he, "may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other." Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of having ever imparted them. "Oh!" she cried in evident embarrassment, "it all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves." "The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill." He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference--fruitless interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.<\|quote\|>"My dear Emma,"</\|quote\|>said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?" "Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?" "Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?" "Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--" "Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your head?" "I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them--certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be public." "Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander--but it will not do--very sorry to check you in your first essay--but indeed it will not do. There is no admiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances--feelings rather of a totally different nature--it is impossible exactly to explain:--there is a good deal of nonsense in it--but the part which	latter, though Jane had not spoken a word--" "I was just going to say the same thing. It is time for us to be going indeed. The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be looking for us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good night." Jane's alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had preconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table; but so many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr. Knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was afterwards looking for her shawl--Frank Churchill was looking also--it was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted, Mr. Knightley could not tell. He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his observations, he must--yes, he certainly must, as a friend--an anxious friend--give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her in a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was his duty. "Pray, Emma," said he, "may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other." Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of having ever imparted them. "Oh!" she cried in evident embarrassment, "it all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves." "The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill." He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference--fruitless interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.<\|quote\|>"My dear Emma,"</\|quote\|>said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?" "Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?" "Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?" "Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--" "Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your head?" "I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them--certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be public." "Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander--but it will not do--very sorry to check you in your first essay--but indeed it will not do. There is no admiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances--feelings rather of a totally different nature--it is impossible exactly to explain:--there is a good deal of nonsense in it--but the part which is capable of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as far from any attachment or admiration for one another, as any two beings in the world can be. That is, I _presume_ it to be so on her side, and I can _answer_ for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman's indifference." She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction which silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, and would have prolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his suspicions, every look described, and all the wheres and hows of a circumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet hers. He found he could not be useful, and his feelings were too much irritated for talking. That he might not be irritated into an absolute fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse's tender habits required almost every evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty leave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey. CHAPTER VI After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification	was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for help. The word was _blunder_; and as Harriet exultingly proclaimed it, there was a blush on Jane's cheek which gave it a meaning not otherwise ostensible. Mr. Knightley connected it with the dream; but how it could all be, was beyond his comprehension. How the delicacy, the discretion of his favourite could have been so lain asleep! He feared there must be some decided involvement. Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed to meet him at every turn. These letters were but the vehicle for gallantry and trick. It was a child's play, chosen to conceal a deeper game on Frank Churchill's part. With great indignation did he continue to observe him; with great alarm and distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions. He saw a short word prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look sly and demure. He saw that Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly entertaining, though it was something which she judged it proper to appear to censure; for she said, "Nonsense! for shame!" He heard Frank Churchill next say, with a glance towards Jane, "I will give it to her--shall I?" "--and as clearly heard Emma opposing it with eager laughing warmth. "No, no, you must not; you shall not, indeed." It was done however. This gallant young man, who seemed to love without feeling, and to recommend himself without complaisance, directly handed over the word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of sedate civility entreated her to study it. Mr. Knightley's excessive curiosity to know what this word might be, made him seize every possible moment for darting his eye towards it, and it was not long before he saw it to be _Dixon_. Jane Fairfax's perception seemed to accompany his; her comprehension was certainly more equal to the covert meaning, the superior intelligence, of those five letters so arranged. She was evidently displeased; looked up, and seeing herself watched, blushed more deeply than he had ever perceived her, and saying only, "I did not know that proper names were allowed," pushed away the letters with even an angry spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by no other word that could be offered. Her face was averted from those who had made the attack, and turned towards her aunt. "Aye, very true, my dear," cried the latter, though Jane had not spoken a word--" "I was just going to say the same thing. It is time for us to be going indeed. The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be looking for us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good night." Jane's alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had preconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table; but so many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr. Knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was afterwards looking for her shawl--Frank Churchill was looking also--it was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted, Mr. Knightley could not tell. He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his observations, he must--yes, he certainly must, as a friend--an anxious friend--give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her in a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was his duty. "Pray, Emma," said he, "may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other." Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of having ever imparted them. "Oh!" she cried in evident embarrassment, "it all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves." "The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill." He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference--fruitless interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.<\|quote\|>"My dear Emma,"</\|quote\|>said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?" "Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?" "Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?" "Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--" "Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your head?" "I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them--certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be public." "Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander--but it will not do--very sorry to check you in your first essay--but indeed it will not do. There is no admiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances--feelings rather of a totally different nature--it is impossible exactly to explain:--there is a good deal of nonsense in it--but the part which is capable of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as far from any attachment or admiration for one another, as any two beings in the world can be. That is, I _presume_ it to be so on her side, and I can _answer_ for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman's indifference." She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction which silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, and would have prolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his suspicions, every look described, and all the wheres and hows of a circumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet hers. He found he could not be useful, and his feelings were too much irritated for talking. That he might not be irritated into an absolute fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse's tender habits required almost every evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty leave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey. CHAPTER VI After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. No such importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at present. In the daily interchange of news, they must be again restricted to the other topics with which for a while the Sucklings' coming had been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill, whose health seemed every day to supply a different report, and the situation of Mrs. Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might eventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child, as that of all her neighbours was by the approach of it. Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of a great deal of pleasure and parade. Her introductions and recommendations must all wait, and every projected party be still only talked of. So she thought at first;--but a little consideration convinced her that every thing need not be put off. Why should not they explore to Box Hill though the Sucklings did not come? They could go there again with them in the autumn. It was settled that they should go to Box Hill. That there was to be such a party had been long generally known: it had even given the idea of another. Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what every body found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or three more of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings. This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr. Weston that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it was to be, if she had no objection. Now, as her objection was nothing but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must already be perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward again:--it could not be done without a	moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had preconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table; but so many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr. Knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was afterwards looking for her shawl--Frank Churchill was looking also--it was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted, Mr. Knightley could not tell. He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his observations, he must--yes, he certainly must, as a friend--an anxious friend--give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her in a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was his duty. "Pray, Emma," said he, "may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other." Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of having ever imparted them. "Oh!" she cried in evident embarrassment, "it all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves." "The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill." He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference--fruitless interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.<\|quote\|>"My dear Emma,"</\|quote\|>said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?" "Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?" "Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?" "Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--" "Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your head?" "I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them--certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be public." "Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander--but it will not do--very sorry to check you in your first essay--but indeed it will not do. There is no admiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances--feelings rather of a totally different nature--it is impossible exactly to explain:--there is a good deal of nonsense in it--but the part which is capable of being communicated, which is sense, is,	Emma
my companion answered.	No speaker	"I think not, thank you,"<\|quote\|>my companion answered.</\|quote\|>"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones,	about?" asked the convict, affably. "I think not, thank you,"<\|quote\|>my companion answered.</\|quote\|>"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to	boat." "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe at the time." "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that." "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably. "I think not, thank you,"<\|quote\|>my companion answered.</\|quote\|>"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humoured, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we	There is nothing at all new to me in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat." "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe at the time." "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that." "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably. "I think not, thank you,"<\|quote\|>my companion answered.</\|quote\|>"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humoured, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two inspectors downstairs. I am much obliged to you both for your assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to you." "Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small. "You first, Small,"	was some screw loose, but he was not in our secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you, gentlemen, it is not to amuse you, for you have not done me a very good turn, but it is because I believe the best defence I can make is just to hold back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I have myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the death of his son." "A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes. "A fitting wind-up to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat." "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe at the time." "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that." "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably. "I think not, thank you,"<\|quote\|>my companion answered.</\|quote\|>"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humoured, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two inspectors downstairs. I am much obliged to you both for your assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to you." "Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small. "You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room. "I ll take particular care that you don t club me with your wooden leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman Isles." "Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after we had set some time smoking in silence. "I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective." He gave a most dismal groan. "I feared	his way through the roof, but, as ill luck would have it, Bartholomew Sholto was still in the room, to his cost. Tonga thought he had done something very clever in killing him, for when I came up by the rope I found him strutting about as proud as a peacock. Very much surprised was he when I made at him with the rope s end and cursed him for a little blood-thirsty imp. I took the treasure-box and let it down, and then slid down myself, having first left the sign of the four upon the table, to show that the jewels had come back at last to those who had most right to them. Tonga then pulled up the rope, closed the window, and made off the way that he had come." "I don t know that I have anything else to tell you. I had heard a waterman speak of the speed of Smith s launch the _Aurora_, so I thought she would be a handy craft for our escape. I engaged with old Smith, and was to give him a big sum if he got us safe to our ship. He knew, no doubt, that there was some screw loose, but he was not in our secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you, gentlemen, it is not to amuse you, for you have not done me a very good turn, but it is because I believe the best defence I can make is just to hold back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I have myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the death of his son." "A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes. "A fitting wind-up to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat." "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe at the time." "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that." "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably. "I think not, thank you,"<\|quote\|>my companion answered.</\|quote\|>"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humoured, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two inspectors downstairs. I am much obliged to you both for your assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to you." "Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small. "You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room. "I ll take particular care that you don t club me with your wooden leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman Isles." "Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after we had set some time smoking in silence. "I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective." He gave a most dismal groan. "I feared as much," said he. "I really cannot congratulate you." I was a little hurt. "Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my choice?" I asked. "Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have been doing. She had a decided genius that way: witness the way in which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father. But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment." "I trust," said I, laughing, "that my judgment may survive the ordeal. But you look weary." "Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be as limp as a rag for a week." "Strange," said I, "how terms of what in another man I should call laziness alternate with your fits of splendid energy and vigour." "Yes," he answered, "there are in me the makings of a very fine loafer and also of a pretty spry sort of fellow. I often think of those	his sons and his khitmutgar, on guard over him." "One day, however, I got word that he was dying. I hurried at once to the garden, mad that he should slip out of my clutches like that, and, looking through the window, I saw him lying in his bed, with his sons on each side of him. I d have come through and taken my chance with the three of them, only even as I looked at him his jaw dropped, and I knew that he was gone. I got into his room that same night, though, and I searched his papers to see if there was any record of where he had hidden our jewels. There was not a line, however: so I came away, bitter and savage as a man could be. Before I left I bethought me that if I ever met my Sikh friends again it would be a satisfaction to know that I had left some mark of our hatred; so I scrawled down the sign of the four of us, as it had been on the chart, and I pinned it on his bosom. It was too much that he should be taken to the grave without some token from the men whom he had robbed and befooled." "We earned a living at this time by my exhibiting poor Tonga at fairs and other such places as the black cannibal. He would eat raw meat and dance his war-dance: so we always had a hatful of pennies after a day s work. I still heard all the news from Pondicherry Lodge, and for some years there was no news to hear, except that they were hunting for the treasure. At last, however, came what we had waited for so long. The treasure had been found. It was up at the top of the house, in Mr. Bartholomew Sholto s chemical laboratory. I came at once and had a look at the place, but I could not see how with my wooden leg I was to make my way up to it. I learned, however, about a trap-door in the roof, and also about Mr. Sholto s supper-hour. It seemed to me that I could manage the thing easily through Tonga. I brought him out with me with a long rope wound round his waist. He could climb like a cat, and he soon made his way through the roof, but, as ill luck would have it, Bartholomew Sholto was still in the room, to his cost. Tonga thought he had done something very clever in killing him, for when I came up by the rope I found him strutting about as proud as a peacock. Very much surprised was he when I made at him with the rope s end and cursed him for a little blood-thirsty imp. I took the treasure-box and let it down, and then slid down myself, having first left the sign of the four upon the table, to show that the jewels had come back at last to those who had most right to them. Tonga then pulled up the rope, closed the window, and made off the way that he had come." "I don t know that I have anything else to tell you. I had heard a waterman speak of the speed of Smith s launch the _Aurora_, so I thought she would be a handy craft for our escape. I engaged with old Smith, and was to give him a big sum if he got us safe to our ship. He knew, no doubt, that there was some screw loose, but he was not in our secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you, gentlemen, it is not to amuse you, for you have not done me a very good turn, but it is because I believe the best defence I can make is just to hold back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I have myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the death of his son." "A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes. "A fitting wind-up to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat." "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe at the time." "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that." "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably. "I think not, thank you,"<\|quote\|>my companion answered.</\|quote\|>"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humoured, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two inspectors downstairs. I am much obliged to you both for your assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to you." "Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small. "You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room. "I ll take particular care that you don t club me with your wooden leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman Isles." "Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after we had set some time smoking in silence. "I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective." He gave a most dismal groan. "I feared as much," said he. "I really cannot congratulate you." I was a little hurt. "Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my choice?" I asked. "Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have been doing. She had a decided genius that way: witness the way in which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father. But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment." "I trust," said I, laughing, "that my judgment may survive the ordeal. But you look weary." "Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be as limp as a rag for a week." "Strange," said I, "how terms of what in another man I should call laziness alternate with your fits of splendid energy and vigour." "Yes," he answered, "there are in me the makings of a very fine loafer and also of a pretty spry sort of fellow. I often think of those lines of old Goethe," Schade dass die Natur nur _einen_ Mensch aus Dir schuf, Denn zum w rdigen Mann war und zum Schelmen der Stoff. "By the way, _ propos_ of this Norwood business, you see that they had, as I surmised, a confederate in the house, who could be none other than Lal Rao, the butler: so Jones actually has the undivided honour of having caught one fish in his great haul." "The division seems rather unfair," I remarked. "You have done all the work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the credit, pray what remains for you?" "For me," said Sherlock Holmes, "there still remains the cocaine-bottle." And he stretched his long white hand up for it.	made off the way that he had come." "I don t know that I have anything else to tell you. I had heard a waterman speak of the speed of Smith s launch the _Aurora_, so I thought she would be a handy craft for our escape. I engaged with old Smith, and was to give him a big sum if he got us safe to our ship. He knew, no doubt, that there was some screw loose, but he was not in our secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you, gentlemen, it is not to amuse you, for you have not done me a very good turn, but it is because I believe the best defence I can make is just to hold back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I have myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the death of his son." "A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes. "A fitting wind-up to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat." "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe at the time." "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that." "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably. "I think not, thank you,"<\|quote\|>my companion answered.</\|quote\|>"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humoured, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two inspectors downstairs. I am much obliged to you both for your assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to you." "Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small. "You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room. "I ll take particular care that you don t club me with your wooden leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman Isles." "Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after we had set some time smoking in silence. "I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective." He gave a most dismal groan. "I feared as much," said he. "I really cannot congratulate you." I was a little hurt. "Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my choice?" I asked. "Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have been doing. She had a decided genius that way: witness the way in which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father.	The Sign Of The Four
"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,"	General Tilney	sir, as you came in."<\|quote\|>"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,"</\|quote\|>he continued, without leaving his	beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in."<\|quote\|>"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,"</\|quote\|>he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, "has	might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?" "I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in."<\|quote\|>"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,"</\|quote\|>he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, "has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se nnight. A letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope of	very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known this before" "Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you would be so good it would make me very happy if" The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?" "I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in."<\|quote\|>"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,"</\|quote\|>he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, "has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se nnight. A letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit	quitting Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment. Catherine s countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney s concluding words, "By the end of another week!" "Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home." "I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known this before" "Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you would be so good it would make me very happy if" The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?" "I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in."<\|quote\|>"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,"</\|quote\|>he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, "has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se nnight. A letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as yours but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond expression. Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither by amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as	her acquaintance with the Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance. Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense, and everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should be taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to produce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney made but a small part of Catherine s speculation. Once or twice indeed, since James s engagement had taught her what _could_ be done, she had got so far as to indulge in a secret "perhaps," but in general the felicity of being with him for the present bounded her views: the present was now comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for that period, the rest of her life was at such a distance as to excite but little interest. In the course of the morning which saw this business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had she expressed her delight in Mr. Allen s lengthened stay than Miss Tilney told her of her father s having just determined upon quitting Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment. Catherine s countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney s concluding words, "By the end of another week!" "Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home." "I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known this before" "Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you would be so good it would make me very happy if" The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?" "I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in."<\|quote\|>"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,"</\|quote\|>he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, "has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se nnight. A letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as yours but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond expression. Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither by amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain and unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable." Northanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine s feelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her company so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her acceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma s approbation, was eagerly given. "I will write home directly," said she, "and if they do not object, as I dare say they will not" General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her excellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of his wishes. "Since they can consent to part with you," said he, "we may expect philosophy from all the world." Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities, and the affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this necessary reference to Fullerton would allow. The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine s	was a young woman so beloved as you are by everybody that knows you; and I dare say when Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child but do not let us distress our dear Catherine by talking of such things. Mr. Morland has behaved so very handsome, you know. I always heard he was a most excellent man; and you know, my dear, we are not to suppose but what, if you had had a suitable fortune, he would have come down with something more, for I am sure he must be a most liberal-minded man." "Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do, I am sure. But everybody has their failing, you know, and everybody has a right to do what they like with their own money." Catherine was hurt by these insinuations. "I am very sure," said she, "that my father has promised to do as much as he can afford." Isabella recollected herself. "As to that, my sweet Catherine, there cannot be a doubt, and you know me well enough to be sure that a much smaller income would satisfy me. It is not the want of more money that makes me just at present a little out of spirits; I hate money; and if our union could take place now upon only fifty pounds a year, I should not have a wish unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have found me out. There s the sting. The long, long, endless two years and half that are to pass before your brother can hold the living." "Yes, yes, my darling Isabella," said Mrs. Thorpe, "we perfectly see into your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the present vexation; and everybody must love you the better for such a noble honest affection." Catherine s uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured to believe that the delay of the marriage was the only source of Isabella s regret; and when she saw her at their next interview as cheerful and amiable as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a minute thought otherwise. James soon followed his letter, and was received with the most gratifying kindness. CHAPTER 17 The Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and whether it should be the last was for some time a question, to which Catherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with the Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance. Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense, and everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should be taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to produce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney made but a small part of Catherine s speculation. Once or twice indeed, since James s engagement had taught her what _could_ be done, she had got so far as to indulge in a secret "perhaps," but in general the felicity of being with him for the present bounded her views: the present was now comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for that period, the rest of her life was at such a distance as to excite but little interest. In the course of the morning which saw this business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had she expressed her delight in Mr. Allen s lengthened stay than Miss Tilney told her of her father s having just determined upon quitting Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment. Catherine s countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney s concluding words, "By the end of another week!" "Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home." "I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known this before" "Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you would be so good it would make me very happy if" The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?" "I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in."<\|quote\|>"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,"</\|quote\|>he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, "has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se nnight. A letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as yours but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond expression. Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither by amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain and unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable." Northanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine s feelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her company so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her acceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma s approbation, was eagerly given. "I will write home directly," said she, "and if they do not object, as I dare say they will not" General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her excellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of his wishes. "Since they can consent to part with you," said he, "we may expect philosophy from all the world." Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities, and the affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this necessary reference to Fullerton would allow. The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine s feelings through the varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they were now safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture, with Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she hurried home to write her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland, relying on the discretion of the friends to whom they had already entrusted their daughter, felt no doubt of the propriety of an acquaintance which had been formed under their eye, and sent therefore by return of post their ready consent to her visit in Gloucestershire. This indulgence, though not more than Catherine had hoped for, completed her conviction of being favoured beyond every other human creature, in friends and fortune, circumstance and chance. Everything seemed to cooperate for her advantage. By the kindness of her first friends, the Allens, she had been introduced into scenes where pleasures of every kind had met her. Her feelings, her preferences, had each known the happiness of a return. Wherever she felt attachment, she had been able to create it. The affection of Isabella was to be secured to her in a sister. The Tilneys, they, by whom, above all, she desired to be favourably thought of, outstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures by which their intimacy was to be continued. She was to be their chosen visitor, she was to be for weeks under the same roof with the person whose society she mostly prized and, in addition to all the rest, this roof was to be the roof of an abbey! Her passion for ancient edifices was next in degree to her passion for Henry Tilney and castles and abbeys made usually the charm of those reveries which his image did not fill. To see and explore either the ramparts and keep of the one, or the cloisters of the other, had been for many weeks a darling wish, though to be more than the visitor of an hour had seemed too nearly impossible for desire. And yet, this was to happen. With all the chances against her of house, hall, place, park, court, and cottage, Northanger turned up an abbey, and she was to be its inhabitant. Its long, damp passages, its narrow cells and ruined chapel, were to be within her daily reach, and she could not entirely subdue the hope of some traditional legends, some awful memorials of an injured	unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have found me out. There s the sting. The long, long, endless two years and half that are to pass before your brother can hold the living." "Yes, yes, my darling Isabella," said Mrs. Thorpe, "we perfectly see into your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the present vexation; and everybody must love you the better for such a noble honest affection." Catherine s uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured to believe that the delay of the marriage was the only source of Isabella s regret; and when she saw her at their next interview as cheerful and amiable as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a minute thought otherwise. James soon followed his letter, and was received with the most gratifying kindness. CHAPTER 17 The Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and whether it should be the last was for some time a question, to which Catherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with the Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance. Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense, and everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should be taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to produce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney made but a small part of Catherine s speculation. Once or twice indeed, since James s engagement had taught her what _could_ be done, she had got so far as to indulge in a secret "perhaps," but in general the felicity of being with him for the present bounded her views: the present was now comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for that period, the rest of her life was at such a distance as to excite but little interest. In the course of the morning which saw this business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had she expressed her delight in Mr. Allen s lengthened stay than Miss Tilney told her of her father s having just determined upon quitting Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment. Catherine s countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney s concluding words, "By the end of another week!" "Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home." "I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known this before" "Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you would be so good it would make me very happy if" The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?" "I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in."<\|quote\|>"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,"</\|quote\|>he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, "has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se nnight. A letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as yours but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond expression. Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither by amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain and unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable." Northanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine s feelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her company so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her acceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma s approbation, was eagerly given. "I will write home directly," said she, "and if they do not object, as I dare say they will not" General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her excellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of his wishes. "Since they can consent to part with you," said he, "we may expect philosophy from all the world." Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities, and the affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this necessary reference to Fullerton would allow. The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine s feelings through the varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they were now safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture, with Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she hurried home to write her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland, relying on the discretion of the friends to whom they had already entrusted their daughter, felt no doubt of the propriety of an acquaintance which had been	Northanger Abbey
"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"	Catherine Morland	the same kind for you."<\|quote\|>"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"</\|quote\|>"I will read you their	ten or twelve more of the same kind for you."<\|quote\|>"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"</\|quote\|>"I will read you their names directly; here they are,	would not have come away from it for all the world." "Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you."<\|quote\|>"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"</\|quote\|>"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time." "Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure	be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina s skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world." "Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you."<\|quote\|>"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"</\|quote\|>"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time." "Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?" "Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is netting herself the	window in Milsom Street just now very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?" "Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the black veil." "Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?" "Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me I would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina s skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world." "Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you."<\|quote\|>"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"</\|quote\|>"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time." "Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?" "Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it." "Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?" "Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night,	pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine days, is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of the delicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which marked the reasonableness of that attachment. They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five minutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, "My dearest creature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at least this age!" "Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?" "Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half hour. But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy ourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place, I was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off; it looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do you know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in Milsom Street just now very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?" "Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the black veil." "Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?" "Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me I would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina s skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world." "Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you."<\|quote\|>"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"</\|quote\|>"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time." "Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?" "Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it." "Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?" "Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for _you_ are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men." "Oh, dear!" cried Catherine, colouring. "How can you say so?" "I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly I am sure he is in love with you." Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella laughed. "It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody s admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you" speaking more seriously "your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is	to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers. And while the abilities of the nine-hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the man who collects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper from the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogized by a thousand pens there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them. "I am no novel-reader I seldom look into novels Do not imagine that _I_ often read novels It is really very well for a novel." Such is the common cant. "And what are you reading, Miss ?" "Oh! It is only a novel!" replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. "It is only Cecilia, or Camilla, or Belinda"; or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language. Now, had the same young lady been engaged with a volume of the Spectator, instead of such a work, how proudly would she have produced the book, and told its name; though the chances must be against her being occupied by any part of that voluminous publication, of which either the matter or manner would not disgust a young person of taste: the substance of its papers so often consisting in the statement of improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics of conversation which no longer concern anyone living; and their language, too, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea of the age that could endure it. CHAPTER 6 The following conversation, which took place between the two friends in the pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine days, is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of the delicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which marked the reasonableness of that attachment. They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five minutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, "My dearest creature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at least this age!" "Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?" "Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half hour. But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy ourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place, I was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off; it looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do you know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in Milsom Street just now very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?" "Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the black veil." "Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?" "Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me I would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina s skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world." "Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you."<\|quote\|>"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"</\|quote\|>"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time." "Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?" "Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it." "Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?" "Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for _you_ are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men." "Oh, dear!" cried Catherine, colouring. "How can you say so?" "I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly I am sure he is in love with you." Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella laughed. "It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody s admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you" speaking more seriously "your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend your feelings." "But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr. Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again." "Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so!" "No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very much pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina s skeleton behind it." "It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before; but I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels." "No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself; but new books do not fall in our way." "Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume." "It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very entertaining." "Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable. But, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head tonight? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you. The men take notice of _that_ sometimes, you know." "But it does not signify if they do," said Catherine, very innocently. "Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say. They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with spirit, and make them keep their distance." "Are they? Well, I never observed _that_. They always behave very well to me." "Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited creatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance! By the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always forgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you like them best dark or fair?" "I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both, I think. Brown	let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy ourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place, I was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off; it looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do you know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in Milsom Street just now very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?" "Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the black veil." "Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?" "Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me I would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina s skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world." "Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you."<\|quote\|>"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"</\|quote\|>"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time." "Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?" "Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it." "Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?" "Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for _you_ are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men." "Oh, dear!" cried Catherine, colouring. "How can you say so?" "I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly I am sure he is in love with	Northanger Abbey

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he said calmly.	No speaker	what is in this letter,"<\|quote\|>he said calmly.</\|quote\|>"No one shall, Maurice; come,	no one must ever know what is in this letter,"<\|quote\|>he said calmly.</\|quote\|>"No one shall, Maurice; come, let us burn it." "Burn	God," he moaned, "my brother, my brother!" "'Sh, dearie, think--it 's--it 's--Frank." "That 's it, that 's it--that 's what I can't forget. It 's Frank,--Frank, my brother." Suddenly he sat up and his eyes stared straight into hers. "Leslie, no one must ever know what is in this letter,"<\|quote\|>he said calmly.</\|quote\|>"No one shall, Maurice; come, let us burn it." "Burn it? No, no," he cried, clutching at his breast. "It must not be burned. What! burn my brother's secret? No, no, I must carry it with me,--carry it with me to the grave." "But, Maurice----" "I must carry it with	me. Oh, Frank, Frank, Frank!" "Never mind, Maurice. It is as if you alone knew it." "It is not, I say, it is not!" He turned upon his face and began to weep passionately, not like a man, but like a child whose last toy has been broken. "Oh, my God," he moaned, "my brother, my brother!" "'Sh, dearie, think--it 's--it 's--Frank." "That 's it, that 's it--that 's what I can't forget. It 's Frank,--Frank, my brother." Suddenly he sat up and his eyes stared straight into hers. "Leslie, no one must ever know what is in this letter,"<\|quote\|>he said calmly.</\|quote\|>"No one shall, Maurice; come, let us burn it." "Burn it? No, no," he cried, clutching at his breast. "It must not be burned. What! burn my brother's secret? No, no, I must carry it with me,--carry it with me to the grave." "But, Maurice----" "I must carry it with me." She saw that he was overwrought, and so did not argue with him. When the doctor came, he found Maurice Oakley in bed, but better. The medical man diagnosed the case and decided that he had received some severe shock. He feared too for his heart, for the patient	she ministered to his needs pending the doctor's arrival. She bathed his face and temples, chafed his hands, and forced the brandy between his lips. Finally he stirred and his hands gripped. "The letter!" he gasped. "Yes, dear, I have it; I have it." "Give it to me," he cried. She handed it to him. He seized it and thrust it into his breast. "Did--did--you read it?" "Yes, I did not know----" "Oh, my God, I did not intend that you should see it. I wanted the secret for my own. I wanted to carry it to my grave with me. Oh, Frank, Frank, Frank!" "Never mind, Maurice. It is as if you alone knew it." "It is not, I say, it is not!" He turned upon his face and began to weep passionately, not like a man, but like a child whose last toy has been broken. "Oh, my God," he moaned, "my brother, my brother!" "'Sh, dearie, think--it 's--it 's--Frank." "That 's it, that 's it--that 's what I can't forget. It 's Frank,--Frank, my brother." Suddenly he sat up and his eyes stared straight into hers. "Leslie, no one must ever know what is in this letter,"<\|quote\|>he said calmly.</\|quote\|>"No one shall, Maurice; come, let us burn it." "Burn it? No, no," he cried, clutching at his breast. "It must not be burned. What! burn my brother's secret? No, no, I must carry it with me,--carry it with me to the grave." "But, Maurice----" "I must carry it with me." She saw that he was overwrought, and so did not argue with him. When the doctor came, he found Maurice Oakley in bed, but better. The medical man diagnosed the case and decided that he had received some severe shock. He feared too for his heart, for the patient constantly held his hands pressed against his bosom. In vain the doctor pleaded; he would not take them down, and when the wife added her word, the physician gave up, and after prescribing, left, much puzzled in mind. "It 's a strange case," he said; "there 's something more than the nervous shock that makes him clutch his chest like that, and yet I have never noticed signs of heart trouble in Oakley. Oh, well, business worry will produce anything in anybody." It was soon common talk about the town about Maurice Oakley's attack. In the seclusion of his chamber	catastrophe came. I wanted much to carry back to her. I gambled to make more. I would surprise her. Luck was against me. Night after night I lost. Then, just before the dinner, I woke from my frenzy to find all that I had was gone. I would have asked you for more, and you would have given it; but that strange, ridiculous something which we misname Southern honour, that honour which strains at a gnat and swallows a camel, withheld me, and I preferred to do worse. So I lied to you. The money from my cabinet was not stolen save by myself. I am a liar and a thief, but your eyes shall never tell me so." "Tell the truth and have Berry released. I can stand it. Write me but one letter to tell me of this. Do not plead with me, do not forgive me, do not seek to find me, for from this time I shall be as one who has perished from the earth; I shall be no more." "Your brother, FRANK." By the time the servants came they found Mrs. Oakley as white as her lord. But with firm hands and compressed lips she ministered to his needs pending the doctor's arrival. She bathed his face and temples, chafed his hands, and forced the brandy between his lips. Finally he stirred and his hands gripped. "The letter!" he gasped. "Yes, dear, I have it; I have it." "Give it to me," he cried. She handed it to him. He seized it and thrust it into his breast. "Did--did--you read it?" "Yes, I did not know----" "Oh, my God, I did not intend that you should see it. I wanted the secret for my own. I wanted to carry it to my grave with me. Oh, Frank, Frank, Frank!" "Never mind, Maurice. It is as if you alone knew it." "It is not, I say, it is not!" He turned upon his face and began to weep passionately, not like a man, but like a child whose last toy has been broken. "Oh, my God," he moaned, "my brother, my brother!" "'Sh, dearie, think--it 's--it 's--Frank." "That 's it, that 's it--that 's what I can't forget. It 's Frank,--Frank, my brother." Suddenly he sat up and his eyes stared straight into hers. "Leslie, no one must ever know what is in this letter,"<\|quote\|>he said calmly.</\|quote\|>"No one shall, Maurice; come, let us burn it." "Burn it? No, no," he cried, clutching at his breast. "It must not be burned. What! burn my brother's secret? No, no, I must carry it with me,--carry it with me to the grave." "But, Maurice----" "I must carry it with me." She saw that he was overwrought, and so did not argue with him. When the doctor came, he found Maurice Oakley in bed, but better. The medical man diagnosed the case and decided that he had received some severe shock. He feared too for his heart, for the patient constantly held his hands pressed against his bosom. In vain the doctor pleaded; he would not take them down, and when the wife added her word, the physician gave up, and after prescribing, left, much puzzled in mind. "It 's a strange case," he said; "there 's something more than the nervous shock that makes him clutch his chest like that, and yet I have never noticed signs of heart trouble in Oakley. Oh, well, business worry will produce anything in anybody." It was soon common talk about the town about Maurice Oakley's attack. In the seclusion of his chamber he was saying to his wife: "Ah, Leslie, you and I will keep the secret. No one shall ever know." "Yes, dear, but--but--what of Berry?" "What of Berry?" he cried, starting up excitedly. "What is Berry to Frank? What is that nigger to my brother? What are his sufferings to the honour of my family and name?" "Never mind, Maurice, never mind, you are right." "It must never be known, I say, if Berry has to rot in jail." So they wrote a lie to Frank, and buried the secret in their breasts, and Oakley wore its visible form upon his heart. XIV FRANKENSTEIN Five years is but a short time in the life of a man, and yet many things may happen therein. For instance, the whole way of a family's life may be changed. Good natures may be made into bad ones and out of a soul of faith grow a spirit of unbelief. The independence of respectability may harden into the insolence of defiance, and the sensitive cheek of modesty into the brazen face of shamelessness. It may be true that the habits of years are hard to change, but this is not true of the first	mentioned the matter, I did not know that Berry was in prison, else this letter would have been written sooner. I have been wanting to write it for so long, and yet have been too great a coward to do so." "I know that you will be disappointed in me, and just what that disappointment will cost you I know; but you must hear the truth. I shall never see your face again, or I should not dare to tell it even now. You will remember that I begged you to be easy on your servant. You thought it was only my kindness of heart. It was not; I had a deeper reason. I knew where the money had gone and dared not tell. Berry is as innocent as yourself--and I--well, it is a story, and let me tell it to you." "You have had so much confidence in me, and I hate to tell you that it was all misplaced. I have no doubt that I should not be doing it now but that I have drunken absinthe enough to give me the emotional point of view, which I shall regret to-morrow. I do not mean that I am drunk. I can think clearly and write clearly, but my emotions are extremely active." "Do you remember Claire's saying at the table that night of the farewell dinner that some dark-eyed mademoiselle was waiting for me? She did not know how truly she spoke, though I fancy she saw how I flushed when she said it: for I was already in love--madly so." "I need not describe her. I need say nothing about her, for I know that nothing I say can ever persuade you to forgive her for taking me from you. This has gone on since I first came here, and I dared not tell you, for I saw whither your eyes had turned. I loved this girl, and she both inspired and hindered my work. Perhaps I would have been successful had I not met her, perhaps not." "I love her too well to marry her and make of our devotion a stale, prosy thing of duty and compulsion. When a man does not marry a woman, he must keep her better than he would a wife. It costs. All that you gave me went to make her happy." "Then, when I was about leaving you, the catastrophe came. I wanted much to carry back to her. I gambled to make more. I would surprise her. Luck was against me. Night after night I lost. Then, just before the dinner, I woke from my frenzy to find all that I had was gone. I would have asked you for more, and you would have given it; but that strange, ridiculous something which we misname Southern honour, that honour which strains at a gnat and swallows a camel, withheld me, and I preferred to do worse. So I lied to you. The money from my cabinet was not stolen save by myself. I am a liar and a thief, but your eyes shall never tell me so." "Tell the truth and have Berry released. I can stand it. Write me but one letter to tell me of this. Do not plead with me, do not forgive me, do not seek to find me, for from this time I shall be as one who has perished from the earth; I shall be no more." "Your brother, FRANK." By the time the servants came they found Mrs. Oakley as white as her lord. But with firm hands and compressed lips she ministered to his needs pending the doctor's arrival. She bathed his face and temples, chafed his hands, and forced the brandy between his lips. Finally he stirred and his hands gripped. "The letter!" he gasped. "Yes, dear, I have it; I have it." "Give it to me," he cried. She handed it to him. He seized it and thrust it into his breast. "Did--did--you read it?" "Yes, I did not know----" "Oh, my God, I did not intend that you should see it. I wanted the secret for my own. I wanted to carry it to my grave with me. Oh, Frank, Frank, Frank!" "Never mind, Maurice. It is as if you alone knew it." "It is not, I say, it is not!" He turned upon his face and began to weep passionately, not like a man, but like a child whose last toy has been broken. "Oh, my God," he moaned, "my brother, my brother!" "'Sh, dearie, think--it 's--it 's--Frank." "That 's it, that 's it--that 's what I can't forget. It 's Frank,--Frank, my brother." Suddenly he sat up and his eyes stared straight into hers. "Leslie, no one must ever know what is in this letter,"<\|quote\|>he said calmly.</\|quote\|>"No one shall, Maurice; come, let us burn it." "Burn it? No, no," he cried, clutching at his breast. "It must not be burned. What! burn my brother's secret? No, no, I must carry it with me,--carry it with me to the grave." "But, Maurice----" "I must carry it with me." She saw that he was overwrought, and so did not argue with him. When the doctor came, he found Maurice Oakley in bed, but better. The medical man diagnosed the case and decided that he had received some severe shock. He feared too for his heart, for the patient constantly held his hands pressed against his bosom. In vain the doctor pleaded; he would not take them down, and when the wife added her word, the physician gave up, and after prescribing, left, much puzzled in mind. "It 's a strange case," he said; "there 's something more than the nervous shock that makes him clutch his chest like that, and yet I have never noticed signs of heart trouble in Oakley. Oh, well, business worry will produce anything in anybody." It was soon common talk about the town about Maurice Oakley's attack. In the seclusion of his chamber he was saying to his wife: "Ah, Leslie, you and I will keep the secret. No one shall ever know." "Yes, dear, but--but--what of Berry?" "What of Berry?" he cried, starting up excitedly. "What is Berry to Frank? What is that nigger to my brother? What are his sufferings to the honour of my family and name?" "Never mind, Maurice, never mind, you are right." "It must never be known, I say, if Berry has to rot in jail." So they wrote a lie to Frank, and buried the secret in their breasts, and Oakley wore its visible form upon his heart. XIV FRANKENSTEIN Five years is but a short time in the life of a man, and yet many things may happen therein. For instance, the whole way of a family's life may be changed. Good natures may be made into bad ones and out of a soul of faith grow a spirit of unbelief. The independence of respectability may harden into the insolence of defiance, and the sensitive cheek of modesty into the brazen face of shamelessness. It may be true that the habits of years are hard to change, but this is not true of the first sixteen or seventeen years of a young person's life, else Kitty Hamilton and Joe could not so easily have become what they were. It had taken barely five years to accomplish an entire metamorphosis of their characters. In Joe's case even a shorter time was needed. He was so ready to go down that it needed but a gentle push to start him, and once started, there was nothing within him to hold him back from the depths. For his will was as flabby as his conscience, and his pride, which stands to some men for conscience, had no definite aim or direction. Hattie Sterling had given him both his greatest impulse for evil and for good. She had at first given him his gentle push, but when she saw that his collapse would lose her a faithful and useful slave she had sought to check his course. Her threat of the severance of their relations had held him up for a little time, and she began to believe that he was safe again. He went back to the work he had neglected, drank moderately, and acted in most things as a sound, sensible being. Then, all of a sudden, he went down again, and went down badly. She kept her promise and threw him over. Then he became a hanger-on at the clubs, a genteel loafer. He used to say in his sober moments that at last he was one of the boys that Sadness had spoken of. He did not work, and yet he lived and ate and was proud of his degradation. But he soon tired of being separated from Hattie, and straightened up again. After some demur she received him upon his former footing. It was only for a few months. He fell again. For almost four years this had happened intermittently. Finally he took a turn for the better that endured so long that Hattie Sterling again gave him her faith. Then the woman made her mistake. She warmed to him. She showed him that she was proud of him. He went forth at once to celebrate his victory. He did not return to her for three days. Then he was battered, unkempt, and thick of speech. She looked at him in silent contempt for a while as he sat nursing his aching head. "Well, you 're a beauty," she said finally with cutting scorn.	duty and compulsion. When a man does not marry a woman, he must keep her better than he would a wife. It costs. All that you gave me went to make her happy." "Then, when I was about leaving you, the catastrophe came. I wanted much to carry back to her. I gambled to make more. I would surprise her. Luck was against me. Night after night I lost. Then, just before the dinner, I woke from my frenzy to find all that I had was gone. I would have asked you for more, and you would have given it; but that strange, ridiculous something which we misname Southern honour, that honour which strains at a gnat and swallows a camel, withheld me, and I preferred to do worse. So I lied to you. The money from my cabinet was not stolen save by myself. I am a liar and a thief, but your eyes shall never tell me so." "Tell the truth and have Berry released. I can stand it. Write me but one letter to tell me of this. Do not plead with me, do not forgive me, do not seek to find me, for from this time I shall be as one who has perished from the earth; I shall be no more." "Your brother, FRANK." By the time the servants came they found Mrs. Oakley as white as her lord. But with firm hands and compressed lips she ministered to his needs pending the doctor's arrival. She bathed his face and temples, chafed his hands, and forced the brandy between his lips. Finally he stirred and his hands gripped. "The letter!" he gasped. "Yes, dear, I have it; I have it." "Give it to me," he cried. She handed it to him. He seized it and thrust it into his breast. "Did--did--you read it?" "Yes, I did not know----" "Oh, my God, I did not intend that you should see it. I wanted the secret for my own. I wanted to carry it to my grave with me. Oh, Frank, Frank, Frank!" "Never mind, Maurice. It is as if you alone knew it." "It is not, I say, it is not!" He turned upon his face and began to weep passionately, not like a man, but like a child whose last toy has been broken. "Oh, my God," he moaned, "my brother, my brother!" "'Sh, dearie, think--it 's--it 's--Frank." "That 's it, that 's it--that 's what I can't forget. It 's Frank,--Frank, my brother." Suddenly he sat up and his eyes stared straight into hers. "Leslie, no one must ever know what is in this letter,"<\|quote\|>he said calmly.</\|quote\|>"No one shall, Maurice; come, let us burn it." "Burn it? No, no," he cried, clutching at his breast. "It must not be burned. What! burn my brother's secret? No, no, I must carry it with me,--carry it with me to the grave." "But, Maurice----" "I must carry it with me." She saw that he was overwrought, and so did not argue with him. When the doctor came, he found Maurice Oakley in bed, but better. The medical man diagnosed the case and decided that he had received some severe shock. He feared too for his heart, for the patient constantly held his hands pressed against his bosom. In vain the doctor pleaded; he would not take them down, and when the wife added her word, the physician gave up, and after prescribing, left, much puzzled in mind. "It 's a strange case," he said; "there 's something more than the nervous shock that makes him clutch his chest like that, and yet I have never noticed signs of heart trouble in Oakley. Oh, well, business worry will produce anything in anybody." It was soon common talk about the town about Maurice Oakley's attack. In the seclusion of his chamber he was saying to his wife: "Ah, Leslie, you and I will	The Sport Of The Gods
“Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.”	Theign	give way to her sincerity.<\|quote\|>“Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.”</\|quote\|>“But you said a moment	her cry, but appeared to give way to her sincerity.<\|quote\|>“Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.”</\|quote\|>“But you said a moment ago that I should all	but after an instant, as moved by more things than she could say--moved above all, in her trouble and her pity for him, by other things than harshness: “Oh father, father, father----!” He searched her through all the compassion of her cry, but appeared to give way to her sincerity.<\|quote\|>“Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.”</\|quote\|>“But you said a moment ago that I should all the more in the other case--that of there _being_ something!” He brushed away her logic-chopping. “If you’re so keen then for past remarks I take up your own words--I accept your own terms for your putting an end to Mr.	one: because you were (yes, you _were!_) encouraging. And what I ask of you now is a word of common candour as to whether you didn’t, on your honour, turn him off because of your just then so stimulated views on the person who has been with us.” Grace replied but after an instant, as moved by more things than she could say--moved above all, in her trouble and her pity for him, by other things than harshness: “Oh father, father, father----!” He searched her through all the compassion of her cry, but appeared to give way to her sincerity.<\|quote\|>“Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.”</\|quote\|>“But you said a moment ago that I should all the more in the other case--that of there _being_ something!” He brushed away her logic-chopping. “If you’re so keen then for past remarks I take up your own words--I accept your own terms for your putting an end to Mr. Crimble.” To which, while, turning pale, she said nothing, he added: “You recognise that you profess yourself ready----” “Not again to see him,” she now answered, “if you tell me the picture’s safe? Yes, I recognise that I _was_ ready--as well as how scornfully little you then were!” “Never mind	so wildly worked yourself up.” “Yes, I’ve worked myself--that, I grant you and don’t blush for! But hardly so much as to renounce my ‘lover’--if,” she prodigiously smiled, “I were so fortunate as to have one!” “You renounced poor John mightily easily--whom you were so fortunate as to have!” Her brows rose as high as his own had ever done. “Do you call Lord John my lover?” “He was your suitor most assuredly,” Lord Theign inimitably said, though without looking at her; “and as strikingly encouraged as he was respectfully ardent!” “Encouraged by _you_, dear father, beyond doubt!” “Encouraged--er--by every one: because you were (yes, you _were!_) encouraging. And what I ask of you now is a word of common candour as to whether you didn’t, on your honour, turn him off because of your just then so stimulated views on the person who has been with us.” Grace replied but after an instant, as moved by more things than she could say--moved above all, in her trouble and her pity for him, by other things than harshness: “Oh father, father, father----!” He searched her through all the compassion of her cry, but appeared to give way to her sincerity.<\|quote\|>“Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.”</\|quote\|>“But you said a moment ago that I should all the more in the other case--that of there _being_ something!” He brushed away her logic-chopping. “If you’re so keen then for past remarks I take up your own words--I accept your own terms for your putting an end to Mr. Crimble.” To which, while, turning pale, she said nothing, he added: “You recognise that you profess yourself ready----” “Not again to see him,” she now answered, “if you tell me the picture’s safe? Yes, I recognise that I _was_ ready--as well as how scornfully little you then were!” “Never mind what I then was--the question’s of what I actually am, since I close with you on it The picture’s therefore as safe as you please,” Lord Theign pursued, “if you’ll do what you just now engaged to.” “I engaged to do nothing,” she replied after a pause; and the face she turned to him had grown suddenly tragic. “I’ve no word to take back, for none passed between us; but I _won’t_ do what I mentioned and what you at once laughed at Because,” she finished, “the case is different.” “Different?” he almost shouted-- “_how_, different?” She didn’t look at	“It has a bearing on the so extraordinary appearance of your intimacy with him!” “You mean that if he _should_ be--what you ask me about--your exaction would then be modified?” “My request that you break it short off? That request would, on the contrary,” Lord Theign pronounced, “rest on an immense new ground. Therefore I insist on your telling me the truth.” “Won’t the truth be before you, father, if you’ll _think_ a moment--without extravagance?” After which, while, as stiffly as ever--and it probably seemed to her impatience as stupidly--he didn’t rise to it, she went on: “If I _offered_ you not again to see him, does that make for you the appearance--?” “If you offered it, you mean, on your condition--my promising not to sell? I promised,” said Lord Theign, “absolutely nothing at all!” She took him up with all expression. “So I promised as little! But that I should have been able to say what I did sufficiently meets your curiosity.” She might, wronged as she held herself, have felt him stupid not to see _how_ wronged; but he was in any case acute for an evasion. “You risked your offer for the great equivalent over which you’ve so wildly worked yourself up.” “Yes, I’ve worked myself--that, I grant you and don’t blush for! But hardly so much as to renounce my ‘lover’--if,” she prodigiously smiled, “I were so fortunate as to have one!” “You renounced poor John mightily easily--whom you were so fortunate as to have!” Her brows rose as high as his own had ever done. “Do you call Lord John my lover?” “He was your suitor most assuredly,” Lord Theign inimitably said, though without looking at her; “and as strikingly encouraged as he was respectfully ardent!” “Encouraged by _you_, dear father, beyond doubt!” “Encouraged--er--by every one: because you were (yes, you _were!_) encouraging. And what I ask of you now is a word of common candour as to whether you didn’t, on your honour, turn him off because of your just then so stimulated views on the person who has been with us.” Grace replied but after an instant, as moved by more things than she could say--moved above all, in her trouble and her pity for him, by other things than harshness: “Oh father, father, father----!” He searched her through all the compassion of her cry, but appeared to give way to her sincerity.<\|quote\|>“Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.”</\|quote\|>“But you said a moment ago that I should all the more in the other case--that of there _being_ something!” He brushed away her logic-chopping. “If you’re so keen then for past remarks I take up your own words--I accept your own terms for your putting an end to Mr. Crimble.” To which, while, turning pale, she said nothing, he added: “You recognise that you profess yourself ready----” “Not again to see him,” she now answered, “if you tell me the picture’s safe? Yes, I recognise that I _was_ ready--as well as how scornfully little you then were!” “Never mind what I then was--the question’s of what I actually am, since I close with you on it The picture’s therefore as safe as you please,” Lord Theign pursued, “if you’ll do what you just now engaged to.” “I engaged to do nothing,” she replied after a pause; and the face she turned to him had grown suddenly tragic. “I’ve no word to take back, for none passed between us; but I _won’t_ do what I mentioned and what you at once laughed at Because,” she finished, “the case is different.” “Different?” he almost shouted-- “_how_, different?” She didn’t look at him for it, but she was none the less strongly distinct “He has _been_ here--and that has done it He knows,” she admirably emphasised. “Knows what I think of him, no doubt--for a brazen young prevaricator! But what else?” She still kept her eyes on a far-off point. “What he will have seen--that I feel we’re too good friends.” “Then your denial of it’s false,” her father fairly thundered-- “and you _are_ infatuated?” It made her the more quiet. “I like him very much.” “So that your row about the picture,” he demanded with passion, “has been all a blind?” And then as her quietness still held her: “And his a blind as much--to help him to get _at_ you?” She looked at him again now. “He must speak for himself. I’ve said what I mean.” “But what the devil _do_ you mean?” Lord Theign, taking in the hour, had reached the door as in supremely baffled conclusion and with a sense of time lamentably lost. Their eyes met upon it all dreadfully across the wide space, and, hurried and incommoded as she saw him, she yet made him still stand a minute. Then she let everything go. “Do what	silence which he had yet made compatible with his air of having deeply noted every element of the scene--so that it was of this full view his participation had effectively consisted, “I haven’t the least idea, sir, what you’re talking about!” And he squarely turned his back, strolling toward the other room, the threshold of which he the next moment had passed, remaining scantily within, however, and in sight of the others, not to say of ourselves; even though averted and ostensibly lost in some scrutiny that might have had for its object the great enshrined Lawrence. There ensued upon his words and movement a vivid mute passage, the richest of commentaries, between his companions; who, deeply divided by the width of the ample room, followed him with their eyes and then used for their own interchange these organs of remark, eloquent now over Hugh’s unmistakable dismissal at short order, on which obviously he must at once act. Lady Grace’s young arms conveyed to him by a despairing contrite motion of surrender that she had done for him all she could do in his presence and that, however sharply doubtful the result, he was to leave the rest to herself. They communicated thus, the strenuous pair, for their full moment, without speaking; only with the prolonged, the charged give and take of their gaze and, it might well have been imagined, of their passion. Hugh had for an instant a show of hesitation--of the arrested impulse, while he kept her father within range, to launch at that personage before going some final remonstrance. It was the girl’s raised hand and gesture of warning that waved away for him such a mistake; he decided, under her pressure, and after a last searching and answering look at her reached the door and let himself out. The stillness was then prolonged a minute by the further wait of the two others, Lord Theign where he had been standing and his daughter on the spot from which she had not moved. It presently ended in his lordship’s turn about as if inferring by the silence that the intruder had withdrawn. “Is that young man your lover?” he said as he drew again near. Lady Grace waited a little, but spoke as quietly as if she had been prepared. “Has the question a bearing on the promise you a short time ago demanded of me?” “It has a bearing on the so extraordinary appearance of your intimacy with him!” “You mean that if he _should_ be--what you ask me about--your exaction would then be modified?” “My request that you break it short off? That request would, on the contrary,” Lord Theign pronounced, “rest on an immense new ground. Therefore I insist on your telling me the truth.” “Won’t the truth be before you, father, if you’ll _think_ a moment--without extravagance?” After which, while, as stiffly as ever--and it probably seemed to her impatience as stupidly--he didn’t rise to it, she went on: “If I _offered_ you not again to see him, does that make for you the appearance--?” “If you offered it, you mean, on your condition--my promising not to sell? I promised,” said Lord Theign, “absolutely nothing at all!” She took him up with all expression. “So I promised as little! But that I should have been able to say what I did sufficiently meets your curiosity.” She might, wronged as she held herself, have felt him stupid not to see _how_ wronged; but he was in any case acute for an evasion. “You risked your offer for the great equivalent over which you’ve so wildly worked yourself up.” “Yes, I’ve worked myself--that, I grant you and don’t blush for! But hardly so much as to renounce my ‘lover’--if,” she prodigiously smiled, “I were so fortunate as to have one!” “You renounced poor John mightily easily--whom you were so fortunate as to have!” Her brows rose as high as his own had ever done. “Do you call Lord John my lover?” “He was your suitor most assuredly,” Lord Theign inimitably said, though without looking at her; “and as strikingly encouraged as he was respectfully ardent!” “Encouraged by _you_, dear father, beyond doubt!” “Encouraged--er--by every one: because you were (yes, you _were!_) encouraging. And what I ask of you now is a word of common candour as to whether you didn’t, on your honour, turn him off because of your just then so stimulated views on the person who has been with us.” Grace replied but after an instant, as moved by more things than she could say--moved above all, in her trouble and her pity for him, by other things than harshness: “Oh father, father, father----!” He searched her through all the compassion of her cry, but appeared to give way to her sincerity.<\|quote\|>“Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.”</\|quote\|>“But you said a moment ago that I should all the more in the other case--that of there _being_ something!” He brushed away her logic-chopping. “If you’re so keen then for past remarks I take up your own words--I accept your own terms for your putting an end to Mr. Crimble.” To which, while, turning pale, she said nothing, he added: “You recognise that you profess yourself ready----” “Not again to see him,” she now answered, “if you tell me the picture’s safe? Yes, I recognise that I _was_ ready--as well as how scornfully little you then were!” “Never mind what I then was--the question’s of what I actually am, since I close with you on it The picture’s therefore as safe as you please,” Lord Theign pursued, “if you’ll do what you just now engaged to.” “I engaged to do nothing,” she replied after a pause; and the face she turned to him had grown suddenly tragic. “I’ve no word to take back, for none passed between us; but I _won’t_ do what I mentioned and what you at once laughed at Because,” she finished, “the case is different.” “Different?” he almost shouted-- “_how_, different?” She didn’t look at him for it, but she was none the less strongly distinct “He has _been_ here--and that has done it He knows,” she admirably emphasised. “Knows what I think of him, no doubt--for a brazen young prevaricator! But what else?” She still kept her eyes on a far-off point. “What he will have seen--that I feel we’re too good friends.” “Then your denial of it’s false,” her father fairly thundered-- “and you _are_ infatuated?” It made her the more quiet. “I like him very much.” “So that your row about the picture,” he demanded with passion, “has been all a blind?” And then as her quietness still held her: “And his a blind as much--to help him to get _at_ you?” She looked at him again now. “He must speak for himself. I’ve said what I mean.” “But what the devil _do_ you mean?” Lord Theign, taking in the hour, had reached the door as in supremely baffled conclusion and with a sense of time lamentably lost. Their eyes met upon it all dreadfully across the wide space, and, hurried and incommoded as she saw him, she yet made him still stand a minute. Then she let everything go. “Do what you like with the picture!” He jerked up his arm and guarding hand as before a levelled blow at his face, and with the other hand flung open the door, having done with her now and immediately lost to sight. Left alone she stood a moment looking before her; then with a vague advance, held apparently by a quickly growing sense of the implication of her act, reached a table where she remained a little, deep afresh in thought--only the next thing to fall into a chair close to it and there, with her elbows on it, yield to the impulse of covering her flushed face with her hands. BOOK THIRD I HUGH CRIMBLE waited again in the Bruton Street drawing-room--this time at the afternoon hour; he restlessly shifted his place, looked at things about him without seeing them; all he saw, all he outwardly studied, was his own face and figure as he stopped an instant before a long glass suspended between two windows. Just as he turned from that brief and perhaps not wholly gratified inspection Lady Grace--that he had sent up his name to whom was immediately apparent--presented herself at the entrance from the other room. These young persons had hereupon no instant exchange of words; their exchange was mute--they but paused where they were; while the silence of each evidently tested the other for full confidence. A measure of this comfort came first, it would have appeared, to Hugh; though he then at once asked for confirmation of it. “Am I right, Lady Grace, am I right?--to have _come_, I mean, after so many days of not hearing, not knowing, and perhaps, all too stupidly, not trying.” And he went on as, still with her eyes on him, she didn’t speak; though, only, we should have guessed, from her stress of emotion. “Even if I’m wrong, let me tell you, I don’t care--simply because, whatever new difficulty I may have brought about for you here a fortnight ago, there’s something that to-day adds to my doubt and my fear too great a pang, and that has made me feel I can scarce bear the suspense of them as they are.” The girl came nearer, and if her grave face expressed a pity it yet declined a dread. “Of what suspense do you speak? Your still being without the other opinion--?” “Ah, that worries me, yes; and	your lover?” he said as he drew again near. Lady Grace waited a little, but spoke as quietly as if she had been prepared. “Has the question a bearing on the promise you a short time ago demanded of me?” “It has a bearing on the so extraordinary appearance of your intimacy with him!” “You mean that if he _should_ be--what you ask me about--your exaction would then be modified?” “My request that you break it short off? That request would, on the contrary,” Lord Theign pronounced, “rest on an immense new ground. Therefore I insist on your telling me the truth.” “Won’t the truth be before you, father, if you’ll _think_ a moment--without extravagance?” After which, while, as stiffly as ever--and it probably seemed to her impatience as stupidly--he didn’t rise to it, she went on: “If I _offered_ you not again to see him, does that make for you the appearance--?” “If you offered it, you mean, on your condition--my promising not to sell? I promised,” said Lord Theign, “absolutely nothing at all!” She took him up with all expression. “So I promised as little! But that I should have been able to say what I did sufficiently meets your curiosity.” She might, wronged as she held herself, have felt him stupid not to see _how_ wronged; but he was in any case acute for an evasion. “You risked your offer for the great equivalent over which you’ve so wildly worked yourself up.” “Yes, I’ve worked myself--that, I grant you and don’t blush for! But hardly so much as to renounce my ‘lover’--if,” she prodigiously smiled, “I were so fortunate as to have one!” “You renounced poor John mightily easily--whom you were so fortunate as to have!” Her brows rose as high as his own had ever done. “Do you call Lord John my lover?” “He was your suitor most assuredly,” Lord Theign inimitably said, though without looking at her; “and as strikingly encouraged as he was respectfully ardent!” “Encouraged by _you_, dear father, beyond doubt!” “Encouraged--er--by every one: because you were (yes, you _were!_) encouraging. And what I ask of you now is a word of common candour as to whether you didn’t, on your honour, turn him off because of your just then so stimulated views on the person who has been with us.” Grace replied but after an instant, as moved by more things than she could say--moved above all, in her trouble and her pity for him, by other things than harshness: “Oh father, father, father----!” He searched her through all the compassion of her cry, but appeared to give way to her sincerity.<\|quote\|>“Well then if I _have_ your denial I take it as answering my whole question--in a manner that satisfies me. If there’s nothing, on your word, of that sort between you, you can all the more drop him.”</\|quote\|>“But you said a moment ago that I should all the more in the other case--that of there _being_ something!” He brushed away her logic-chopping. “If you’re so keen then for past remarks I take up your own words--I accept your own terms for your putting an end to Mr. Crimble.” To which, while, turning pale, she said nothing, he added: “You recognise that you profess yourself ready----” “Not again to see him,” she now answered, “if you tell me the picture’s safe? Yes, I recognise that I _was_ ready--as well as how scornfully little you then were!” “Never mind what I then was--the question’s of what I actually am, since I close with you on it The picture’s therefore as safe as you please,” Lord Theign pursued, “if you’ll do what you just now engaged to.” “I engaged to do nothing,” she replied after a pause; and the face she turned to him had grown suddenly tragic. “I’ve no word to take back, for none passed between us; but I _won’t_ do what I mentioned and what you at once laughed at Because,” she finished, “the case is different.” “Different?” he almost shouted-- “_how_, different?” She didn’t look at him for it, but she was none the less strongly distinct “He has _been_ here--and that has done it He knows,” she admirably emphasised. “Knows what I think of him, no doubt--for a brazen young prevaricator! But what else?” She still kept her eyes on a far-off point. “What he will have seen--that I feel we’re too good friends.” “Then your denial of it’s false,” her father fairly thundered-- “and you _are_ infatuated?” It made her the more quiet. “I like him very much.” “So that your row about the picture,” he demanded with passion, “has been all a blind?” And then as her quietness still held her: “And his a blind as much--to help him to get _at_ you?” She looked at him again now. “He must speak for himself. I’ve said what I mean.” “But what the devil _do_ you mean?” Lord Theign, taking in the hour, had reached the door as in supremely baffled conclusion and with a sense of time lamentably lost. Their eyes met upon it all dreadfully across the wide space, and, hurried and incommoded as she saw him, she yet made him still stand a minute. Then she let everything go. “Do what you like with the picture!” He jerked up his arm and guarding hand as before a levelled blow at his face, and with the other hand flung open the door, having done with her now and immediately lost to sight. Left alone she stood a moment looking before her; then with a vague advance, held apparently by a quickly growing sense of the implication of her act, reached a table where she remained a little, deep afresh in thought--only the next thing to fall into a chair close to it and there, with her elbows on it, yield to the impulse of covering her flushed face with her hands. BOOK THIRD I HUGH	The Outcry
"If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?"	Maurice Oakley	reply in a grieved voice.<\|quote\|>"If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?"</\|quote\|>"Every cent of money that	a considerable loss," was the reply in a grieved voice.<\|quote\|>"If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?"</\|quote\|>"Every cent of money that I had to secure my	a servant to bring his brother to him. Maurice found him standing weakly against the railing of the stairs. Something in his air impressed his brother strangely. "What is it, Francis?" he questioned, hurrying to him. "I have just discovered a considerable loss," was the reply in a grieved voice.<\|quote\|>"If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?"</\|quote\|>"Every cent of money that I had to secure my letter of credit is gone from my bureau." "What? When did it disappear?" "I went to my bureau to-night for something and found the money gone; then I remembered that when I opened it two days ago I must have	strong glow in Francis Oakley's face, and his laugh was frequent and ringing. Some discussion came up which sent him running up to his room for a bit of evidence. When he came down it was not to come directly to the dining-room. He paused in the hall and despatched a servant to bring his brother to him. Maurice found him standing weakly against the railing of the stairs. Something in his air impressed his brother strangely. "What is it, Francis?" he questioned, hurrying to him. "I have just discovered a considerable loss," was the reply in a grieved voice.<\|quote\|>"If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?"</\|quote\|>"Every cent of money that I had to secure my letter of credit is gone from my bureau." "What? When did it disappear?" "I went to my bureau to-night for something and found the money gone; then I remembered that when I opened it two days ago I must have left the key in the lock, as I found it to-night." "It 's a bad business, but don't let 's talk of it now. Come, let 's go back to our guests. Don't look so cut up about it, Frank, old man. It is n't as bad as it might	that he cared for? Had the speech had a hidden meaning for her? She could never tell. She could not understand this man who had been so much to her for so long, and yet did not seem to know it; who was full of romance and fire and passion, and yet looked at her beauty with the eyes of a mere comrade. She sighed as she rose with the rest of the women to leave the table. The men lingered over their cigars. The wine was old and the stories new. What more could they ask? There was a strong glow in Francis Oakley's face, and his laugh was frequent and ringing. Some discussion came up which sent him running up to his room for a bit of evidence. When he came down it was not to come directly to the dining-room. He paused in the hall and despatched a servant to bring his brother to him. Maurice found him standing weakly against the railing of the stairs. Something in his air impressed his brother strangely. "What is it, Francis?" he questioned, hurrying to him. "I have just discovered a considerable loss," was the reply in a grieved voice.<\|quote\|>"If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?"</\|quote\|>"Every cent of money that I had to secure my letter of credit is gone from my bureau." "What? When did it disappear?" "I went to my bureau to-night for something and found the money gone; then I remembered that when I opened it two days ago I must have left the key in the lock, as I found it to-night." "It 's a bad business, but don't let 's talk of it now. Come, let 's go back to our guests. Don't look so cut up about it, Frank, old man. It is n't as bad as it might be, and you must n't show a gloomy face to-night." The younger man pulled himself together, and re-entered the room with his brother. In a few minutes his gaiety had apparently returned. When they rejoined the ladies, even their quick eyes could detect in his demeanour no trace of the annoying thing that had occurred. His face did not change until, with a wealth of fervent congratulations, he had bade the last guest good-bye. Then he turned to his brother. "When Leslie is in bed, come into the library. I will wait for you there," he said, and walked sadly	a chill through her gaiety. She did not want to be suspicious, but what was the cause of that tell-tale flush? He was not a man easily disconcerted; then why so to-night? But her companion talked on with such innocent composure that she believed herself mistaken as to the reason for his momentary confusion. Someone cried gayly across the table to her: "Oh, Miss Claire, you will not dare to talk with such little awe to our friend when he comes back with his ribbons and his medals. Why, we shall all have to bow to you, Frank!" "You 're wronging me, Esterton," said Francis. "No foreign decoration could ever be to me as much as the flower of approval from the fair women of my own State." "Hear!" cried the ladies. "Trust artists and poets to pay pretty compliments, and this wily friend of mine pays his at my expense." "A good bit of generalship, that, Frank," an old military man broke in. "Esterton opened the breach and you at once galloped in. That 's the highest art of war." Claire was looking at her companion. Had he meant the approval of the women, or was it one woman that he cared for? Had the speech had a hidden meaning for her? She could never tell. She could not understand this man who had been so much to her for so long, and yet did not seem to know it; who was full of romance and fire and passion, and yet looked at her beauty with the eyes of a mere comrade. She sighed as she rose with the rest of the women to leave the table. The men lingered over their cigars. The wine was old and the stories new. What more could they ask? There was a strong glow in Francis Oakley's face, and his laugh was frequent and ringing. Some discussion came up which sent him running up to his room for a bit of evidence. When he came down it was not to come directly to the dining-room. He paused in the hall and despatched a servant to bring his brother to him. Maurice found him standing weakly against the railing of the stairs. Something in his air impressed his brother strangely. "What is it, Francis?" he questioned, hurrying to him. "I have just discovered a considerable loss," was the reply in a grieved voice.<\|quote\|>"If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?"</\|quote\|>"Every cent of money that I had to secure my letter of credit is gone from my bureau." "What? When did it disappear?" "I went to my bureau to-night for something and found the money gone; then I remembered that when I opened it two days ago I must have left the key in the lock, as I found it to-night." "It 's a bad business, but don't let 's talk of it now. Come, let 's go back to our guests. Don't look so cut up about it, Frank, old man. It is n't as bad as it might be, and you must n't show a gloomy face to-night." The younger man pulled himself together, and re-entered the room with his brother. In a few minutes his gaiety had apparently returned. When they rejoined the ladies, even their quick eyes could detect in his demeanour no trace of the annoying thing that had occurred. His face did not change until, with a wealth of fervent congratulations, he had bade the last guest good-bye. Then he turned to his brother. "When Leslie is in bed, come into the library. I will wait for you there," he said, and walked sadly away. "Poor, foolish Frank," mused his brother, "as if the loss could matter to him." III THE THEFT Frank was very pale when his brother finally came to him at the appointed place. He sat limply in his chair, his eyes fixed upon the floor. "Come, brace up now, Frank, and tell me about it." At the sound of his brother's voice he started and looked up as though he had been dreaming. "I don't know what you 'll think of me, Maurice," he said; "I have never before been guilty of such criminal carelessness." "Don't stop to accuse yourself. Our only hope in this matter lies in prompt action. Where was the money?" "In the oak cabinet and lying in the bureau drawer. Such a thing as a theft seemed so foreign to this place that I was never very particular about the box. But I did not know until I went to it to-night that the last time I had opened it I had forgotten to take the key out. It all flashed over me in a second when I saw it shining there. Even then I did n't suspect anything. You don't know how I felt to	evil invitation could have come nigh to him. But this younger brother, this half ward of theirs, was an unruly member. He talked and laughed, rode and walked, with Claire Lessing with the same free abandon, the same show of uninterested good comradeship, that he had used towards her when they were boy and girl together. There was not a shade more of warmth or self-consciousness in his manner towards her than there had been fifteen years before. In fact, there was less, for there had been a time, when he was six and Claire three, that Francis, with a boldness that the lover of maturer years tries vainly to attain, had announced to Claire that he was going to marry her. But he had never renewed this declaration when it came time that it would carry weight with it. They made a fine picture as they sat together to-night. One seeing them could hardly help thinking on the instant that they were made for each other. Something in the woman's face, in her expression perhaps, supplied a palpable lack in the man. The strength of her mouth and chin helped the weakness of his. She was the sort of woman who, if ever he came to a great moral crisis in his life, would be able to save him if she were near. And yet he was going away from her, giving up the pearl that he had only to put out his hand to take. Some of these thoughts were in the minds of the brother and sister now. "Five years does seem a long while," Francis was saying, "but if a man accomplishes anything, after all, it seems only a short time to look back upon." "All time is short to look back upon. It is the looking forward to it that counts. It does n't, though, with a man, I suppose. He's doing something all the while." "Yes, a man is always doing something, even if only waiting; but waiting is such unheroic business." "That is the part that usually falls to a woman's lot. I have no doubt that some dark-eyed mademoiselle is waiting for you now." Francis laughed and flushed hotly. Claire noted the flush and wondered at it. Had she indeed hit upon the real point? Was that the reason that he was so anxious to get back to Paris? The thought struck a chill through her gaiety. She did not want to be suspicious, but what was the cause of that tell-tale flush? He was not a man easily disconcerted; then why so to-night? But her companion talked on with such innocent composure that she believed herself mistaken as to the reason for his momentary confusion. Someone cried gayly across the table to her: "Oh, Miss Claire, you will not dare to talk with such little awe to our friend when he comes back with his ribbons and his medals. Why, we shall all have to bow to you, Frank!" "You 're wronging me, Esterton," said Francis. "No foreign decoration could ever be to me as much as the flower of approval from the fair women of my own State." "Hear!" cried the ladies. "Trust artists and poets to pay pretty compliments, and this wily friend of mine pays his at my expense." "A good bit of generalship, that, Frank," an old military man broke in. "Esterton opened the breach and you at once galloped in. That 's the highest art of war." Claire was looking at her companion. Had he meant the approval of the women, or was it one woman that he cared for? Had the speech had a hidden meaning for her? She could never tell. She could not understand this man who had been so much to her for so long, and yet did not seem to know it; who was full of romance and fire and passion, and yet looked at her beauty with the eyes of a mere comrade. She sighed as she rose with the rest of the women to leave the table. The men lingered over their cigars. The wine was old and the stories new. What more could they ask? There was a strong glow in Francis Oakley's face, and his laugh was frequent and ringing. Some discussion came up which sent him running up to his room for a bit of evidence. When he came down it was not to come directly to the dining-room. He paused in the hall and despatched a servant to bring his brother to him. Maurice found him standing weakly against the railing of the stairs. Something in his air impressed his brother strangely. "What is it, Francis?" he questioned, hurrying to him. "I have just discovered a considerable loss," was the reply in a grieved voice.<\|quote\|>"If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?"</\|quote\|>"Every cent of money that I had to secure my letter of credit is gone from my bureau." "What? When did it disappear?" "I went to my bureau to-night for something and found the money gone; then I remembered that when I opened it two days ago I must have left the key in the lock, as I found it to-night." "It 's a bad business, but don't let 's talk of it now. Come, let 's go back to our guests. Don't look so cut up about it, Frank, old man. It is n't as bad as it might be, and you must n't show a gloomy face to-night." The younger man pulled himself together, and re-entered the room with his brother. In a few minutes his gaiety had apparently returned. When they rejoined the ladies, even their quick eyes could detect in his demeanour no trace of the annoying thing that had occurred. His face did not change until, with a wealth of fervent congratulations, he had bade the last guest good-bye. Then he turned to his brother. "When Leslie is in bed, come into the library. I will wait for you there," he said, and walked sadly away. "Poor, foolish Frank," mused his brother, "as if the loss could matter to him." III THE THEFT Frank was very pale when his brother finally came to him at the appointed place. He sat limply in his chair, his eyes fixed upon the floor. "Come, brace up now, Frank, and tell me about it." At the sound of his brother's voice he started and looked up as though he had been dreaming. "I don't know what you 'll think of me, Maurice," he said; "I have never before been guilty of such criminal carelessness." "Don't stop to accuse yourself. Our only hope in this matter lies in prompt action. Where was the money?" "In the oak cabinet and lying in the bureau drawer. Such a thing as a theft seemed so foreign to this place that I was never very particular about the box. But I did not know until I went to it to-night that the last time I had opened it I had forgotten to take the key out. It all flashed over me in a second when I saw it shining there. Even then I did n't suspect anything. You don't know how I felt to open that cabinet and find all my money gone. It 's awful." "Don't worry. How much was there in all?" "Nine hundred and eighty-six dollars, most of which, I am ashamed to say, I had accepted from you." "You have no right to talk that way, Frank; you know I do not begrudge a cent you want. I have never felt that my father did quite right in leaving me the bulk of the fortune; but we won't discuss that now. What I want you to understand, though, is that the money is yours as well as mine, and you are always welcome to it." The artist shook his head. "No, Maurice," he said, "I can accept no more from you. I have already used up all my own money and too much of yours in this hopeless fight. I don't suppose I was ever cut out for an artist, or I 'd have done something really notable in this time, and would not be a burden upon those who care for me. No, I 'll give up going to Paris and find some work to do." "Frank, Frank, be silent. This is nonsense, Give up your art? You shall not do it. You shall go to Paris as usual. Leslie and I have perfect faith in you. You shall not give up on account of this misfortune. What are the few paltry dollars to me or to you?" "Nothing, nothing, I know. It is n't the money, it 's the principle of the thing." "Principle be hanged! You go back to Paris to-morrow, just as you had planned. I do not ask it, I command it." The younger man looked up quickly. "Pardon me, Frank, for using those words and at such a time. You know how near my heart your success lies, and to hear you talk of giving it all up makes me forget myself. Forgive me, but you 'll go back, won't you?" "You are too good, Maurice," said Frank impulsively, "and I will go back, and I 'll try to redeem myself." "There is no redeeming of yourself to do, my dear boy; all you have to do is to mature yourself. We 'll have a detective down and see what we can do in this matter." Frank gave a scarcely perceptible start. "I do so hate such things," he said; "and, anyway, what 's	that, Frank," an old military man broke in. "Esterton opened the breach and you at once galloped in. That 's the highest art of war." Claire was looking at her companion. Had he meant the approval of the women, or was it one woman that he cared for? Had the speech had a hidden meaning for her? She could never tell. She could not understand this man who had been so much to her for so long, and yet did not seem to know it; who was full of romance and fire and passion, and yet looked at her beauty with the eyes of a mere comrade. She sighed as she rose with the rest of the women to leave the table. The men lingered over their cigars. The wine was old and the stories new. What more could they ask? There was a strong glow in Francis Oakley's face, and his laugh was frequent and ringing. Some discussion came up which sent him running up to his room for a bit of evidence. When he came down it was not to come directly to the dining-room. He paused in the hall and despatched a servant to bring his brother to him. Maurice found him standing weakly against the railing of the stairs. Something in his air impressed his brother strangely. "What is it, Francis?" he questioned, hurrying to him. "I have just discovered a considerable loss," was the reply in a grieved voice.<\|quote\|>"If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?"</\|quote\|>"Every cent of money that I had to secure my letter of credit is gone from my bureau." "What? When did it disappear?" "I went to my bureau to-night for something and found the money gone; then I remembered that when I opened it two days ago I must have left the key in the lock, as I found it to-night." "It 's a bad business, but don't let 's talk of it now. Come, let 's go back to our guests. Don't look so cut up about it, Frank, old man. It is n't as bad as it might be, and you must n't show a gloomy face to-night." The younger man pulled himself together, and re-entered the room with his brother. In a few minutes his gaiety had apparently returned. When they rejoined the ladies, even their quick eyes could detect in his demeanour no trace of the annoying thing that had occurred. His face did not change until, with a wealth of fervent congratulations, he had bade the last guest good-bye. Then he turned to his brother. "When Leslie is in bed, come into the library. I will wait for you there," he said, and walked sadly away. "Poor, foolish Frank," mused his brother, "as if the loss could matter to him." III THE THEFT Frank was very pale when his brother finally came to him at the appointed place. He sat limply in his chair, his eyes fixed upon the floor. "Come, brace up now, Frank, and tell me about it." At the sound of his brother's voice he started and looked up as though he had been dreaming. "I don't know what you 'll think of me, Maurice," he said; "I have never before been guilty of such criminal carelessness." "Don't stop to accuse yourself. Our only hope in this matter lies in prompt action. Where was the money?" "In the oak cabinet and lying in the bureau drawer. Such a thing as a theft seemed so foreign to this place that I was never very particular about the box. But I did not know until I went to it to-night that the last time I had opened it I had forgotten to take the key out. It all flashed over me in a second when I saw it shining there. Even then I did n't suspect anything. You don't know how I felt to open that cabinet and find all my money gone. It 's awful." "Don't worry. How much was there in all?" "Nine hundred and eighty-six dollars, most of which, I am ashamed to say, I had accepted from you." "You have no right to talk that way, Frank; you know I do not begrudge a cent you want. I have never felt that my father did quite right in leaving me the bulk of the fortune; but we won't discuss that now. What I want you to understand, though, is that the money is yours as well as mine, and you are always welcome to it." The artist shook his head. "No, Maurice," he said, "I can accept no more from you. I have already used up all my own money and too much of yours in this hopeless fight. I don't suppose I was ever cut out for an artist, or I	The Sport Of The Gods
Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.	No speaker	been here, three hours ago."<\|quote\|>Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.</\|quote\|>"Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot	I thought I should have been here, three hours ago."<\|quote\|>Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.</\|quote\|>"Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a	throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sikes. "There!" he said, laying the bundle on the table. "Take care of that, and do the most you can with it. It's been trouble enough to get; I thought I should have been here, three hours ago."<\|quote\|>Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.</\|quote\|>"Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a man so for?" Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone. "Damme!" said Sikes, feeling in his breast with	footstep in the street. "At last," he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. "At last!" The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and presently returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sikes. "There!" he said, laying the bundle on the table. "Take care of that, and do the most you can with it. It's been trouble enough to get; I thought I should have been here, three hours ago."<\|quote\|>Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.</\|quote\|>"Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a man so for?" Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone. "Damme!" said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. "He's gone mad. I must look to myself here." "No, no," rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. "It's not you're not the person, Bill. I've no no fault to find with you." "Oh, you haven't, haven't you?" said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a	distrust of the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up; bitter disappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sikes; the fear of detection, and ruin, and death; and a fierce and deadly rage kindled by all; these were the passionate considerations which, following close upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot through the brain of Fagin, as every evil thought and blackest purpose lay working at his heart. He sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take the smallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a footstep in the street. "At last," he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. "At last!" The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and presently returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sikes. "There!" he said, laying the bundle on the table. "Take care of that, and do the most you can with it. It's been trouble enough to get; I thought I should have been here, three hours ago."<\|quote\|>Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.</\|quote\|>"Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a man so for?" Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone. "Damme!" said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. "He's gone mad. I must look to myself here." "No, no," rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. "It's not you're not the person, Bill. I've no no fault to find with you." "Oh, you haven't, haven't you?" said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. "That's lucky for one of us. Which one that is, don't matter." "I've got that to tell you, Bill," said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer, "will make you worse than me." "Aye?" returned the robber with an incredulous air. "Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will think I'm lost." "Lost!" cried Fagin. "She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind, already." Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew's face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat collar in his huge hand and shook	dream; it was at this still and silent hour, that Fagin sat watching in his old lair, with face so distorted and pale, and eyes so red and blood-shot, that he looked less like a man, than like some hideous phantom, moist from the grave, and worried by an evil spirit. He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old torn coverlet, with his face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side. His right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed in thought, he hit his long black nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a few such fangs as should have been a dog's or rat's. Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole, fast asleep. Towards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and then brought them back again to the candle; which with a long-burnt wick drooping almost double, and hot grease falling down in clots upon the table, plainly showed that his thoughts were busy elsewhere. Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his notable scheme; hatred of the girl who had dared to palter with strangers; and utter distrust of the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up; bitter disappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sikes; the fear of detection, and ruin, and death; and a fierce and deadly rage kindled by all; these were the passionate considerations which, following close upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot through the brain of Fagin, as every evil thought and blackest purpose lay working at his heart. He sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take the smallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a footstep in the street. "At last," he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. "At last!" The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and presently returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sikes. "There!" he said, laying the bundle on the table. "Take care of that, and do the most you can with it. It's been trouble enough to get; I thought I should have been here, three hours ago."<\|quote\|>Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.</\|quote\|>"Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a man so for?" Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone. "Damme!" said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. "He's gone mad. I must look to myself here." "No, no," rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. "It's not you're not the person, Bill. I've no no fault to find with you." "Oh, you haven't, haven't you?" said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. "That's lucky for one of us. Which one that is, don't matter." "I've got that to tell you, Bill," said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer, "will make you worse than me." "Aye?" returned the robber with an incredulous air. "Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will think I'm lost." "Lost!" cried Fagin. "She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind, already." Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew's face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat collar in his huge hand and shook him soundly. "Speak, will you!" he said; "or if you don't, it shall be for want of breath. Open your mouth and say wot you've got to say in plain words. Out with it, you thundering old cur, out with it!" "Suppose that lad that's laying there" Fagin began. Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previously observed him. "Well!" he said, resuming his former position. "Suppose that lad," pursued Fagin, "was to peach to blow upon us all first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with 'em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plant we've all been in, more or less of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water, but of his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?" cried the Jew,	and God forbid such horrors should!" replied the girl. "Good-night, good-night!" The gentleman turned away. "This purse," cried the young lady. "Take it for my sake, that you may have some resource in an hour of need and trouble." "No!" replied the girl. "I have not done this for money. Let me have that to think of. And yet give me something that you have worn: I should like to have something no, no, not a ring your gloves or handkerchief anything that I can keep, as having belonged to you, sweet lady. There. Bless you! God bless you. Good-night, good-night!" The violent agitation of the girl, and the apprehension of some discovery which would subject her to ill-usage and violence, seemed to determine the gentleman to leave her, as she requested. The sound of retreating footsteps were audible and the voices ceased. The two figures of the young lady and her companion soon afterwards appeared upon the bridge. They stopped at the summit of the stairs. "Hark!" cried the young lady, listening. "Did she call! I thought I heard her voice." "No, my love," replied Mr. Brownlow, looking sadly back. "She has not moved, and will not till we are gone." Rose Maylie lingered, but the old gentleman drew her arm through his, and led her, with gentle force, away. As they disappeared, the girl sunk down nearly at her full length upon one of the stone stairs, and vented the anguish of her heart in bitter tears. After a time she arose, and with feeble and tottering steps ascended the street. The astonished listener remained motionless on his post for some minutes afterwards, and having ascertained, with many cautious glances round him, that he was again alone, crept slowly from his hiding-place, and returned, stealthily and in the shade of the wall, in the same manner as he had descended. Peeping out, more than once, when he reached the top, to make sure that he was unobserved, Noah Claypole darted away at his utmost speed, and made for the Jew's house as fast as his legs would carry him. CHAPTER XLVII. FATAL CONSEQUENCES It was nearly two hours before day-break; that time which in the autumn of the year, may be truly called the dead of night; when the streets are silent and deserted; when even sounds appear to slumber, and profligacy and riot have staggered home to dream; it was at this still and silent hour, that Fagin sat watching in his old lair, with face so distorted and pale, and eyes so red and blood-shot, that he looked less like a man, than like some hideous phantom, moist from the grave, and worried by an evil spirit. He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old torn coverlet, with his face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side. His right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed in thought, he hit his long black nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a few such fangs as should have been a dog's or rat's. Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole, fast asleep. Towards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and then brought them back again to the candle; which with a long-burnt wick drooping almost double, and hot grease falling down in clots upon the table, plainly showed that his thoughts were busy elsewhere. Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his notable scheme; hatred of the girl who had dared to palter with strangers; and utter distrust of the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up; bitter disappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sikes; the fear of detection, and ruin, and death; and a fierce and deadly rage kindled by all; these were the passionate considerations which, following close upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot through the brain of Fagin, as every evil thought and blackest purpose lay working at his heart. He sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take the smallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a footstep in the street. "At last," he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. "At last!" The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and presently returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sikes. "There!" he said, laying the bundle on the table. "Take care of that, and do the most you can with it. It's been trouble enough to get; I thought I should have been here, three hours ago."<\|quote\|>Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.</\|quote\|>"Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a man so for?" Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone. "Damme!" said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. "He's gone mad. I must look to myself here." "No, no," rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. "It's not you're not the person, Bill. I've no no fault to find with you." "Oh, you haven't, haven't you?" said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. "That's lucky for one of us. Which one that is, don't matter." "I've got that to tell you, Bill," said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer, "will make you worse than me." "Aye?" returned the robber with an incredulous air. "Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will think I'm lost." "Lost!" cried Fagin. "She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind, already." Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew's face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat collar in his huge hand and shook him soundly. "Speak, will you!" he said; "or if you don't, it shall be for want of breath. Open your mouth and say wot you've got to say in plain words. Out with it, you thundering old cur, out with it!" "Suppose that lad that's laying there" Fagin began. Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previously observed him. "Well!" he said, resuming his former position. "Suppose that lad," pursued Fagin, "was to peach to blow upon us all first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with 'em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plant we've all been in, more or less of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water, but of his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?" cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. "Suppose he did all this, what then?" "What then!" replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. "If he was left alive till I came, I'd grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head." "What if I did it!" cried Fagin almost in a yell. "I, that knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!" "I don't know," replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it." "You would?" "Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me." "If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or" "I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill." "Wot d'ye mean?" asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to	was at this still and silent hour, that Fagin sat watching in his old lair, with face so distorted and pale, and eyes so red and blood-shot, that he looked less like a man, than like some hideous phantom, moist from the grave, and worried by an evil spirit. He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old torn coverlet, with his face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side. His right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed in thought, he hit his long black nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a few such fangs as should have been a dog's or rat's. Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole, fast asleep. Towards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and then brought them back again to the candle; which with a long-burnt wick drooping almost double, and hot grease falling down in clots upon the table, plainly showed that his thoughts were busy elsewhere. Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his notable scheme; hatred of the girl who had dared to palter with strangers; and utter distrust of the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up; bitter disappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sikes; the fear of detection, and ruin, and death; and a fierce and deadly rage kindled by all; these were the passionate considerations which, following close upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot through the brain of Fagin, as every evil thought and blackest purpose lay working at his heart. He sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take the smallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a footstep in the street. "At last," he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. "At last!" The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and presently returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sikes. "There!" he said, laying the bundle on the table. "Take care of that, and do the most you can with it. It's been trouble enough to get; I thought I should have been here, three hours ago."<\|quote\|>Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.</\|quote\|>"Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a man so for?" Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone. "Damme!" said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. "He's gone mad. I must look to myself here." "No, no," rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. "It's not you're not the person, Bill. I've no no fault to find with you." "Oh, you haven't, haven't you?" said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. "That's lucky for one of us. Which one that is, don't matter." "I've got that to tell you, Bill," said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer, "will make you worse than me." "Aye?" returned the robber with an incredulous air. "Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will think I'm lost." "Lost!" cried Fagin. "She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind, already." Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew's face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat collar in his huge hand and shook him soundly. "Speak, will you!" he said; "or if you don't, it shall be for want of breath. Open your mouth and say wot you've got to say in plain words. Out with it, you thundering old cur, out with it!" "Suppose that lad that's laying there" Fagin began. Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previously observed him. "Well!" he said, resuming his former position. "Suppose that lad," pursued Fagin, "was to peach to blow upon us all first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with 'em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plant we've all been in, more or less of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water, but of his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?" cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. "Suppose he did all this, what then?" "What then!" replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. "If he was left alive till I came, I'd grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head." "What if I did it!" cried Fagin almost in a yell. "I, that knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!" "I don't know," replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion.	Oliver Twist
"Pooh isn't there,"	Owl	while he was back again.<\|quote\|>"Pooh isn't there,"</\|quote\|>he said. "Not there?" "Has	flew off. In a little while he was back again.<\|quote\|>"Pooh isn't there,"</\|quote\|>he said. "Not there?" "Has _been_ there. He's been sitting	"Do go and see, Owl. Because Pooh hasn't got very much brain, and he might do something silly, and I do love him so, Owl. Do you see, Owl?" "That's all right," said Owl. "I'll go. Back directly." And he flew off. In a little while he was back again.<\|quote\|>"Pooh isn't there,"</\|quote\|>he said. "Not there?" "Has _been_ there. He's been sitting on a branch of his tree outside his house with nine pots of honey. But he isn't there now." "Oh, Pooh!" cried Christopher Robin. "Where _are_ you?" "Here I am," said a growly voice behind him. "Pooh!" They rushed into	prospects are rapidly becoming more favourable. At any moment----" "Have you seen Pooh?" "No. At any moment----" "I hope he's all right," said Christopher Robin. "I've been wondering about him. I expect Piglet's with him. Do you think they're all right, Owl?" "I expect so. You see, at any moment----" "Do go and see, Owl. Because Pooh hasn't got very much brain, and he might do something silly, and I do love him so, Owl. Do you see, Owl?" "That's all right," said Owl. "I'll go. Back directly." And he flew off. In a little while he was back again.<\|quote\|>"Pooh isn't there,"</\|quote\|>he said. "Not there?" "Has _been_ there. He's been sitting on a branch of his tree outside his house with nine pots of honey. But he isn't there now." "Oh, Pooh!" cried Christopher Robin. "Where _are_ you?" "Here I am," said a growly voice behind him. "Pooh!" They rushed into each other's arms. "How did you get here, Pooh?" asked Christopher Robin, when he was ready to talk again. "On my boat," said Pooh proudly. "I had a Very Important Missage sent me in a bottle, and owing to having got some water in my eyes, I couldn't read it,	first time in his life he was on a real island. Which was very exciting. It was on this morning that Owl came flying over the water to say "How do you do," to his friend Christopher Robin. "I say, Owl," said Christopher Robin, "isn't this fun? I'm on an island!" "The atmospheric conditions have been very unfavourable lately," said Owl. "The what?" "It has been raining," explained Owl. "Yes," said Christopher Robin. "It has." "The flood-level has reached an unprecedented height." "The who?" "There's a lot of water about," explained Owl. "Yes," said Christopher Robin, "there is." "However, the prospects are rapidly becoming more favourable. At any moment----" "Have you seen Pooh?" "No. At any moment----" "I hope he's all right," said Christopher Robin. "I've been wondering about him. I expect Piglet's with him. Do you think they're all right, Owl?" "I expect so. You see, at any moment----" "Do go and see, Owl. Because Pooh hasn't got very much brain, and he might do something silly, and I do love him so, Owl. Do you see, Owl?" "That's all right," said Owl. "I'll go. Back directly." And he flew off. In a little while he was back again.<\|quote\|>"Pooh isn't there,"</\|quote\|>he said. "Not there?" "Has _been_ there. He's been sitting on a branch of his tree outside his house with nine pots of honey. But he isn't there now." "Oh, Pooh!" cried Christopher Robin. "Where _are_ you?" "Here I am," said a growly voice behind him. "Pooh!" They rushed into each other's arms. "How did you get here, Pooh?" asked Christopher Robin, when he was ready to talk again. "On my boat," said Pooh proudly. "I had a Very Important Missage sent me in a bottle, and owing to having got some water in my eyes, I couldn't read it, so I brought it to you. On my boat." With these proud words he gave Christopher Robin the missage. "But it's from Piglet!" cried Christopher Robin when he had read it. "Isn't there anything about Pooh in it?" asked Bear, looking over his shoulder. Christopher Robin read the message aloud. "Oh, are those 'P's' piglets? I thought they were poohs." "We must rescue him at once! I thought he was with _you_, Pooh. Owl, could you rescue him on your back?" "I don't think so," said Owl, after grave thought. "It is doubtful if the necessary dorsal muscles----" "Then would	_The Floating Bear_ were uncertain as to which of them was meant to be on the top, but after trying one or two different positions, they settled down with _The Floating Bear_ underneath and Pooh triumphantly astride it, paddling vigorously with his feet. * * * * * Christopher Robin lived at the very top of the Forest. It rained, and it rained, and it rained, but the water couldn't come up to _his_ house. It was rather jolly to look down into the valleys and see the water all round him, but it rained so hard that he stayed indoors most of the time, and thought about things. Every morning he went out with his umbrella and put a stick in the place where the water came up to, and every next morning he went out and couldn't see his stick any more, so he put another stick in the place where the water came up to, and then he walked home again, and each morning he had a shorter way to walk than he had had the morning before. On the morning of the fifth day he saw the water all round him, and knew that for the first time in his life he was on a real island. Which was very exciting. It was on this morning that Owl came flying over the water to say "How do you do," to his friend Christopher Robin. "I say, Owl," said Christopher Robin, "isn't this fun? I'm on an island!" "The atmospheric conditions have been very unfavourable lately," said Owl. "The what?" "It has been raining," explained Owl. "Yes," said Christopher Robin. "It has." "The flood-level has reached an unprecedented height." "The who?" "There's a lot of water about," explained Owl. "Yes," said Christopher Robin, "there is." "However, the prospects are rapidly becoming more favourable. At any moment----" "Have you seen Pooh?" "No. At any moment----" "I hope he's all right," said Christopher Robin. "I've been wondering about him. I expect Piglet's with him. Do you think they're all right, Owl?" "I expect so. You see, at any moment----" "Do go and see, Owl. Because Pooh hasn't got very much brain, and he might do something silly, and I do love him so, Owl. Do you see, Owl?" "That's all right," said Owl. "I'll go. Back directly." And he flew off. In a little while he was back again.<\|quote\|>"Pooh isn't there,"</\|quote\|>he said. "Not there?" "Has _been_ there. He's been sitting on a branch of his tree outside his house with nine pots of honey. But he isn't there now." "Oh, Pooh!" cried Christopher Robin. "Where _are_ you?" "Here I am," said a growly voice behind him. "Pooh!" They rushed into each other's arms. "How did you get here, Pooh?" asked Christopher Robin, when he was ready to talk again. "On my boat," said Pooh proudly. "I had a Very Important Missage sent me in a bottle, and owing to having got some water in my eyes, I couldn't read it, so I brought it to you. On my boat." With these proud words he gave Christopher Robin the missage. "But it's from Piglet!" cried Christopher Robin when he had read it. "Isn't there anything about Pooh in it?" asked Bear, looking over his shoulder. Christopher Robin read the message aloud. "Oh, are those 'P's' piglets? I thought they were poohs." "We must rescue him at once! I thought he was with _you_, Pooh. Owl, could you rescue him on your back?" "I don't think so," said Owl, after grave thought. "It is doubtful if the necessary dorsal muscles----" "Then would you fly to him at _once_ and say that Rescue is Coming? And Pooh and I will think of a Rescue and come as quick as ever we can. Oh, don't _talk_, Owl, go on quick!" And, still thinking of something to say, Owl flew off. "Now then, Pooh," said Christopher Robin, "where's your boat?" "I ought to say," explained Pooh as they walked down to the shore of the island, "that it isn't just an ordinary sort of boat. Sometimes it's a Boat, and sometimes it's more of an Accident. It all depends." "Depends on what?" "On whether I'm on the top of it or underneath it." "Oh! Well, where is it?" "There!" said Pooh, pointing proudly to _The Floating Bear_. It wasn't what Christopher Robin expected, and the more he looked at it, the more he thought what a Brave and Clever Bear Pooh was, and the more Christopher Robin thought this, the more Pooh looked modestly down his nose and tried to pretend he wasn't. "But it's too small for two of us," said Christopher Robin sadly. "Three of us with Piglet." "That makes it smaller still. Oh, Pooh Bear, what shall we do?" And then this	legs got, until suddenly he woke up with an _Ow!_--and there he was, sitting in his chair with his feet in the water, and water all round him! He splashed to his door and looked out... "This is Serious," said Pooh. "I must have an Escape." So he took his largest pot of honey and escaped with it to a broad branch of his tree, well above the water, and then he climbed down again and escaped with another pot ... and when the whole Escape was finished, there was Pooh sitting on his branch, dangling his legs, and there, beside him, were ten pots of honey.... Two days later, there was Pooh, sitting on his branch, dangling his legs, and there, beside him, were four pots of honey.... Three days later, there was Pooh, sitting on his branch, dangling his legs, and there beside him, was one pot of honey. Four days later, there was Pooh ... And it was on the morning of the fourth day that Piglet's bottle came floating past him, and with one loud cry of "Honey!" Pooh plunged into the water, seized the bottle, and struggled back to his tree again. "Bother!" said Pooh, as he opened it. "All that wet for nothing. What's that bit of paper doing?" He took it out and looked at it. "It's a Missage," he said to himself, "that's what it is. And that letter is a 'P,' and so is that, and so is that, and 'P' means 'Pooh,' so it's a very important Missage to me, and I can't read it. I must find Christopher Robin or Owl or Piglet, one of those Clever Readers who can read things, and they will tell me what this missage means. Only I can't swim. Bother!" Then he had an idea, and I think that for a Bear of Very Little Brain, it was a good idea. He said to himself: "If a bottle can float, then a jar can float, and if a jar floats, I can sit on the top of it, if it's a very big jar." So he took his biggest jar, and corked it up. "All boats have to have a name," he said, "so I shall call mine _The Floating Bear_." And with these words he dropped his boat into the water and jumped in after it. For a little while Pooh and _The Floating Bear_ were uncertain as to which of them was meant to be on the top, but after trying one or two different positions, they settled down with _The Floating Bear_ underneath and Pooh triumphantly astride it, paddling vigorously with his feet. * * * * * Christopher Robin lived at the very top of the Forest. It rained, and it rained, and it rained, but the water couldn't come up to _his_ house. It was rather jolly to look down into the valleys and see the water all round him, but it rained so hard that he stayed indoors most of the time, and thought about things. Every morning he went out with his umbrella and put a stick in the place where the water came up to, and every next morning he went out and couldn't see his stick any more, so he put another stick in the place where the water came up to, and then he walked home again, and each morning he had a shorter way to walk than he had had the morning before. On the morning of the fifth day he saw the water all round him, and knew that for the first time in his life he was on a real island. Which was very exciting. It was on this morning that Owl came flying over the water to say "How do you do," to his friend Christopher Robin. "I say, Owl," said Christopher Robin, "isn't this fun? I'm on an island!" "The atmospheric conditions have been very unfavourable lately," said Owl. "The what?" "It has been raining," explained Owl. "Yes," said Christopher Robin. "It has." "The flood-level has reached an unprecedented height." "The who?" "There's a lot of water about," explained Owl. "Yes," said Christopher Robin, "there is." "However, the prospects are rapidly becoming more favourable. At any moment----" "Have you seen Pooh?" "No. At any moment----" "I hope he's all right," said Christopher Robin. "I've been wondering about him. I expect Piglet's with him. Do you think they're all right, Owl?" "I expect so. You see, at any moment----" "Do go and see, Owl. Because Pooh hasn't got very much brain, and he might do something silly, and I do love him so, Owl. Do you see, Owl?" "That's all right," said Owl. "I'll go. Back directly." And he flew off. In a little while he was back again.<\|quote\|>"Pooh isn't there,"</\|quote\|>he said. "Not there?" "Has _been_ there. He's been sitting on a branch of his tree outside his house with nine pots of honey. But he isn't there now." "Oh, Pooh!" cried Christopher Robin. "Where _are_ you?" "Here I am," said a growly voice behind him. "Pooh!" They rushed into each other's arms. "How did you get here, Pooh?" asked Christopher Robin, when he was ready to talk again. "On my boat," said Pooh proudly. "I had a Very Important Missage sent me in a bottle, and owing to having got some water in my eyes, I couldn't read it, so I brought it to you. On my boat." With these proud words he gave Christopher Robin the missage. "But it's from Piglet!" cried Christopher Robin when he had read it. "Isn't there anything about Pooh in it?" asked Bear, looking over his shoulder. Christopher Robin read the message aloud. "Oh, are those 'P's' piglets? I thought they were poohs." "We must rescue him at once! I thought he was with _you_, Pooh. Owl, could you rescue him on your back?" "I don't think so," said Owl, after grave thought. "It is doubtful if the necessary dorsal muscles----" "Then would you fly to him at _once_ and say that Rescue is Coming? And Pooh and I will think of a Rescue and come as quick as ever we can. Oh, don't _talk_, Owl, go on quick!" And, still thinking of something to say, Owl flew off. "Now then, Pooh," said Christopher Robin, "where's your boat?" "I ought to say," explained Pooh as they walked down to the shore of the island, "that it isn't just an ordinary sort of boat. Sometimes it's a Boat, and sometimes it's more of an Accident. It all depends." "Depends on what?" "On whether I'm on the top of it or underneath it." "Oh! Well, where is it?" "There!" said Pooh, pointing proudly to _The Floating Bear_. It wasn't what Christopher Robin expected, and the more he looked at it, the more he thought what a Brave and Clever Bear Pooh was, and the more Christopher Robin thought this, the more Pooh looked modestly down his nose and tried to pretend he wasn't. "But it's too small for two of us," said Christopher Robin sadly. "Three of us with Piglet." "That makes it smaller still. Oh, Pooh Bear, what shall we do?" And then this Bear, Pooh Bear, Winnie-the-Pooh, F.O.P. (Friend of Piglet's), R.C. (Rabbit's Companion), P.D. (Pole Discoverer), E.C. and T.F. (Eeyore's Comforter and Tail-finder)--in fact, Pooh himself--said something so clever that Christopher Robin could only look at him with mouth open and eyes staring, wondering if this was really the Bear of Very Little Brain whom he had known and loved so long. "We might go in your umbrella," said Pooh. "?" "We might go in your umbrella," said Pooh. "? ?" "We might go in your umbrella," said Pooh. "!!!!!!" For suddenly Christopher Robin saw that they might. He opened his umbrella and put it point downwards in the water. It floated but wobbled. Pooh got in. He was just beginning to say that it was all right now, when he found that it wasn't, so after a short drink which he didn't really want he waded back to Christopher Robin. Then they both got in together, and it wobbled no longer. "I shall call this boat _The Brain of Pooh_," said Christopher Robin, and _The Brain of Pooh_ set sail forthwith in a south-westerly direction, revolving gracefully. You can imagine Piglet's joy when at last the ship came in sight of him. In after-years he liked to think that he had been in Very Great Danger during the Terrible Flood, but the only danger he had really been in was in the last half-hour of his imprisonment, when Owl, who had just flown up, sat on a branch of his tree to comfort him, and told him a very long story about an aunt who had once laid a seagull's egg by mistake, and the story went on and on, rather like this sentence, until Piglet who was listening out of his window without much hope, went to sleep quietly and naturally, slipping slowly out of the window towards the water until he was only hanging on by his toes, at which moment luckily, a sudden loud squawk from Owl, which was really part of the story, being what his aunt said, woke the Piglet up and just gave him time to jerk himself back into safety and say, "How interesting, and did she?" when--well, you can imagine his joy when at last he saw the good ship, _Brain of Pooh_ (_Captain_, C. Robin; _1st Mate_, P. Bear) coming over the sea to rescue him. Christopher Robin and Pooh again.... And	took his biggest jar, and corked it up. "All boats have to have a name," he said, "so I shall call mine _The Floating Bear_." And with these words he dropped his boat into the water and jumped in after it. For a little while Pooh and _The Floating Bear_ were uncertain as to which of them was meant to be on the top, but after trying one or two different positions, they settled down with _The Floating Bear_ underneath and Pooh triumphantly astride it, paddling vigorously with his feet. * * * * * Christopher Robin lived at the very top of the Forest. It rained, and it rained, and it rained, but the water couldn't come up to _his_ house. It was rather jolly to look down into the valleys and see the water all round him, but it rained so hard that he stayed indoors most of the time, and thought about things. Every morning he went out with his umbrella and put a stick in the place where the water came up to, and every next morning he went out and couldn't see his stick any more, so he put another stick in the place where the water came up to, and then he walked home again, and each morning he had a shorter way to walk than he had had the morning before. On the morning of the fifth day he saw the water all round him, and knew that for the first time in his life he was on a real island. Which was very exciting. It was on this morning that Owl came flying over the water to say "How do you do," to his friend Christopher Robin. "I say, Owl," said Christopher Robin, "isn't this fun? I'm on an island!" "The atmospheric conditions have been very unfavourable lately," said Owl. "The what?" "It has been raining," explained Owl. "Yes," said Christopher Robin. "It has." "The flood-level has reached an unprecedented height." "The who?" "There's a lot of water about," explained Owl. "Yes," said Christopher Robin, "there is." "However, the prospects are rapidly becoming more favourable. At any moment----" "Have you seen Pooh?" "No. At any moment----" "I hope he's all right," said Christopher Robin. "I've been wondering about him. I expect Piglet's with him. Do you think they're all right, Owl?" "I expect so. You see, at any moment----" "Do go and see, Owl. Because Pooh hasn't got very much brain, and he might do something silly, and I do love him so, Owl. Do you see, Owl?" "That's all right," said Owl. "I'll go. Back directly." And he flew off. In a little while he was back again.<\|quote\|>"Pooh isn't there,"</\|quote\|>he said. "Not there?" "Has _been_ there. He's been sitting on a branch of his tree outside his house with nine pots of honey. But he isn't there now." "Oh, Pooh!" cried Christopher Robin. "Where _are_ you?" "Here I am," said a growly voice behind him. "Pooh!" They rushed into each other's arms. "How did you get here, Pooh?" asked Christopher Robin, when he was ready to talk again. "On my boat," said Pooh proudly. "I had a Very Important Missage sent me in a bottle, and owing to having got some water in my eyes, I couldn't read it, so I brought it to you. On my boat." With these proud words he gave Christopher Robin the missage. "But it's from Piglet!" cried Christopher Robin when he had read it. "Isn't there anything about Pooh in it?" asked Bear, looking over his shoulder. Christopher Robin read the message aloud. "Oh, are those 'P's' piglets? I thought they were poohs." "We must rescue him at once! I thought he was with _you_, Pooh. Owl, could you rescue him on your back?" "I don't think so," said Owl, after grave thought. "It is doubtful if the necessary dorsal muscles----" "Then would you fly to him at _once_ and say that Rescue is Coming? And Pooh and I will think of a Rescue and come as quick as ever we can. Oh, don't _talk_, Owl, go on quick!" And, still thinking of something to say, Owl flew off. "Now then, Pooh," said Christopher Robin, "where's your boat?" "I ought to say," explained Pooh as they walked down to the shore of the island, "that it isn't just an ordinary sort of boat. Sometimes it's a Boat, and sometimes it's more of an Accident. It all depends." "Depends on what?" "On whether I'm on the top of it or underneath it." "Oh! Well, where is it?" "There!" said Pooh, pointing proudly to _The Floating Bear_. It wasn't what Christopher Robin expected, and the more he looked at it, the more he thought what a Brave and Clever Bear Pooh was, and the more Christopher Robin thought this, the more Pooh looked modestly down his nose and tried to pretend he wasn't. "But it's too small for two of us," said Christopher Robin sadly. "Three of us with Piglet." "That makes it smaller still. Oh, Pooh Bear, what shall we do?" And then this Bear, Pooh Bear, Winnie-the-Pooh, F.O.P. (Friend of Piglet's), R.C. (Rabbit's Companion), P.D. (Pole Discoverer), E.C. and T.F. (Eeyore's Comforter and Tail-finder)--in fact, Pooh himself--said something so clever that Christopher Robin could only look at him with mouth open and eyes staring, wondering if this was really the Bear of Very Little Brain whom he had known and loved so long. "We might go in your umbrella," said Pooh. "?" "We might go in your umbrella," said Pooh. "? ?" "We might go in your umbrella," said Pooh. "!!!!!!" For suddenly Christopher Robin saw that they might. He opened his umbrella and put it point downwards in the water. It floated but wobbled. Pooh got in. He was just beginning to say that it was all right now, when he found that it wasn't, so after a short drink which he didn't really want he waded back to Christopher Robin. Then they both got in together, and it wobbled no longer. "I shall call this	Winnie The Pooh
asked the old lady, after a pause.	No speaker	of an hour, has he?"<\|quote\|>asked the old lady, after a pause.</\|quote\|>"An hour and twelve minutes,	Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?"<\|quote\|>asked the old lady, after a pause.</\|quote\|>"An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am," replied Mr. Giles, referring	regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her. "And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?"<\|quote\|>asked the old lady, after a pause.</\|quote\|>"An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am," replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon. "He is always slow," remarked the old lady. "Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a	thousand lights that played about the face, and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside peace and happiness. She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her. "And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?"<\|quote\|>asked the old lady, after a pause.</\|quote\|>"An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am," replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon. "He is always slow," remarked the old lady. "Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one. "He gets worse instead of better, I think," said the elder lady. "It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys," said the young lady,	womanhood; at that age, when, if ever angels be for God's good purposes enthroned in mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in such as hers. She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor its rough creatures her fit companions. The very intelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand lights that played about the face, and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside peace and happiness. She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her. "And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?"<\|quote\|>asked the old lady, after a pause.</\|quote\|>"An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am," replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon. "He is always slow," remarked the old lady. "Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one. "He gets worse instead of better, I think," said the elder lady. "It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys," said the young lady, smiling. Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a respectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate: out of which there jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door: and who, getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst into the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table together. "I never heard of such a thing!" exclaimed the fat gentleman. "My dear Mrs. Maylie bless my soul in the silence of the night, too I _never_ heard of such a thing!" With these expressions of condolence, the	ladies at a well-spread breakfast-table. Mr. Giles, dressed with scrupulous care in a full suit of black, was in attendance upon them. He had taken his station some half-way between the side-board and the breakfast-table; and, with his body drawn up to its full height, his head thrown back, and inclined the merest trifle on one side, his left leg advanced, and his right hand thrust into his waist-coat, while his left hung down by his side, grasping a waiter, looked like one who laboured under a very agreeable sense of his own merits and importance. Of the two ladies, one was well advanced in years; but the high-backed oaken chair in which she sat, was not more upright than she. Dressed with the utmost nicety and precision, in a quaint mixture of by-gone costume, with some slight concessions to the prevailing taste, which rather served to point the old style pleasantly than to impair its effect, she sat, in a stately manner, with her hands folded on the table before her. Her eyes (and age had dimmed but little of their brightness) were attentively upon her young companion. The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and spring-time of womanhood; at that age, when, if ever angels be for God's good purposes enthroned in mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in such as hers. She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor its rough creatures her fit companions. The very intelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand lights that played about the face, and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside peace and happiness. She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her. "And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?"<\|quote\|>asked the old lady, after a pause.</\|quote\|>"An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am," replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon. "He is always slow," remarked the old lady. "Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one. "He gets worse instead of better, I think," said the elder lady. "It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys," said the young lady, smiling. Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a respectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate: out of which there jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door: and who, getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst into the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table together. "I never heard of such a thing!" exclaimed the fat gentleman. "My dear Mrs. Maylie bless my soul in the silence of the night, too I _never_ heard of such a thing!" With these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman shook hands with both ladies, and drawing up a chair, inquired how they found themselves. "You ought to be dead; positively dead with the fright," said the fat gentleman. "Why didn't you send? Bless me, my man should have come in a minute; and so would I; and my assistant would have been delighted; or anybody, I'm sure, under such circumstances. Dear, dear! So unexpected! In the silence of the night, too!" The doctor seemed especially troubled by the fact of the robbery having been unexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the established custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact business at noon, and to make an appointment, by post, a day or two previous. "And you, Miss Rose," said the doctor, turning to the young lady, "I" "Oh! very much so, indeed," said Rose, interrupting him; "but there is a poor creature upstairs, whom aunt wishes you to see." "Ah! to be sure," replied the doctor, "so there is. That was your handiwork, Giles, I understand." Mr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting the tea-cups to rights, blushed very red, and said that he had had that honour. "Honour, eh?" said	miss; and Brittles held the light." "In a lantern, miss," cried Brittles, applying one hand to the side of his mouth, so that his voice might travel the better. The two women-servants ran upstairs to carry the intelligence that Mr. Giles had captured a robber; and the tinker busied himself in endeavouring to restore Oliver, lest he should die before he could be hanged. In the midst of all this noise and commotion, there was heard a sweet female voice, which quelled it in an instant. "Giles!" whispered the voice from the stair-head. "I'm here, miss," replied Mr. Giles. "Don't be frightened, miss; I ain't much injured. He didn't make a very desperate resistance, miss! I was soon too many for him." "Hush!" replied the young lady; "you frighten my aunt as much as the thieves did. Is the poor creature much hurt?" "Wounded desperate, miss," replied Giles, with indescribable complacency. "He looks as if he was a-going, miss," bawled Brittles, in the same manner as before. "Wouldn't you like to come and look at him, miss, in case he should?" "Hush, pray; there's a good man!" rejoined the lady. "Wait quietly only one instant, while I speak to aunt." With a footstep as soft and gentle as the voice, the speaker tripped away. She soon returned, with the direction that the wounded person was to be carried, carefully, upstairs to Mr. Giles's room; and that Brittles was to saddle the pony and betake himself instantly to Chertsey: from which place, he was to despatch, with all speed, a constable and doctor. "But won't you take one look at him, first, miss?" asked Mr. Giles, with as much pride as if Oliver were some bird of rare plumage, that he had skilfully brought down. "Not one little peep, miss?" "Not now, for the world," replied the young lady. "Poor fellow! Oh! treat him kindly, Giles for my sake!" The old servant looked up at the speaker, as she turned away, with a glance as proud and admiring as if she had been his own child. Then, bending over Oliver, he helped to carry him upstairs, with the care and solicitude of a woman. CHAPTER XXIX. HAS AN INTRODUCTORY ACCOUNT OF THE INMATES OF THE HOUSE, TO WHICH OLIVER RESORTED In a handsome room: though its furniture had rather the air of old-fashioned comfort, than of modern elegance: there sat two ladies at a well-spread breakfast-table. Mr. Giles, dressed with scrupulous care in a full suit of black, was in attendance upon them. He had taken his station some half-way between the side-board and the breakfast-table; and, with his body drawn up to its full height, his head thrown back, and inclined the merest trifle on one side, his left leg advanced, and his right hand thrust into his waist-coat, while his left hung down by his side, grasping a waiter, looked like one who laboured under a very agreeable sense of his own merits and importance. Of the two ladies, one was well advanced in years; but the high-backed oaken chair in which she sat, was not more upright than she. Dressed with the utmost nicety and precision, in a quaint mixture of by-gone costume, with some slight concessions to the prevailing taste, which rather served to point the old style pleasantly than to impair its effect, she sat, in a stately manner, with her hands folded on the table before her. Her eyes (and age had dimmed but little of their brightness) were attentively upon her young companion. The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and spring-time of womanhood; at that age, when, if ever angels be for God's good purposes enthroned in mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in such as hers. She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor its rough creatures her fit companions. The very intelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand lights that played about the face, and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside peace and happiness. She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her. "And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?"<\|quote\|>asked the old lady, after a pause.</\|quote\|>"An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am," replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon. "He is always slow," remarked the old lady. "Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one. "He gets worse instead of better, I think," said the elder lady. "It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys," said the young lady, smiling. Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a respectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate: out of which there jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door: and who, getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst into the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table together. "I never heard of such a thing!" exclaimed the fat gentleman. "My dear Mrs. Maylie bless my soul in the silence of the night, too I _never_ heard of such a thing!" With these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman shook hands with both ladies, and drawing up a chair, inquired how they found themselves. "You ought to be dead; positively dead with the fright," said the fat gentleman. "Why didn't you send? Bless me, my man should have come in a minute; and so would I; and my assistant would have been delighted; or anybody, I'm sure, under such circumstances. Dear, dear! So unexpected! In the silence of the night, too!" The doctor seemed especially troubled by the fact of the robbery having been unexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the established custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact business at noon, and to make an appointment, by post, a day or two previous. "And you, Miss Rose," said the doctor, turning to the young lady, "I" "Oh! very much so, indeed," said Rose, interrupting him; "but there is a poor creature upstairs, whom aunt wishes you to see." "Ah! to be sure," replied the doctor, "so there is. That was your handiwork, Giles, I understand." Mr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting the tea-cups to rights, blushed very red, and said that he had had that honour. "Honour, eh?" said the doctor; "well, I don't know; perhaps it's as honourable to hit a thief in a back kitchen, as to hit your man at twelve paces. Fancy that he fired in the air, and you've fought a duel, Giles." Mr. Giles, who thought this light treatment of the matter an unjust attempt at diminishing his glory, answered respectfully, that it was not for the like of him to judge about that; but he rather thought it was no joke to the opposite party. "Gad, that's true!" said the doctor. "Where is he? Show me the way. I'll look in again, as I come down, Mrs. Maylie. That's the little window that he got in at, eh? Well, I couldn't have believed it!" Talking all the way, he followed Mr. Giles upstairs; and while he is going upstairs, the reader may be informed, that Mr. Losberne, a surgeon in the neighbourhood, known through a circuit of ten miles round as "the doctor," had grown fat, more from good-humour than from good living: and was as kind and hearty, and withal as eccentric an old bachelor, as will be found in five times that space, by any explorer alive. The doctor was absent, much longer than either he or the ladies had anticipated. A large flat box was fetched out of the gig; and a bedroom bell was rung very often; and the servants ran up and down stairs perpetually; from which tokens it was justly concluded that something important was going on above. At length he returned; and in reply to an anxious inquiry after his patient; looked very mysterious, and closed the door, carefully. "This is a very extraordinary thing, Mrs. Maylie," said the doctor, standing with his back to the door, as if to keep it shut. "He is not in danger, I hope?" said the old lady. "Why, that would _not_ be an extraordinary thing, under the circumstances," replied the doctor; "though I don't think he is. Have you seen the thief?" "No," rejoined the old lady. "Nor heard anything about him?" "No." "I beg your pardon, ma'am," interposed Mr. Giles; "but I was going to tell you about him when Doctor Losberne came in." The fact was, that Mr. Giles had not, at first, been able to bring his mind to the avowal, that he had only shot a boy. Such commendations had been bestowed upon his	by-gone costume, with some slight concessions to the prevailing taste, which rather served to point the old style pleasantly than to impair its effect, she sat, in a stately manner, with her hands folded on the table before her. Her eyes (and age had dimmed but little of their brightness) were attentively upon her young companion. The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and spring-time of womanhood; at that age, when, if ever angels be for God's good purposes enthroned in mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in such as hers. She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor its rough creatures her fit companions. The very intelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand lights that played about the face, and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside peace and happiness. She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her. "And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?"<\|quote\|>asked the old lady, after a pause.</\|quote\|>"An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am," replied Mr. Giles, referring to a silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon. "He is always slow," remarked the old lady. "Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one. "He gets worse instead of better, I think," said the elder lady. "It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys," said the young lady, smiling. Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a respectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate: out of which there jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door: and who, getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst into the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table together. "I never heard of such a thing!" exclaimed the fat gentleman. "My dear Mrs. Maylie bless my soul in the silence of the night, too I _never_ heard of such a thing!" With these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman shook hands with both ladies, and drawing up a chair, inquired how they found themselves. "You ought to be dead; positively dead with the fright," said the fat gentleman. "Why didn't you send? Bless me, my man should have come in a minute; and so would I; and my assistant would have been delighted; or anybody, I'm sure, under such circumstances. Dear, dear! So unexpected! In the silence of the night, too!" The doctor seemed especially troubled by the fact of the robbery having been unexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the established custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact business at noon, and to make an appointment, by post, a day or two previous. "And you, Miss Rose," said the doctor, turning to the young lady, "I" "Oh! very much so, indeed," said Rose, interrupting him; "but there is a poor creature upstairs, whom aunt wishes you to see." "Ah! to be sure," replied the doctor, "so there is. That was your handiwork, Giles, I understand." Mr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting the tea-cups to rights, blushed very red, and said that he had had that honour. "Honour, eh?" said the doctor; "well, I don't know; perhaps it's as honourable to hit a thief in a back kitchen, as to hit your man at twelve paces. Fancy that he fired in the air, and you've fought a duel, Giles." Mr. Giles, who thought this light treatment of the matter an unjust attempt at diminishing his glory, answered respectfully, that it was not for the like of him to judge about that; but he rather thought it was no joke to the opposite party. "Gad, that's true!" said the doctor. "Where is he? Show me the way.	Oliver Twist
said the Eaglet.	No speaker	more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!"<\|quote\|>said the Eaglet.</\|quote\|>"I don't know the meaning	for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!"<\|quote\|>said the Eaglet.</\|quote\|>"I don't know the meaning of half those long words,	to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!"<\|quote\|>said the Eaglet.</\|quote\|>"I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone,	The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--' How are you getting on now, my dear?" it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!"<\|quote\|>said the Eaglet.</\|quote\|>"I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race." "What _is_ a Caucus-race?" said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. "Why,"	beg your pardon!" said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: "Did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the Mouse. "--I proceed. 'Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--'" "Found _what_?" said the Duck. "Found _it_," the Mouse replied rather crossly: "of course you know what 'it' means." "I know what 'it' means well enough, when _I_ find a thing," said the Duck: "it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?" The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--' How are you getting on now, my dear?" it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!"<\|quote\|>said the Eaglet.</\|quote\|>"I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race." "What _is_ a Caucus-race?" said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. "Why," said the Dodo, "the best way to explain it is to do it." (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.) First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (" "the exact shape doesn't matter," it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no "One, two, three, and away," but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was	quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, "I am older than you, and must know better;" and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, "Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! _I'll_ soon make you dry enough!" They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon. "Ahem!" said the Mouse with an important air, "are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! 'William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--'" "Ugh!" said the Lory, with a shiver. "I beg your pardon!" said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: "Did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the Mouse. "--I proceed. 'Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--'" "Found _what_?" said the Duck. "Found _it_," the Mouse replied rather crossly: "of course you know what 'it' means." "I know what 'it' means well enough, when _I_ find a thing," said the Duck: "it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?" The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--' How are you getting on now, my dear?" it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!"<\|quote\|>said the Eaglet.</\|quote\|>"I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race." "What _is_ a Caucus-race?" said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. "Why," said the Dodo, "the best way to explain it is to do it." (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.) First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (" "the exact shape doesn't matter," it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no "One, two, three, and away," but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out "The race is over!" and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, "But who has won?" This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, "_Everybody_ has won, and all must have prizes." "But who is to give the prizes?" quite a chorus of voices asked. "Why, _she_, of course," said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, "Prizes! Prizes!" Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece, all round. "But she must have a prize herself, you know," said the Mouse. "Of	to the end of his tail. "As if _I_ would talk on such a subject! Our family always _hated_ cats: nasty, low, vulgar things! Don't let me hear the name again!" "I won't indeed!" said Alice, in a great hurry to change the subject of conversation. "Are you--are you fond--of--of dogs?" The Mouse did not answer, so Alice went on eagerly: "There is such a nice little dog near our house I should like to show you! A little bright-eyed terrier, you know, with oh, such long curly brown hair! And it'll fetch things when you throw them, and it'll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts of things--I can't remember half of them--and it belongs to a farmer, you know, and he says it's so useful, it's worth a hundred pounds! He says it kills all the rats and--oh dear!" cried Alice in a sorrowful tone, "I'm afraid I've offended it again!" For the Mouse was swimming away from her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in the pool as it went. So she called softly after it, "Mouse dear! Do come back again, and we won't talk about cats or dogs either, if you don't like them!" When the Mouse heard this, it turned round and swam slowly back to her: its face was quite pale (with passion, Alice thought), and it said in a low trembling voice, "Let us get to the shore, and then I'll tell you my history, and you'll understand why it is I hate cats and dogs." It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore. CHAPTER III. A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank--the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable. The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, "I am older than you, and must know better;" and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, "Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! _I'll_ soon make you dry enough!" They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon. "Ahem!" said the Mouse with an important air, "are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! 'William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--'" "Ugh!" said the Lory, with a shiver. "I beg your pardon!" said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: "Did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the Mouse. "--I proceed. 'Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--'" "Found _what_?" said the Duck. "Found _it_," the Mouse replied rather crossly: "of course you know what 'it' means." "I know what 'it' means well enough, when _I_ find a thing," said the Duck: "it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?" The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--' How are you getting on now, my dear?" it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!"<\|quote\|>said the Eaglet.</\|quote\|>"I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race." "What _is_ a Caucus-race?" said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. "Why," said the Dodo, "the best way to explain it is to do it." (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.) First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (" "the exact shape doesn't matter," it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no "One, two, three, and away," but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out "The race is over!" and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, "But who has won?" This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, "_Everybody_ has won, and all must have prizes." "But who is to give the prizes?" quite a chorus of voices asked. "Why, _she_, of course," said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, "Prizes! Prizes!" Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece, all round. "But she must have a prize herself, you know," said the Mouse. "Of course," the Dodo replied very gravely. "What else have you got in your pocket?" he went on, turning to Alice. "Only a thimble," said Alice sadly. "Hand it over here," said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying "We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble;" and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. "You promised to tell me your history, you know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. "Mine is a long and a sad tale!" said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing. "It _is_ a long tail, certainly," said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_" cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily. "A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously	late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--'" "Ugh!" said the Lory, with a shiver. "I beg your pardon!" said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: "Did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the Mouse. "--I proceed. 'Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--'" "Found _what_?" said the Duck. "Found _it_," the Mouse replied rather crossly: "of course you know what 'it' means." "I know what 'it' means well enough, when _I_ find a thing," said the Duck: "it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?" The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--' How are you getting on now, my dear?" it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!"<\|quote\|>said the Eaglet.</\|quote\|>"I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race." "What _is_ a Caucus-race?" said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. "Why," said the Dodo, "the best way to explain it is to do it." (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.) First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (" "the exact shape doesn't matter," it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no "One, two, three, and away," but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out "The race is over!" and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, "But who has won?" This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
"Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair."	Katharine Hilbery	a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired.<\|quote\|>"Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair."</\|quote\|>Katharine began to describe her	on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired.<\|quote\|>"Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair."</\|quote\|>Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery	he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired.<\|quote\|>"Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair."</\|quote\|>Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with	to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired.<\|quote\|>"Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair."</\|quote\|>Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with a wonderful view over London, and a rook. "A wretched old bird in a corner, with half its feathers out," she said, with a tenderness in her voice that seemed to commiserate the sufferings of humanity while resting assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them, so that	in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her sources of information, and, indeed, her bag was stuffed with what she called "kind letters" from the pen of her sister-in-law. "Yes. Or to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired.<\|quote\|>"Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair."</\|quote\|>Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with a wonderful view over London, and a rook. "A wretched old bird in a corner, with half its feathers out," she said, with a tenderness in her voice that seemed to commiserate the sufferings of humanity while resting assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them, so that Mrs. Hilbery could not help exclaiming: "But, Katharine, you _are_ in love!" at which Katharine flushed, looked startled, as if she had said something that she ought not to have said, and shook her head. Hastily Mrs. Hilbery asked for further details of this extraordinary house, and interposed a few speculations about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane, which tided over the discomfort of the moment, and drew Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions. In truth, she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally	softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak. "The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him." Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her sources of information, and, indeed, her bag was stuffed with what she called "kind letters" from the pen of her sister-in-law. "Yes. Or to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired.<\|quote\|>"Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair."</\|quote\|>Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with a wonderful view over London, and a rook. "A wretched old bird in a corner, with half its feathers out," she said, with a tenderness in her voice that seemed to commiserate the sufferings of humanity while resting assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them, so that Mrs. Hilbery could not help exclaiming: "But, Katharine, you _are_ in love!" at which Katharine flushed, looked startled, as if she had said something that she ought not to have said, and shook her head. Hastily Mrs. Hilbery asked for further details of this extraordinary house, and interposed a few speculations about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane, which tided over the discomfort of the moment, and drew Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions. In truth, she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally benignant, the mother of her earliest childhood, whose silence seemed to answer questions that were never asked. Mrs. Hilbery listened without making any remark for a considerable time. She seemed to draw her conclusions rather by looking at her daughter than by listening to her, and, if cross-examined, she would probably have given a highly inaccurate version of Ralph Denham s life-history except that he was penniless, fatherless, and lived at Highgate all of which was much in his favor. But by means of these furtive glances she had assured herself that Katharine was in a state which gave her, alternately, the most exquisite pleasure and the most profound alarm. She could not help ejaculating at last: "It s all done in five minutes at a Registry Office nowadays, if you think the Church service a little florid which it is, though there are noble things in it." "But we don t want to be married," Katharine replied emphatically, and added, "Why, after all, isn t it perfectly possible to live together without being married?" Again Mrs. Hilbery looked discomposed, and, in her trouble, took up the sheets which were lying upon the table, and began turning them over this	effort to think down some unwelcome thought by means of another thought. Having absorbed the unwelcome thought, her mind went on with additional vigor, derived from the victory; on a sheet of paper lines of figures and symbols frequently and firmly written down marked the different stages of its progress. And yet it was broad daylight; there were sounds of knocking and sweeping, which proved that living people were at work on the other side of the door, and the door, which could be thrown open in a second, was her only protection against the world. But she had somehow risen to be mistress in her own kingdom, assuming her sovereignty unconsciously. Steps approached her unheard. It is true that they were steps that lingered, divagated, and mounted with the deliberation natural to one past sixty whose arms, moreover, are full of leaves and blossoms; but they came on steadily, and soon a tap of laurel boughs against the door arrested Katharine s pencil as it touched the page. She did not move, however, and sat blank-eyed as if waiting for the interruption to cease. Instead, the door opened. At first, she attached no meaning to the moving mass of green which seemed to enter the room independently of any human agency. Then she recognized parts of her mother s face and person behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "Thank God!" she repeated. "You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak. "The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him." Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her sources of information, and, indeed, her bag was stuffed with what she called "kind letters" from the pen of her sister-in-law. "Yes. Or to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired.<\|quote\|>"Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair."</\|quote\|>Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with a wonderful view over London, and a rook. "A wretched old bird in a corner, with half its feathers out," she said, with a tenderness in her voice that seemed to commiserate the sufferings of humanity while resting assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them, so that Mrs. Hilbery could not help exclaiming: "But, Katharine, you _are_ in love!" at which Katharine flushed, looked startled, as if she had said something that she ought not to have said, and shook her head. Hastily Mrs. Hilbery asked for further details of this extraordinary house, and interposed a few speculations about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane, which tided over the discomfort of the moment, and drew Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions. In truth, she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally benignant, the mother of her earliest childhood, whose silence seemed to answer questions that were never asked. Mrs. Hilbery listened without making any remark for a considerable time. She seemed to draw her conclusions rather by looking at her daughter than by listening to her, and, if cross-examined, she would probably have given a highly inaccurate version of Ralph Denham s life-history except that he was penniless, fatherless, and lived at Highgate all of which was much in his favor. But by means of these furtive glances she had assured herself that Katharine was in a state which gave her, alternately, the most exquisite pleasure and the most profound alarm. She could not help ejaculating at last: "It s all done in five minutes at a Registry Office nowadays, if you think the Church service a little florid which it is, though there are noble things in it." "But we don t want to be married," Katharine replied emphatically, and added, "Why, after all, isn t it perfectly possible to live together without being married?" Again Mrs. Hilbery looked discomposed, and, in her trouble, took up the sheets which were lying upon the table, and began turning them over this way and that, and muttering to herself as she glanced: "A plus B minus C equals _x y z_. It s so dreadfully ugly, Katharine. That s what I feel so dreadfully ugly." Katharine took the sheets from her mother s hand and began shuffling them absent-mindedly together, for her fixed gaze seemed to show that her thoughts were intent upon some other matter. "Well, I don t know about ugliness," she said at length. "But he doesn t ask it of you?" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Not that grave young man with the steady brown eyes?" "He doesn t ask anything we neither of us ask anything." "If I could help you, Katharine, by the memory of what I felt" "Yes, tell me what you felt." Mrs. Hilbery, her eyes growing blank, peered down the enormously long corridor of days at the far end of which the little figures of herself and her husband appeared fantastically attired, clasping hands upon a moonlit beach, with roses swinging in the dusk. "We were in a little boat going out to a ship at night," she began. "The sun had set and the moon was rising over our heads. There were lovely silver lights upon the waves and three green lights upon the steamer in the middle of the bay. Your father s head looked so grand against the mast. It was life, it was death. The great sea was round us. It was the voyage for ever and ever." The ancient fairy-tale fell roundly and harmoniously upon Katharine s ears. Yes, there was the enormous space of the sea; there were the three green lights upon the steamer; the cloaked figures climbed up on deck. And so, voyaging over the green and purple waters, past the cliffs and the sandy lagoons and through pools crowded with the masts of ships and the steeples of churches here they were. The river seemed to have brought them and deposited them here at this precise point. She looked admiringly at her mother, that ancient voyager. "Who knows," exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, continuing her reveries, "where we are bound for, or why, or who has sent us, or what we shall find who knows anything, except that love is our faith love" she crooned, and the soft sound beating through the dim words was heard by her daughter as the breaking of waves solemnly in order upon	else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak. "The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him." Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her sources of information, and, indeed, her bag was stuffed with what she called "kind letters" from the pen of her sister-in-law. "Yes. Or to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired.<\|quote\|>"Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair."</\|quote\|>Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with a wonderful view over London, and a rook. "A wretched old bird in a corner, with half its feathers out," she said, with a tenderness in her voice that seemed to commiserate the sufferings of humanity while resting assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them, so that Mrs. Hilbery could not help exclaiming: "But, Katharine, you _are_ in love!" at which Katharine flushed, looked startled, as if she had said something that she ought not to have said, and shook her head. Hastily Mrs. Hilbery asked for further details of this extraordinary house, and interposed a few speculations about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane, which tided over the discomfort of the moment, and drew Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions. In truth, she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally benignant, the mother of her earliest childhood, whose silence seemed to answer questions that were never asked. Mrs. Hilbery listened without making any remark for a considerable time. She seemed to draw her conclusions rather by looking at her daughter than by listening to her, and, if cross-examined, she would probably have given a highly inaccurate version of Ralph Denham s life-history except that he was penniless, fatherless, and lived at Highgate all of which was much in his favor. But by means of these furtive glances she had assured herself that Katharine was in a state which gave her, alternately, the most exquisite pleasure and the most profound alarm. She could not help ejaculating at last: "It s all done in five minutes at a Registry Office nowadays, if you think the Church service a little florid which it is, though there are noble things in it." "But we don t want to be married," Katharine replied emphatically, and added, "Why, after all, isn t it perfectly possible to live together without being married?" Again Mrs. Hilbery looked discomposed, and, in her trouble, took up the sheets which were lying upon the table, and began turning them over this way and that, and muttering to herself as she glanced: "A plus B minus C equals _x y z_. It s so dreadfully ugly, Katharine. That s what I feel so dreadfully ugly." Katharine took the sheets from her mother s hand and began shuffling them absent-mindedly together, for her fixed gaze seemed to show that her thoughts were intent upon some other matter. "Well, I don t know about ugliness," she said at length. "But he doesn t ask it of you?" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Not that grave young man with the steady brown eyes?" "He	Night And Day
"it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself."	Mr. James Harthouse	Harthouse." "Well," returned the other,<\|quote\|>"it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself."</\|quote\|>"Thank you," said Tom, shaking	"As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse." "Well," returned the other,<\|quote\|>"it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself."</\|quote\|>"Thank you," said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing	But I am very much obliged to you; you're a true friend." A true friend! "Whelp, whelp!" thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily; "what an Ass you are!" "And I take your offer as a great kindness," said Tom, grasping his hand. "As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse." "Well," returned the other,<\|quote\|>"it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself."</\|quote\|>"Thank you," said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing rosebuds. "I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse." "Now, you see, Tom," said Mr. Harthouse in conclusion, himself tossing over a rose or two, as a contribution to the island, which was always drifting to the wall as	Say what they are." "Mr. Harthouse," returned Tom, now actually crying; and his tears were better than his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made: "it's too late; the money is of no use to me at present. I should have had it before to be of use to me. But I am very much obliged to you; you're a true friend." A true friend! "Whelp, whelp!" thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily; "what an Ass you are!" "And I take your offer as a great kindness," said Tom, grasping his hand. "As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse." "Well," returned the other,<\|quote\|>"it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself."</\|quote\|>"Thank you," said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing rosebuds. "I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse." "Now, you see, Tom," said Mr. Harthouse in conclusion, himself tossing over a rose or two, as a contribution to the island, which was always drifting to the wall as if it wanted to become a part of the mainland: "every man is selfish in everything he does, and I am exactly like the rest of my fellow-creatures. I am desperately intent;" the languor of his desperation being quite tropical; "on your softening towards your sister which you ought to	banker." "For God's sake," replied Tom, suddenly, "don't talk about bankers!" And very white he looked, in contrast with the roses. Very white. Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly well-bred man, accustomed to the best society, was not to be surprised he could as soon have been affected but he raised his eyelids a little more, as if they were lifted by a feeble touch of wonder. Albeit it was as much against the precepts of his school to wonder, as it was against the doctrines of the Gradgrind College. "What is the present need, Tom? Three figures? Out with them. Say what they are." "Mr. Harthouse," returned Tom, now actually crying; and his tears were better than his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made: "it's too late; the money is of no use to me at present. I should have had it before to be of use to me. But I am very much obliged to you; you're a true friend." A true friend! "Whelp, whelp!" thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily; "what an Ass you are!" "And I take your offer as a great kindness," said Tom, grasping his hand. "As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse." "Well," returned the other,<\|quote\|>"it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself."</\|quote\|>"Thank you," said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing rosebuds. "I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse." "Now, you see, Tom," said Mr. Harthouse in conclusion, himself tossing over a rose or two, as a contribution to the island, which was always drifting to the wall as if it wanted to become a part of the mainland: "every man is selfish in everything he does, and I am exactly like the rest of my fellow-creatures. I am desperately intent;" the languor of his desperation being quite tropical; "on your softening towards your sister which you ought to do; and on your being a more loving and agreeable sort of brother which you ought to be." "I will be, Mr. Harthouse." "No time like the present, Tom. Begin at once." "Certainly I will. And my sister Loo shall say so." "Having made which bargain, Tom," said Harthouse, clapping him on the shoulder again, with an air which left him at liberty to infer as he did, poor fool that this condition was imposed upon him in mere careless good nature to lessen his sense of obligation, "we will tear ourselves asunder until dinner-time." When Tom appeared before dinner,	now, after what I have told you already; you know she didn't marry old Bounderby for her own sake, or for his sake, but for my sake. Then why doesn't she get what I want, out of him, for my sake? She is not obliged to say what she is going to do with it; she is sharp enough; she could manage to coax it out of him, if she chose. Then why doesn't she choose, when I tell her of what consequence it is? But no. There she sits in his company like a stone, instead of making herself agreeable and getting it easily. I don't know what you may call this, but I call it unnatural conduct." There was a piece of ornamental water immediately below the parapet, on the other side, into which Mr. James Harthouse had a very strong inclination to pitch Mr. Thomas Gradgrind junior, as the injured men of Coketown threatened to pitch their property into the Atlantic. But he preserved his easy attitude; and nothing more solid went over the stone balustrades than the accumulated rosebuds now floating about, a little surface-island. "My dear Tom," said Harthouse, "let me try to be your banker." "For God's sake," replied Tom, suddenly, "don't talk about bankers!" And very white he looked, in contrast with the roses. Very white. Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly well-bred man, accustomed to the best society, was not to be surprised he could as soon have been affected but he raised his eyelids a little more, as if they were lifted by a feeble touch of wonder. Albeit it was as much against the precepts of his school to wonder, as it was against the doctrines of the Gradgrind College. "What is the present need, Tom? Three figures? Out with them. Say what they are." "Mr. Harthouse," returned Tom, now actually crying; and his tears were better than his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made: "it's too late; the money is of no use to me at present. I should have had it before to be of use to me. But I am very much obliged to you; you're a true friend." A true friend! "Whelp, whelp!" thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily; "what an Ass you are!" "And I take your offer as a great kindness," said Tom, grasping his hand. "As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse." "Well," returned the other,<\|quote\|>"it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself."</\|quote\|>"Thank you," said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing rosebuds. "I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse." "Now, you see, Tom," said Mr. Harthouse in conclusion, himself tossing over a rose or two, as a contribution to the island, which was always drifting to the wall as if it wanted to become a part of the mainland: "every man is selfish in everything he does, and I am exactly like the rest of my fellow-creatures. I am desperately intent;" the languor of his desperation being quite tropical; "on your softening towards your sister which you ought to do; and on your being a more loving and agreeable sort of brother which you ought to be." "I will be, Mr. Harthouse." "No time like the present, Tom. Begin at once." "Certainly I will. And my sister Loo shall say so." "Having made which bargain, Tom," said Harthouse, clapping him on the shoulder again, with an air which left him at liberty to infer as he did, poor fool that this condition was imposed upon him in mere careless good nature to lessen his sense of obligation, "we will tear ourselves asunder until dinner-time." When Tom appeared before dinner, though his mind seemed heavy enough, his body was on the alert; and he appeared before Mr. Bounderby came in. "I didn't mean to be cross, Loo," he said, giving her his hand, and kissing her. "I know you are fond of me, and you know I am fond of you." After this, there was a smile upon Louisa's face that day, for some one else. Alas, for some one else! "So much the less is the whelp the only creature that she cares for," thought James Harthouse, reversing the reflection of his first day's knowledge of her pretty face. "So much the less, so much the less." CHAPTER VIII EXPLOSION THE next morning was too bright a morning for sleep, and James Harthouse rose early, and sat in the pleasant bay window of his dressing-room, smoking the rare tobacco that had had so wholesome an influence on his young friend. Reposing in the sunlight, with the fragrance of his eastern pipe about him, and the dreamy smoke vanishing into the air, so rich and soft with summer odours, he reckoned up his advantages as an idle winner might count his gains. He was not at all bored for the	again, and invited him with a confidential nod to a walk in the garden. "Tom, my fine fellow, I want to have a word with you." They had stopped among a disorder of roses it was part of Mr. Bounderby's humility to keep Nickits's roses on a reduced scale and Tom sat down on a terrace-parapet, plucking buds and picking them to pieces; while his powerful Familiar stood over him, with a foot upon the parapet, and his figure easily resting on the arm supported by that knee. They were just visible from her window. Perhaps she saw them. "Tom, what's the matter?" "Oh! Mr. Harthouse," said Tom with a groan, "I am hard up, and bothered out of my life." "My good fellow, so am I." "You!" returned Tom. "You are the picture of independence. Mr. Harthouse, I am in a horrible mess. You have no idea what a state I have got myself into what a state my sister might have got me out of, if she would only have done it." He took to biting the rosebuds now, and tearing them away from his teeth with a hand that trembled like an infirm old man's. After one exceedingly observant look at him, his companion relapsed into his lightest air. "Tom, you are inconsiderate: you expect too much of your sister. You have had money of her, you dog, you know you have." "Well, Mr. Harthouse, I know I have. How else was I to get it? Here's old Bounderby always boasting that at my age he lived upon twopence a month, or something of that sort. Here's my father drawing what he calls a line, and tying me down to it from a baby, neck and heels. Here's my mother who never has anything of her own, except her complaints. What _is_ a fellow to do for money, and where _am_ I to look for it, if not to my sister?" He was almost crying, and scattered the buds about by dozens. Mr. Harthouse took him persuasively by the coat. "But, my dear Tom, if your sister has not got it" "Not got it, Mr. Harthouse? I don't say she has got it. I may have wanted more than she was likely to have got. But then she ought to get it. She could get it. It's of no use pretending to make a secret of matters now, after what I have told you already; you know she didn't marry old Bounderby for her own sake, or for his sake, but for my sake. Then why doesn't she get what I want, out of him, for my sake? She is not obliged to say what she is going to do with it; she is sharp enough; she could manage to coax it out of him, if she chose. Then why doesn't she choose, when I tell her of what consequence it is? But no. There she sits in his company like a stone, instead of making herself agreeable and getting it easily. I don't know what you may call this, but I call it unnatural conduct." There was a piece of ornamental water immediately below the parapet, on the other side, into which Mr. James Harthouse had a very strong inclination to pitch Mr. Thomas Gradgrind junior, as the injured men of Coketown threatened to pitch their property into the Atlantic. But he preserved his easy attitude; and nothing more solid went over the stone balustrades than the accumulated rosebuds now floating about, a little surface-island. "My dear Tom," said Harthouse, "let me try to be your banker." "For God's sake," replied Tom, suddenly, "don't talk about bankers!" And very white he looked, in contrast with the roses. Very white. Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly well-bred man, accustomed to the best society, was not to be surprised he could as soon have been affected but he raised his eyelids a little more, as if they were lifted by a feeble touch of wonder. Albeit it was as much against the precepts of his school to wonder, as it was against the doctrines of the Gradgrind College. "What is the present need, Tom? Three figures? Out with them. Say what they are." "Mr. Harthouse," returned Tom, now actually crying; and his tears were better than his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made: "it's too late; the money is of no use to me at present. I should have had it before to be of use to me. But I am very much obliged to you; you're a true friend." A true friend! "Whelp, whelp!" thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily; "what an Ass you are!" "And I take your offer as a great kindness," said Tom, grasping his hand. "As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse." "Well," returned the other,<\|quote\|>"it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself."</\|quote\|>"Thank you," said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing rosebuds. "I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse." "Now, you see, Tom," said Mr. Harthouse in conclusion, himself tossing over a rose or two, as a contribution to the island, which was always drifting to the wall as if it wanted to become a part of the mainland: "every man is selfish in everything he does, and I am exactly like the rest of my fellow-creatures. I am desperately intent;" the languor of his desperation being quite tropical; "on your softening towards your sister which you ought to do; and on your being a more loving and agreeable sort of brother which you ought to be." "I will be, Mr. Harthouse." "No time like the present, Tom. Begin at once." "Certainly I will. And my sister Loo shall say so." "Having made which bargain, Tom," said Harthouse, clapping him on the shoulder again, with an air which left him at liberty to infer as he did, poor fool that this condition was imposed upon him in mere careless good nature to lessen his sense of obligation, "we will tear ourselves asunder until dinner-time." When Tom appeared before dinner, though his mind seemed heavy enough, his body was on the alert; and he appeared before Mr. Bounderby came in. "I didn't mean to be cross, Loo," he said, giving her his hand, and kissing her. "I know you are fond of me, and you know I am fond of you." After this, there was a smile upon Louisa's face that day, for some one else. Alas, for some one else! "So much the less is the whelp the only creature that she cares for," thought James Harthouse, reversing the reflection of his first day's knowledge of her pretty face. "So much the less, so much the less." CHAPTER VIII EXPLOSION THE next morning was too bright a morning for sleep, and James Harthouse rose early, and sat in the pleasant bay window of his dressing-room, smoking the rare tobacco that had had so wholesome an influence on his young friend. Reposing in the sunlight, with the fragrance of his eastern pipe about him, and the dreamy smoke vanishing into the air, so rich and soft with summer odours, he reckoned up his advantages as an idle winner might count his gains. He was not at all bored for the time, and could give his mind to it. He had established a confidence with her, from which her husband was excluded. He had established a confidence with her, that absolutely turned upon her indifference towards her husband, and the absence, now and at all times, of any congeniality between them. He had artfully, but plainly, assured her that he knew her heart in its last most delicate recesses; he had come so near to her through its tenderest sentiment; he had associated himself with that feeling; and the barrier behind which she lived, had melted away. All very odd, and very satisfactory! And yet he had not, even now, any earnest wickedness of purpose in him. Publicly and privately, it were much better for the age in which he lived, that he and the legion of whom he was one were designedly bad, than indifferent and purposeless. It is the drifting icebergs setting with any current anywhere, that wreck the ships. When the Devil goeth about like a roaring lion, he goeth about in a shape by which few but savages and hunters are attracted. But, when he is trimmed, smoothed, and varnished, according to the mode; when he is aweary of vice, and aweary of virtue, used up as to brimstone, and used up as to bliss; then, whether he take to the serving out of red tape, or to the kindling of red fire, he is the very Devil. So James Harthouse reclined in the window, indolently smoking, and reckoning up the steps he had taken on the road by which he happened to be travelling. The end to which it led was before him, pretty plainly; but he troubled himself with no calculations about it. What will be, will be. As he had rather a long ride to take that day for there was a public occasion "to do" at some distance, which afforded a tolerable opportunity of going in for the Gradgrind men he dressed early and went down to breakfast. He was anxious to see if she had relapsed since the previous evening. No. He resumed where he had left off. There was a look of interest for him again. He got through the day as much (or as little) to his own satisfaction, as was to be expected under the fatiguing circumstances; and came riding back at six o'clock. There was a sweep of	inclination to pitch Mr. Thomas Gradgrind junior, as the injured men of Coketown threatened to pitch their property into the Atlantic. But he preserved his easy attitude; and nothing more solid went over the stone balustrades than the accumulated rosebuds now floating about, a little surface-island. "My dear Tom," said Harthouse, "let me try to be your banker." "For God's sake," replied Tom, suddenly, "don't talk about bankers!" And very white he looked, in contrast with the roses. Very white. Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly well-bred man, accustomed to the best society, was not to be surprised he could as soon have been affected but he raised his eyelids a little more, as if they were lifted by a feeble touch of wonder. Albeit it was as much against the precepts of his school to wonder, as it was against the doctrines of the Gradgrind College. "What is the present need, Tom? Three figures? Out with them. Say what they are." "Mr. Harthouse," returned Tom, now actually crying; and his tears were better than his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made: "it's too late; the money is of no use to me at present. I should have had it before to be of use to me. But I am very much obliged to you; you're a true friend." A true friend! "Whelp, whelp!" thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily; "what an Ass you are!" "And I take your offer as a great kindness," said Tom, grasping his hand. "As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse." "Well," returned the other,<\|quote\|>"it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself."</\|quote\|>"Thank you," said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing rosebuds. "I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse." "Now, you see, Tom," said Mr. Harthouse in conclusion, himself tossing over a rose or two, as a contribution to the island, which was always drifting to the wall as if it wanted to become a part of the mainland: "every man is selfish in everything he does, and I am exactly like the rest of my fellow-creatures. I am desperately intent;" the languor of his desperation being quite tropical; "on your softening towards your sister which you ought to do; and on your being a more loving and agreeable sort of brother which you ought to be." "I will be, Mr. Harthouse." "No time like the present, Tom. Begin at once." "Certainly I will. And my sister Loo shall say so." "Having made which bargain, Tom," said Harthouse, clapping him on the shoulder again, with an air which left him at liberty to infer as he did, poor fool that this condition was imposed upon him in mere careless good nature to lessen his sense of obligation, "we will tear ourselves asunder until dinner-time." When Tom appeared before dinner, though his mind seemed heavy enough, his body was on the alert; and he appeared before Mr. Bounderby came in. "I didn't mean to be cross, Loo," he said, giving her his hand, and kissing her. "I know you are fond of me, and you know I am fond of you." After this, there was a smile upon Louisa's face that day, for some one else. Alas, for some one else! "So much the less is the whelp the only creature that she cares for," thought James Harthouse, reversing the reflection of his first day's knowledge of her pretty face. "So much the less, so much the less." CHAPTER VIII EXPLOSION THE next morning was too bright a morning for sleep, and James Harthouse rose early, and sat in the pleasant bay window of his dressing-room, smoking the rare tobacco that had had so wholesome an influence on his young	Hard Times
"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"	Emma	in consternation, and hastily said,<\|quote\|>"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"</\|quote\|>"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but	round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,<\|quote\|>"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"</\|quote\|>"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--" "I must say	I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure." Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,<\|quote\|>"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"</\|quote\|>"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--" "I must say that I have." Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening	matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before--and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to--if Mr. Knightley should really--if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure." Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,<\|quote\|>"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"</\|quote\|>"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--" "I must say that I have." Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched--she admitted--she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having some hope of a return? It darted through her,	me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had been the person; and now--it _is_ possible--" She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak. "I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse," she resumed, "that you should feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing--that if--strange as it may appear--. But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful things had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before--and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to--if Mr. Knightley should really--if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure." Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,<\|quote\|>"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"</\|quote\|>"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--" "I must say that I have." Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched--she admitted--she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having some hope of a return? It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself! Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed her before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been her conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the world. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in	I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely natural:--and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.--The impression of it is strong on my memory." "Oh, dear," cried Harriet, "now I recollect what you mean; but I was thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the gipsies--it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No!" (with some elevation) "I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance--of Mr. Knightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon earth." "Good God!" cried Emma, "this has been a most unfortunate--most deplorable mistake!--What is to be done?" "You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had been the person; and now--it _is_ possible--" She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak. "I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse," she resumed, "that you should feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing--that if--strange as it may appear--. But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful things had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before--and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to--if Mr. Knightley should really--if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure." Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,<\|quote\|>"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"</\|quote\|>"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--" "I must say that I have." Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched--she admitted--she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having some hope of a return? It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself! Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed her before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been her conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the world. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of all these demerits--some concern for her own appearance, and a strong sense of justice by Harriet--(there would be no need of _compassion_ to the girl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley--but justice required that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even apparent kindness.--For her own advantage indeed, it was fit that the utmost extent of Harriet's hopes should be enquired into; and Harriet had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so voluntarily formed and maintained--or to deserve to be slighted by the person, whose counsels had never led her right.--Rousing from reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet again, and, in a more inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as to the subject which had first introduced it, the wonderful story of Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.--Neither of them thought but of Mr. Knightley and themselves. Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge, and such a friend as Miss Woodhouse,	"Him!--never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?" turning away distressed. "Harriet!" cried Emma, after a moment's pause--" "What do you mean?--Good Heaven! what do you mean?--Mistake you!--Am I to suppose then?--" She could not speak another word.--Her voice was lost; and she sat down, waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer. Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma's. "I should not have thought it possible," she began, "that you could have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him--but considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should not have thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look at him in the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you should have been so mistaken, is amazing!--I am sure, but for believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I should have considered it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);--I should not have dared to give way to--I should not have thought it possible--But if _you_, who had been always acquainted with him--" "Harriet!" cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely--" "Let us understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of--Mr. Knightley?" "To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else--and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible." "Not quite," returned Emma, with forced calmness, "for all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of." "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!" "My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely natural:--and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.--The impression of it is strong on my memory." "Oh, dear," cried Harriet, "now I recollect what you mean; but I was thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the gipsies--it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No!" (with some elevation) "I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance--of Mr. Knightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon earth." "Good God!" cried Emma, "this has been a most unfortunate--most deplorable mistake!--What is to be done?" "You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had been the person; and now--it _is_ possible--" She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak. "I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse," she resumed, "that you should feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing--that if--strange as it may appear--. But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful things had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before--and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to--if Mr. Knightley should really--if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure." Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,<\|quote\|>"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"</\|quote\|>"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--" "I must say that I have." Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched--she admitted--she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having some hope of a return? It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself! Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed her before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been her conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the world. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of all these demerits--some concern for her own appearance, and a strong sense of justice by Harriet--(there would be no need of _compassion_ to the girl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley--but justice required that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even apparent kindness.--For her own advantage indeed, it was fit that the utmost extent of Harriet's hopes should be enquired into; and Harriet had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so voluntarily formed and maintained--or to deserve to be slighted by the person, whose counsels had never led her right.--Rousing from reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet again, and, in a more inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as to the subject which had first introduced it, the wonderful story of Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.--Neither of them thought but of Mr. Knightley and themselves. Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge, and such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to give the history of her hopes with great, though trembling delight.--Emma's tremblings as she asked, and as she listened, were better concealed than Harriet's, but they were not less. Her voice was not unsteady; but her mind was in all the perturbation that such a development of self, such a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion of sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.--She listened with much inward suffering, but with great outward patience, to Harriet's detail.--Methodical, or well arranged, or very well delivered, it could not be expected to be; but it contained, when separated from all the feebleness and tautology of the narration, a substance to sink her spirit--especially with the corroborating circumstances, which her own memory brought in favour of Mr. Knightley's most improved opinion of Harriet. Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since those two decisive dances.--Emma knew that he had, on that occasion, found her much superior to his expectation. From that evening, or at least from the time of Miss Woodhouse's encouraging her to think of him, Harriet had begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more than he had been used to do, and of his having indeed quite a different manner towards her; a manner of kindness and sweetness!--Latterly she had been more and more aware of it. When they had been all walking together, he had so often come and walked by her, and talked so very delightfully!--He seemed to want to be acquainted with her. Emma knew it to have been very much the case. She had often observed the change, to almost the same extent.--Harriet repeated expressions of approbation and praise from him--and Emma felt them to be in the closest agreement with what she had known of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for being without art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous, feelings.--She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he had dwelt on them to her more than once.--Much that lived in Harriet's memory, many little particulars of the notice she had received from him, a look, a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a compliment implied, a preference inferred, had been unnoticed, because unsuspected, by Emma. Circumstances that might swell to half an hour's relation, and contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had passed	At first, if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);--I should not have dared to give way to--I should not have thought it possible--But if _you_, who had been always acquainted with him--" "Harriet!" cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely--" "Let us understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of--Mr. Knightley?" "To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else--and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible." "Not quite," returned Emma, with forced calmness, "for all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of." "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!" "My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely natural:--and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.--The impression of it is strong on my memory." "Oh, dear," cried Harriet, "now I recollect what you mean; but I was thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the gipsies--it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No!" (with some elevation) "I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance--of Mr. Knightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon earth." "Good God!" cried Emma, "this has been a most unfortunate--most deplorable mistake!--What is to be done?" "You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had been the person; and now--it _is_ possible--" She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak. "I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse," she resumed, "that you should feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing--that if--strange as it may appear--. But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful things had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before--and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to--if Mr. Knightley should really--if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure." Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,<\|quote\|>"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"</\|quote\|>"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--" "I must say that I have." Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched--she admitted--she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having some hope of a return? It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself! Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed her before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been her conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the world. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of all these demerits--some concern for her own appearance, and a strong sense of justice by Harriet--(there would be no need of _compassion_ to the girl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley--but justice required that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even apparent kindness.--For her own advantage indeed, it was fit that the utmost extent of Harriet's hopes should be enquired into; and Harriet had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so voluntarily formed and maintained--or to deserve to be slighted by the person, whose counsels had never led her right.--Rousing from reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet again, and, in a more inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as to the subject which had first introduced it, the wonderful story of Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.--Neither of them thought but of Mr. Knightley and themselves. Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge, and such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to give the history of her hopes with great, though trembling delight.--Emma's tremblings as she asked, and as she listened, were better concealed than Harriet's, but they were not less. Her voice was not unsteady; but her mind was in all the perturbation that such a development of self, such a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion of sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.--She listened with much inward suffering, but with great outward patience, to Harriet's detail.--Methodical, or well arranged, or very well delivered, it could not be expected to be; but it contained, when separated from all the feebleness and tautology of the narration, a substance to sink her spirit--especially with the corroborating circumstances, which her own memory brought in favour of Mr. Knightley's most improved opinion of Harriet. Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since those two decisive dances.--Emma knew that he had, on that occasion, found her much	Emma
"It all comes,"	Winnie-the-pooh	is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck."<\|quote\|>"It all comes,"</\|quote\|>said Pooh crossly, "of not	Pooh. "You're hurting!" "The fact is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck."<\|quote\|>"It all comes,"</\|quote\|>said Pooh crossly, "of not having front doors big enough."	at him. "Hallo, are you stuck?" he asked. "N-no," said Pooh carelessly. "Just resting and thinking and humming to myself." "Here, give us a paw." Pooh Bear stretched out a paw, and Rabbit pulled and pulled and pulled.... "_Ow!_" cried Pooh. "You're hurting!" "The fact is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck."<\|quote\|>"It all comes,"</\|quote\|>said Pooh crossly, "of not having front doors big enough." "It all comes," said Rabbit sternly, "of eating too much. I thought at the time," said Rabbit, "only I didn't like to say anything," said Rabbit, "that one of us was eating too much," said Rabbit, "and I knew if	said Pooh. "I shall have to go on." "I can't do either!" said Pooh. "Oh, help _and_ bother!" Now by this time Rabbit wanted to go for a walk too, and finding the front door full, he went out by the back door, and came round to Pooh, and looked at him. "Hallo, are you stuck?" he asked. "N-no," said Pooh carelessly. "Just resting and thinking and humming to myself." "Here, give us a paw." Pooh Bear stretched out a paw, and Rabbit pulled and pulled and pulled.... "_Ow!_" cried Pooh. "You're hurting!" "The fact is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck."<\|quote\|>"It all comes,"</\|quote\|>said Pooh crossly, "of not having front doors big enough." "It all comes," said Rabbit sternly, "of eating too much. I thought at the time," said Rabbit, "only I didn't like to say anything," said Rabbit, "that one of us was eating too much," said Rabbit, "and I knew if wasn't _me_," he said. "Well, well, I shall go and fetch Christopher Robin." Christopher Robin lived at the other end of the Forest, and when he came back with Rabbit, and saw the front half of Pooh, he said, "Silly old Bear," in such a loving voice that everybody felt	have any more." "_Is_ there any more?" asked Pooh quickly. Rabbit took the covers off the dishes, and said, "No, there wasn't." "I thought not," said Pooh, nodding to himself. "Well, good-bye. I must be going on." So he started to climb out of the hole. He pulled with his front paws, and pushed with his back paws, and in a little while his nose was out in the open again ... and then his ears ... and then his front paws ... and then his shoulders ... and then---- "Oh, help!" said Pooh. "I'd better go back." "Oh, bother!" said Pooh. "I shall have to go on." "I can't do either!" said Pooh. "Oh, help _and_ bother!" Now by this time Rabbit wanted to go for a walk too, and finding the front door full, he went out by the back door, and came round to Pooh, and looked at him. "Hallo, are you stuck?" he asked. "N-no," said Pooh carelessly. "Just resting and thinking and humming to myself." "Here, give us a paw." Pooh Bear stretched out a paw, and Rabbit pulled and pulled and pulled.... "_Ow!_" cried Pooh. "You're hurting!" "The fact is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck."<\|quote\|>"It all comes,"</\|quote\|>said Pooh crossly, "of not having front doors big enough." "It all comes," said Rabbit sternly, "of eating too much. I thought at the time," said Rabbit, "only I didn't like to say anything," said Rabbit, "that one of us was eating too much," said Rabbit, "and I knew if wasn't _me_," he said. "Well, well, I shall go and fetch Christopher Robin." Christopher Robin lived at the other end of the Forest, and when he came back with Rabbit, and saw the front half of Pooh, he said, "Silly old Bear," in such a loving voice that everybody felt quite hopeful again. "I was just beginning to think," said Bear, sniffing slightly, "that Rabbit might never be able to use his front door again. And I should _hate_ that," he said. "So should I," said Rabbit. "Use his front door again?" said Christopher Robin. "Of course he'll use his front door again." "Good," said Rabbit. "If we can't pull you out, Pooh, we might push you back." Rabbit scratched his whiskers thoughtfully, and pointed out that, when once Pooh was pushed back, he was back, and of course nobody was more glad to see Pooh than _he_ was, still	Glad to see you." "Who did you think it was?" "Well, I wasn't sure. You know how it is in the Forest. One can't have _anybody_ coming into one's house. One has to be _careful_. What about a mouthful of something?" Pooh always liked a little something at eleven o'clock in the morning, and he was very glad to see Rabbit getting out the plates and mugs; and when Rabbit said, "Honey or condensed milk with your bread?" he was so excited that he said, "Both," and then, so as not to seem greedy, he added, "But don't bother about the bread, please." And for a long time after that he said nothing ... until at last, humming to himself in a rather sticky voice, he got up, shook Rabbit lovingly by the paw, and said that he must be going on. "Must you?" said Rabbit politely. "Well," said Pooh, "I could stay a little longer if it--if you----" and he tried very hard to look in the direction of the larder. "As a matter of fact," said Rabbit, "I was going out myself directly." "Oh, well, then, I'll be going on. Good-bye." "Well, good-bye, if you're sure you won't have any more." "_Is_ there any more?" asked Pooh quickly. Rabbit took the covers off the dishes, and said, "No, there wasn't." "I thought not," said Pooh, nodding to himself. "Well, good-bye. I must be going on." So he started to climb out of the hole. He pulled with his front paws, and pushed with his back paws, and in a little while his nose was out in the open again ... and then his ears ... and then his front paws ... and then his shoulders ... and then---- "Oh, help!" said Pooh. "I'd better go back." "Oh, bother!" said Pooh. "I shall have to go on." "I can't do either!" said Pooh. "Oh, help _and_ bother!" Now by this time Rabbit wanted to go for a walk too, and finding the front door full, he went out by the back door, and came round to Pooh, and looked at him. "Hallo, are you stuck?" he asked. "N-no," said Pooh carelessly. "Just resting and thinking and humming to myself." "Here, give us a paw." Pooh Bear stretched out a paw, and Rabbit pulled and pulled and pulled.... "_Ow!_" cried Pooh. "You're hurting!" "The fact is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck."<\|quote\|>"It all comes,"</\|quote\|>said Pooh crossly, "of not having front doors big enough." "It all comes," said Rabbit sternly, "of eating too much. I thought at the time," said Rabbit, "only I didn't like to say anything," said Rabbit, "that one of us was eating too much," said Rabbit, "and I knew if wasn't _me_," he said. "Well, well, I shall go and fetch Christopher Robin." Christopher Robin lived at the other end of the Forest, and when he came back with Rabbit, and saw the front half of Pooh, he said, "Silly old Bear," in such a loving voice that everybody felt quite hopeful again. "I was just beginning to think," said Bear, sniffing slightly, "that Rabbit might never be able to use his front door again. And I should _hate_ that," he said. "So should I," said Rabbit. "Use his front door again?" said Christopher Robin. "Of course he'll use his front door again." "Good," said Rabbit. "If we can't pull you out, Pooh, we might push you back." Rabbit scratched his whiskers thoughtfully, and pointed out that, when once Pooh was pushed back, he was back, and of course nobody was more glad to see Pooh than _he_ was, still there it was, some lived in trees and some lived underground, and---- "You mean I'd _never_ get out?" said Pooh. "I mean," said Rabbit, "that having got _so_ far, it seems a pity to waste it." Christopher Robin nodded. "Then there's only one thing to be done," he said. "We shall have to wait for you to get thin again." "How long does getting thin take?" asked Pooh anxiously. "About a week, I should think." "But I can't stay here for a _week_!" "You can _stay_ here all right, silly old Bear. It's getting you out which is so difficult." "We'll read to you," said Rabbit cheerfully. "And I hope it won't snow," he added. "And I say, old fellow, you're taking up a good deal of room in my house--_do_ you mind if I use your back legs as a towel-horse? Because, I mean, there they are--doing nothing--and it would be very convenient just to hang the towels on them." "A week!" said Pooh gloomily. "_What about meals?_" "I'm afraid no meals," said Christopher Robin, "because of getting thin quicker. But we _will_ read to you." Bear began to sigh, and then found he couldn't because he was so	glass: _Tra-la-la, tra-la-la_, as he stretched up as high as he could go, and then _Tra-la-la, tra-la--oh, help!--la_, as he tried to reach his toes. After breakfast he had said it over and over to himself until he had learnt it off by heart, and now he was humming it right through, properly. It went like this: "_Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,_ _Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,_ _Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum._ _Tiddle-iddle, tiddle-iddle,_ _Tiddle-iddle, tiddle-iddle,_ _Rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um._" Well, he was humming this hum to himself, and walking along gaily, wondering what everybody else was doing, and what it felt like, being somebody else, when suddenly he came to a sandy bank, and in the bank was a large hole. "Aha!" said Pooh. (_Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum._) "If I know anything about anything, that hole means Rabbit," he said, "and Rabbit means Company," he said, "and Company means Food and Listening-to-Me-Humming and such like. _Rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um._" So he bent down, put his head into the hole, and called out: "Is anybody at home?" There was a sudden scuffling noise from inside the hole, and then silence. "What I said was, 'Is anybody at home?'" called out Pooh very loudly. "No!" said a voice; and then added, "You needn't shout so loud. I heard you quite well the first time." "Bother!" said Pooh. "Isn't there anybody here at all?" "Nobody." Winnie-the-Pooh took his head out of the hole, and thought for a little, and he thought to himself, "There must be somebody there, because somebody must have _said_ 'Nobody.'" So he put his head back in the hole, and said: "Hallo, Rabbit, isn't that you?" "No," said Rabbit, in a different sort of voice this time. "But isn't that Rabbit's voice?" "I don't _think_ so," said Rabbit. "It isn't _meant_ to be." "Oh!" said Pooh. He took his head out of the hole, and had another think, and then he put it back, and said: "Well, could you very kindly tell me where Rabbit is?" "He has gone to see his friend Pooh Bear, who is a great friend of his." "But this _is_ Me!" said Bear, very much surprised. "What sort of Me?" "Pooh Bear." "Are you sure?" said Rabbit, still more surprised. "Quite, quite sure," said Pooh. "Oh, well, then, come in." So Pooh pushed and pushed and pushed his way through the hole, and at last he got in. "You were quite right," said Rabbit, looking at him all over. "It _is_ you. Glad to see you." "Who did you think it was?" "Well, I wasn't sure. You know how it is in the Forest. One can't have _anybody_ coming into one's house. One has to be _careful_. What about a mouthful of something?" Pooh always liked a little something at eleven o'clock in the morning, and he was very glad to see Rabbit getting out the plates and mugs; and when Rabbit said, "Honey or condensed milk with your bread?" he was so excited that he said, "Both," and then, so as not to seem greedy, he added, "But don't bother about the bread, please." And for a long time after that he said nothing ... until at last, humming to himself in a rather sticky voice, he got up, shook Rabbit lovingly by the paw, and said that he must be going on. "Must you?" said Rabbit politely. "Well," said Pooh, "I could stay a little longer if it--if you----" and he tried very hard to look in the direction of the larder. "As a matter of fact," said Rabbit, "I was going out myself directly." "Oh, well, then, I'll be going on. Good-bye." "Well, good-bye, if you're sure you won't have any more." "_Is_ there any more?" asked Pooh quickly. Rabbit took the covers off the dishes, and said, "No, there wasn't." "I thought not," said Pooh, nodding to himself. "Well, good-bye. I must be going on." So he started to climb out of the hole. He pulled with his front paws, and pushed with his back paws, and in a little while his nose was out in the open again ... and then his ears ... and then his front paws ... and then his shoulders ... and then---- "Oh, help!" said Pooh. "I'd better go back." "Oh, bother!" said Pooh. "I shall have to go on." "I can't do either!" said Pooh. "Oh, help _and_ bother!" Now by this time Rabbit wanted to go for a walk too, and finding the front door full, he went out by the back door, and came round to Pooh, and looked at him. "Hallo, are you stuck?" he asked. "N-no," said Pooh carelessly. "Just resting and thinking and humming to myself." "Here, give us a paw." Pooh Bear stretched out a paw, and Rabbit pulled and pulled and pulled.... "_Ow!_" cried Pooh. "You're hurting!" "The fact is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck."<\|quote\|>"It all comes,"</\|quote\|>said Pooh crossly, "of not having front doors big enough." "It all comes," said Rabbit sternly, "of eating too much. I thought at the time," said Rabbit, "only I didn't like to say anything," said Rabbit, "that one of us was eating too much," said Rabbit, "and I knew if wasn't _me_," he said. "Well, well, I shall go and fetch Christopher Robin." Christopher Robin lived at the other end of the Forest, and when he came back with Rabbit, and saw the front half of Pooh, he said, "Silly old Bear," in such a loving voice that everybody felt quite hopeful again. "I was just beginning to think," said Bear, sniffing slightly, "that Rabbit might never be able to use his front door again. And I should _hate_ that," he said. "So should I," said Rabbit. "Use his front door again?" said Christopher Robin. "Of course he'll use his front door again." "Good," said Rabbit. "If we can't pull you out, Pooh, we might push you back." Rabbit scratched his whiskers thoughtfully, and pointed out that, when once Pooh was pushed back, he was back, and of course nobody was more glad to see Pooh than _he_ was, still there it was, some lived in trees and some lived underground, and---- "You mean I'd _never_ get out?" said Pooh. "I mean," said Rabbit, "that having got _so_ far, it seems a pity to waste it." Christopher Robin nodded. "Then there's only one thing to be done," he said. "We shall have to wait for you to get thin again." "How long does getting thin take?" asked Pooh anxiously. "About a week, I should think." "But I can't stay here for a _week_!" "You can _stay_ here all right, silly old Bear. It's getting you out which is so difficult." "We'll read to you," said Rabbit cheerfully. "And I hope it won't snow," he added. "And I say, old fellow, you're taking up a good deal of room in my house--_do_ you mind if I use your back legs as a towel-horse? Because, I mean, there they are--doing nothing--and it would be very convenient just to hang the towels on them." "A week!" said Pooh gloomily. "_What about meals?_" "I'm afraid no meals," said Christopher Robin, "because of getting thin quicker. But we _will_ read to you." Bear began to sigh, and then found he couldn't because he was so tightly stuck; and a tear rolled down his eye, as he said: "Then would you read a Sustaining Book, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness?" So for a week Christopher Robin read that sort of book at the North end of Pooh, and Rabbit hung his washing on the South end ... and in between Bear felt himself getting slenderer and slenderer. And at the end of the week Christopher Robin said, "_Now!_" So he took hold of Pooh's front paws and Rabbit took hold of Christopher Robin, and all Rabbit's friends and relations took hold of Rabbit, and they all pulled together.... And for a long time Pooh only said "_Ow!_" ... And "_Oh!_" ... And then, all of a sudden, he said "_Pop!_" just as if a cork were coming out of a bottle. And Christopher Robin and Rabbit and all Rabbit's friends and relations went head-over-heels backwards ... and on the top of them came Winnie-the-Pooh--free! So, with a nod of thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But, Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!" CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers. "I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a circle, thinking of something else, and when Piglet	plates and mugs; and when Rabbit said, "Honey or condensed milk with your bread?" he was so excited that he said, "Both," and then, so as not to seem greedy, he added, "But don't bother about the bread, please." And for a long time after that he said nothing ... until at last, humming to himself in a rather sticky voice, he got up, shook Rabbit lovingly by the paw, and said that he must be going on. "Must you?" said Rabbit politely. "Well," said Pooh, "I could stay a little longer if it--if you----" and he tried very hard to look in the direction of the larder. "As a matter of fact," said Rabbit, "I was going out myself directly." "Oh, well, then, I'll be going on. Good-bye." "Well, good-bye, if you're sure you won't have any more." "_Is_ there any more?" asked Pooh quickly. Rabbit took the covers off the dishes, and said, "No, there wasn't." "I thought not," said Pooh, nodding to himself. "Well, good-bye. I must be going on." So he started to climb out of the hole. He pulled with his front paws, and pushed with his back paws, and in a little while his nose was out in the open again ... and then his ears ... and then his front paws ... and then his shoulders ... and then---- "Oh, help!" said Pooh. "I'd better go back." "Oh, bother!" said Pooh. "I shall have to go on." "I can't do either!" said Pooh. "Oh, help _and_ bother!" Now by this time Rabbit wanted to go for a walk too, and finding the front door full, he went out by the back door, and came round to Pooh, and looked at him. "Hallo, are you stuck?" he asked. "N-no," said Pooh carelessly. "Just resting and thinking and humming to myself." "Here, give us a paw." Pooh Bear stretched out a paw, and Rabbit pulled and pulled and pulled.... "_Ow!_" cried Pooh. "You're hurting!" "The fact is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck."<\|quote\|>"It all comes,"</\|quote\|>said Pooh crossly, "of not having front doors big enough." "It all comes," said Rabbit sternly, "of eating too much. I thought at the time," said Rabbit, "only I didn't like to say anything," said Rabbit, "that one of us was eating too much," said Rabbit, "and I knew if wasn't _me_," he said. "Well, well, I shall go and fetch Christopher Robin." Christopher Robin lived at the other end of the Forest, and when he came back with Rabbit, and saw the front half of Pooh, he said, "Silly old Bear," in such a loving voice that everybody felt quite hopeful again. "I was just beginning to think," said Bear, sniffing slightly, "that Rabbit might never be able to use his front door again. And I should _hate_ that," he said. "So should I," said Rabbit. "Use his front door again?" said Christopher Robin. "Of course he'll use his front door again." "Good," said Rabbit. "If we can't pull you out, Pooh, we might push you back." Rabbit scratched his whiskers thoughtfully, and pointed out that, when once Pooh was pushed back, he was back, and of course nobody was more glad to see Pooh than _he_ was, still there it was, some lived in trees and some lived underground, and---- "You mean I'd _never_ get out?" said Pooh. "I mean," said Rabbit, "that having got _so_ far, it seems a pity to waste it." Christopher Robin nodded. "Then there's only one thing to be done," he said. "We shall have to wait for you to get thin again." "How long does getting thin take?" asked Pooh anxiously. "About a week, I should think." "But I can't stay here for a _week_!" "You can _stay_ here all right, silly old Bear. It's getting you out which is so difficult." "We'll read to you," said Rabbit cheerfully. "And I hope it won't snow," he added. "And I say, old fellow, you're taking up a good deal of room in my house--_do_ you mind if I use your back legs as a towel-horse? Because, I mean, there they are--doing nothing--and it would be very convenient just to hang the towels on them." "A week!" said Pooh gloomily. "_What about meals?_" "I'm afraid no meals," said Christopher Robin, "because of getting thin quicker. But we _will_ read to you." Bear began to sigh, and then found he couldn't because he was so tightly stuck; and a tear rolled down his eye, as he said: "Then would you read a Sustaining Book, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness?" So for a week Christopher Robin read that sort of book at the North end of Pooh, and Rabbit hung his washing on the South end ... and in between Bear felt	Winnie The Pooh
said Mrs. Sparsit.	No speaker	of homage. "Thank you, Bitzer,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit.</\|quote\|>"Thank _you_, ma'am," returned the	his forehead as a form of homage. "Thank you, Bitzer,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit.</\|quote\|>"Thank _you_, ma'am," returned the light porter. He was a	little table, with its tripod of legs in an attitude, which she insinuated after office-hours, into the company of the stern, leathern-topped, long board-table that bestrode the middle of the room. The light porter placed the tea-tray on it, knuckling his forehead as a form of homage. "Thank you, Bitzer,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit.</\|quote\|>"Thank _you_, ma'am," returned the light porter. He was a very light porter indeed; as light as in the days when he blinkingly defined a horse, for girl number twenty. "All is shut up, Bitzer?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "All is shut up, ma'am." "And what," said Mrs. Sparsit, pouring out	money. It was generally considered, indeed, that she had been due some time, and ought to have fallen long ago; but she had kept her life, and her situation, with an ill-conditioned tenacity that occasioned much offence and disappointment. Mrs. Sparsit's tea was just set for her on a pert little table, with its tripod of legs in an attitude, which she insinuated after office-hours, into the company of the stern, leathern-topped, long board-table that bestrode the middle of the room. The light porter placed the tea-tray on it, knuckling his forehead as a form of homage. "Thank you, Bitzer,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit.</\|quote\|>"Thank _you_, ma'am," returned the light porter. He was a very light porter indeed; as light as in the days when he blinkingly defined a horse, for girl number twenty. "All is shut up, Bitzer?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "All is shut up, ma'am." "And what," said Mrs. Sparsit, pouring out her tea, "is the news of the day? Anything?" "Well, ma'am, I can't say that I have heard anything particular. Our people are a bad lot, ma'am; but that is no news, unfortunately." "What are the restless wretches doing now?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "Merely going on in the old way,	official chimney-pieces; and over that respectable tradition never to be separated from a place of business claiming to be wealthy a row of fire-buckets vessels calculated to be of no physical utility on any occasion, but observed to exercise a fine moral influence, almost equal to bullion, on most beholders. A deaf serving-woman and the light porter completed Mrs. Sparsit's empire. The deaf serving-woman was rumoured to be wealthy; and a saying had for years gone about among the lower orders of Coketown, that she would be murdered some night when the Bank was shut, for the sake of her money. It was generally considered, indeed, that she had been due some time, and ought to have fallen long ago; but she had kept her life, and her situation, with an ill-conditioned tenacity that occasioned much offence and disappointment. Mrs. Sparsit's tea was just set for her on a pert little table, with its tripod of legs in an attitude, which she insinuated after office-hours, into the company of the stern, leathern-topped, long board-table that bestrode the middle of the room. The light porter placed the tea-tray on it, knuckling his forehead as a form of homage. "Thank you, Bitzer,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit.</\|quote\|>"Thank _you_, ma'am," returned the light porter. He was a very light porter indeed; as light as in the days when he blinkingly defined a horse, for girl number twenty. "All is shut up, Bitzer?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "All is shut up, ma'am." "And what," said Mrs. Sparsit, pouring out her tea, "is the news of the day? Anything?" "Well, ma'am, I can't say that I have heard anything particular. Our people are a bad lot, ma'am; but that is no news, unfortunately." "What are the restless wretches doing now?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "Merely going on in the old way, ma'am. Uniting, and leaguing, and engaging to stand by one another." "It is much to be regretted," said Mrs. Sparsit, making her nose more Roman and her eyebrows more Coriolanian in the strength of her severity, "that the united masters allow of any such class-combinations." "Yes, ma'am," said Bitzer. "Being united themselves, they ought one and all to set their faces against employing any man who is united with any other man," said Mrs. Sparsit. "They have done that, ma'am," returned Bitzer; "but it rather fell through, ma'am." "I do not pretend to understand these things," said Mrs. Sparsit, with	sort, the Bank Fairy. The townspeople who, in their passing and repassing, saw her there, regarded her as the Bank Dragon keeping watch over the treasures of the mine. What those treasures were, Mrs. Sparsit knew as little as they did. Gold and silver coin, precious paper, secrets that if divulged would bring vague destruction upon vague persons (generally, however, people whom she disliked), were the chief items in her ideal catalogue thereof. For the rest, she knew that after office-hours, she reigned supreme over all the office furniture, and over a locked-up iron room with three locks, against the door of which strong chamber the light porter laid his head every night, on a truckle bed, that disappeared at cockcrow. Further, she was lady paramount over certain vaults in the basement, sharply spiked off from communication with the predatory world; and over the relics of the current day's work, consisting of blots of ink, worn-out pens, fragments of wafers, and scraps of paper torn so small, that nothing interesting could ever be deciphered on them when Mrs. Sparsit tried. Lastly, she was guardian over a little armoury of cutlasses and carbines, arrayed in vengeful order above one of the official chimney-pieces; and over that respectable tradition never to be separated from a place of business claiming to be wealthy a row of fire-buckets vessels calculated to be of no physical utility on any occasion, but observed to exercise a fine moral influence, almost equal to bullion, on most beholders. A deaf serving-woman and the light porter completed Mrs. Sparsit's empire. The deaf serving-woman was rumoured to be wealthy; and a saying had for years gone about among the lower orders of Coketown, that she would be murdered some night when the Bank was shut, for the sake of her money. It was generally considered, indeed, that she had been due some time, and ought to have fallen long ago; but she had kept her life, and her situation, with an ill-conditioned tenacity that occasioned much offence and disappointment. Mrs. Sparsit's tea was just set for her on a pert little table, with its tripod of legs in an attitude, which she insinuated after office-hours, into the company of the stern, leathern-topped, long board-table that bestrode the middle of the room. The light porter placed the tea-tray on it, knuckling his forehead as a form of homage. "Thank you, Bitzer,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit.</\|quote\|>"Thank _you_, ma'am," returned the light porter. He was a very light porter indeed; as light as in the days when he blinkingly defined a horse, for girl number twenty. "All is shut up, Bitzer?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "All is shut up, ma'am." "And what," said Mrs. Sparsit, pouring out her tea, "is the news of the day? Anything?" "Well, ma'am, I can't say that I have heard anything particular. Our people are a bad lot, ma'am; but that is no news, unfortunately." "What are the restless wretches doing now?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "Merely going on in the old way, ma'am. Uniting, and leaguing, and engaging to stand by one another." "It is much to be regretted," said Mrs. Sparsit, making her nose more Roman and her eyebrows more Coriolanian in the strength of her severity, "that the united masters allow of any such class-combinations." "Yes, ma'am," said Bitzer. "Being united themselves, they ought one and all to set their faces against employing any man who is united with any other man," said Mrs. Sparsit. "They have done that, ma'am," returned Bitzer; "but it rather fell through, ma'am." "I do not pretend to understand these things," said Mrs. Sparsit, with dignity, "my lot having been signally cast in a widely different sphere; and Mr. Sparsit, as a Powler, being also quite out of the pale of any such dissensions. I only know that these people must be conquered, and that it's high time it was done, once for all." "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, with a demonstration of great respect for Mrs. Sparsit's oracular authority. "You couldn't put it clearer, I am sure, ma'am." As this was his usual hour for having a little confidential chat with Mrs. Sparsit, and as he had already caught her eye and seen that she was going to ask him something, he made a pretence of arranging the rulers, inkstands, and so forth, while that lady went on with her tea, glancing through the open window, down into the street. "Has it been a busy day, Bitzer?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "Not a very busy day, my lady. About an average day." He now and then slided into my lady, instead of ma'am, as an involuntary acknowledgment of Mrs. Sparsit's personal dignity and claims to reverence. "The clerks," said Mrs. Sparsit, carefully brushing an imperceptible crumb of bread and butter from her left-hand mitten, "are trustworthy,	sunny day, making the passenger more sleepy and more hot as he passed the humming walls of the mills. Sun-blinds, and sprinklings of water, a little cooled the main streets and the shops; but the mills, and the courts and alleys, baked at a fierce heat. Down upon the river that was black and thick with dye, some Coketown boys who were at large a rare sight there rowed a crazy boat, which made a spumous track upon the water as it jogged along, while every dip of an oar stirred up vile smells. But the sun itself, however beneficent, generally, was less kind to Coketown than hard frost, and rarely looked intently into any of its closer regions without engendering more death than life. So does the eye of Heaven itself become an evil eye, when incapable or sordid hands are interposed between it and the things it looks upon to bless. Mrs. Sparsit sat in her afternoon apartment at the Bank, on the shadier side of the frying street. Office-hours were over: and at that period of the day, in warm weather, she usually embellished with her genteel presence, a managerial board-room over the public office. Her own private sitting-room was a story higher, at the window of which post of observation she was ready, every morning, to greet Mr. Bounderby, as he came across the road, with the sympathizing recognition appropriate to a Victim. He had been married now a year; and Mrs. Sparsit had never released him from her determined pity a moment. The Bank offered no violence to the wholesome monotony of the town. It was another red brick house, with black outside shutters, green inside blinds, a black street-door up two white steps, a brazen door-plate, and a brazen door-handle full stop. It was a size larger than Mr. Bounderby's house, as other houses were from a size to half-a-dozen sizes smaller; in all other particulars, it was strictly according to pattern. Mrs. Sparsit was conscious that by coming in the evening-tide among the desks and writing implements, she shed a feminine, not to say also aristocratic, grace upon the office. Seated, with her needlework or netting apparatus, at the window, she had a self-laudatory sense of correcting, by her ladylike deportment, the rude business aspect of the place. With this impression of her interesting character upon her, Mrs. Sparsit considered herself, in some sort, the Bank Fairy. The townspeople who, in their passing and repassing, saw her there, regarded her as the Bank Dragon keeping watch over the treasures of the mine. What those treasures were, Mrs. Sparsit knew as little as they did. Gold and silver coin, precious paper, secrets that if divulged would bring vague destruction upon vague persons (generally, however, people whom she disliked), were the chief items in her ideal catalogue thereof. For the rest, she knew that after office-hours, she reigned supreme over all the office furniture, and over a locked-up iron room with three locks, against the door of which strong chamber the light porter laid his head every night, on a truckle bed, that disappeared at cockcrow. Further, she was lady paramount over certain vaults in the basement, sharply spiked off from communication with the predatory world; and over the relics of the current day's work, consisting of blots of ink, worn-out pens, fragments of wafers, and scraps of paper torn so small, that nothing interesting could ever be deciphered on them when Mrs. Sparsit tried. Lastly, she was guardian over a little armoury of cutlasses and carbines, arrayed in vengeful order above one of the official chimney-pieces; and over that respectable tradition never to be separated from a place of business claiming to be wealthy a row of fire-buckets vessels calculated to be of no physical utility on any occasion, but observed to exercise a fine moral influence, almost equal to bullion, on most beholders. A deaf serving-woman and the light porter completed Mrs. Sparsit's empire. The deaf serving-woman was rumoured to be wealthy; and a saying had for years gone about among the lower orders of Coketown, that she would be murdered some night when the Bank was shut, for the sake of her money. It was generally considered, indeed, that she had been due some time, and ought to have fallen long ago; but she had kept her life, and her situation, with an ill-conditioned tenacity that occasioned much offence and disappointment. Mrs. Sparsit's tea was just set for her on a pert little table, with its tripod of legs in an attitude, which she insinuated after office-hours, into the company of the stern, leathern-topped, long board-table that bestrode the middle of the room. The light porter placed the tea-tray on it, knuckling his forehead as a form of homage. "Thank you, Bitzer,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit.</\|quote\|>"Thank _you_, ma'am," returned the light porter. He was a very light porter indeed; as light as in the days when he blinkingly defined a horse, for girl number twenty. "All is shut up, Bitzer?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "All is shut up, ma'am." "And what," said Mrs. Sparsit, pouring out her tea, "is the news of the day? Anything?" "Well, ma'am, I can't say that I have heard anything particular. Our people are a bad lot, ma'am; but that is no news, unfortunately." "What are the restless wretches doing now?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "Merely going on in the old way, ma'am. Uniting, and leaguing, and engaging to stand by one another." "It is much to be regretted," said Mrs. Sparsit, making her nose more Roman and her eyebrows more Coriolanian in the strength of her severity, "that the united masters allow of any such class-combinations." "Yes, ma'am," said Bitzer. "Being united themselves, they ought one and all to set their faces against employing any man who is united with any other man," said Mrs. Sparsit. "They have done that, ma'am," returned Bitzer; "but it rather fell through, ma'am." "I do not pretend to understand these things," said Mrs. Sparsit, with dignity, "my lot having been signally cast in a widely different sphere; and Mr. Sparsit, as a Powler, being also quite out of the pale of any such dissensions. I only know that these people must be conquered, and that it's high time it was done, once for all." "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, with a demonstration of great respect for Mrs. Sparsit's oracular authority. "You couldn't put it clearer, I am sure, ma'am." As this was his usual hour for having a little confidential chat with Mrs. Sparsit, and as he had already caught her eye and seen that she was going to ask him something, he made a pretence of arranging the rulers, inkstands, and so forth, while that lady went on with her tea, glancing through the open window, down into the street. "Has it been a busy day, Bitzer?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "Not a very busy day, my lady. About an average day." He now and then slided into my lady, instead of ma'am, as an involuntary acknowledgment of Mrs. Sparsit's personal dignity and claims to reverence. "The clerks," said Mrs. Sparsit, carefully brushing an imperceptible crumb of bread and butter from her left-hand mitten, "are trustworthy, punctual, and industrious, of course?" "Yes, ma'am, pretty fair, ma'am. With the usual exception." He held the respectable office of general spy and informer in the establishment, for which volunteer service he received a present at Christmas, over and above his weekly wage. He had grown into an extremely clear-headed, cautious, prudent young man, who was safe to rise in the world. His mind was so exactly regulated, that he had no affections or passions. All his proceedings were the result of the nicest and coldest calculation; and it was not without cause that Mrs. Sparsit habitually observed of him, that he was a young man of the steadiest principle she had ever known. Having satisfied himself, on his father's death, that his mother had a right of settlement in Coketown, this excellent young economist had asserted that right for her with such a steadfast adherence to the principle of the case, that she had been shut up in the workhouse ever since. It must be admitted that he allowed her half a pound of tea a year, which was weak in him: first, because all gifts have an inevitable tendency to pauperise the recipient, and secondly, because his only reasonable transaction in that commodity would have been to buy it for as little as he could possibly give, and sell it for as much as he could possibly get; it having been clearly ascertained by philosophers that in this is comprised the whole duty of man not a part of man's duty, but the whole. "Pretty fair, ma'am. With the usual exception, ma'am," repeated Bitzer. "Ah h!" said Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head over her tea-cup, and taking a long gulp. "Mr. Thomas, ma'am, I doubt Mr. Thomas very much, ma'am, I don't like his ways at all." "Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit, in a very impressive manner, "do you recollect my having said anything to you respecting names?" "I beg your pardon, ma'am. It's quite true that you did object to names being used, and they're always best avoided." "Please to remember that I have a charge here," said Mrs. Sparsit, with her air of state. "I hold a trust here, Bitzer, under Mr. Bounderby. However improbable both Mr. Bounderby and myself might have deemed it years ago, that he would ever become my patron, making me an annual compliment, I cannot but regard him in that light. From	sitting-room was a story higher, at the window of which post of observation she was ready, every morning, to greet Mr. Bounderby, as he came across the road, with the sympathizing recognition appropriate to a Victim. He had been married now a year; and Mrs. Sparsit had never released him from her determined pity a moment. The Bank offered no violence to the wholesome monotony of the town. It was another red brick house, with black outside shutters, green inside blinds, a black street-door up two white steps, a brazen door-plate, and a brazen door-handle full stop. It was a size larger than Mr. Bounderby's house, as other houses were from a size to half-a-dozen sizes smaller; in all other particulars, it was strictly according to pattern. Mrs. Sparsit was conscious that by coming in the evening-tide among the desks and writing implements, she shed a feminine, not to say also aristocratic, grace upon the office. Seated, with her needlework or netting apparatus, at the window, she had a self-laudatory sense of correcting, by her ladylike deportment, the rude business aspect of the place. With this impression of her interesting character upon her, Mrs. Sparsit considered herself, in some sort, the Bank Fairy. The townspeople who, in their passing and repassing, saw her there, regarded her as the Bank Dragon keeping watch over the treasures of the mine. What those treasures were, Mrs. Sparsit knew as little as they did. Gold and silver coin, precious paper, secrets that if divulged would bring vague destruction upon vague persons (generally, however, people whom she disliked), were the chief items in her ideal catalogue thereof. For the rest, she knew that after office-hours, she reigned supreme over all the office furniture, and over a locked-up iron room with three locks, against the door of which strong chamber the light porter laid his head every night, on a truckle bed, that disappeared at cockcrow. Further, she was lady paramount over certain vaults in the basement, sharply spiked off from communication with the predatory world; and over the relics of the current day's work, consisting of blots of ink, worn-out pens, fragments of wafers, and scraps of paper torn so small, that nothing interesting could ever be deciphered on them when Mrs. Sparsit tried. Lastly, she was guardian over a little armoury of cutlasses and carbines, arrayed in vengeful order above one of the official chimney-pieces; and over that respectable tradition never to be separated from a place of business claiming to be wealthy a row of fire-buckets vessels calculated to be of no physical utility on any occasion, but observed to exercise a fine moral influence, almost equal to bullion, on most beholders. A deaf serving-woman and the light porter completed Mrs. Sparsit's empire. The deaf serving-woman was rumoured to be wealthy; and a saying had for years gone about among the lower orders of Coketown, that she would be murdered some night when the Bank was shut, for the sake of her money. It was generally considered, indeed, that she had been due some time, and ought to have fallen long ago; but she had kept her life, and her situation, with an ill-conditioned tenacity that occasioned much offence and disappointment. Mrs. Sparsit's tea was just set for her on a pert little table, with its tripod of legs in an attitude, which she insinuated after office-hours, into the company of the stern, leathern-topped, long board-table that bestrode the middle of the room. The light porter placed the tea-tray on it, knuckling his forehead as a form of homage. "Thank you, Bitzer,"<\|quote\|>said Mrs. Sparsit.</\|quote\|>"Thank _you_, ma'am," returned the light porter. He was a very light porter indeed; as light as in the days when he blinkingly defined a horse, for girl number twenty. "All is shut up, Bitzer?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "All is shut up, ma'am." "And what," said Mrs. Sparsit, pouring out her tea, "is the news of the day? Anything?" "Well, ma'am, I can't say that I have heard anything particular. Our people are a bad lot, ma'am; but that is no news, unfortunately." "What are the restless wretches doing now?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "Merely going on in the old way, ma'am. Uniting, and leaguing, and engaging to stand by one another." "It is much to be regretted," said Mrs. Sparsit, making her nose more Roman and her eyebrows more Coriolanian in the strength of her severity, "that the united masters allow of any such class-combinations." "Yes, ma'am," said Bitzer. "Being united themselves, they ought one and all to set their faces against employing any man who is united with any other man," said Mrs. Sparsit. "They have done that, ma'am," returned Bitzer; "but it rather fell through, ma'am." "I do not pretend to understand these things," said Mrs. Sparsit, with dignity, "my lot having been signally cast in a widely different sphere; and Mr. Sparsit, as a Powler, being also quite out of the pale of any such dissensions. I only know that these people must be conquered, and that it's high time it was done, once for all." "Yes, ma'am,"	Hard Times
"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"	Anne Shirley	to help me get tea."<\|quote\|>"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"</\|quote\|>pleaded Anne. "No; you don't	until I call you down to help me get tea."<\|quote\|>"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"</\|quote\|>pleaded Anne. "No; you don't want your room cluttered up	up to your room and learn it." "Oh, I know it pretty nearly all now--all but just the last line." "Well, never mind, do as I tell you. Go to your room and finish learning it well, and stay there until I call you down to help me get tea."<\|quote\|>"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"</\|quote\|>pleaded Anne. "No; you don't want your room cluttered up with flowers. You should have left them on the tree in the first place." "I did feel a little that way, too," said Anne. "I kind of felt I shouldn't shorten their lovely lives by picking them--I wouldn't want to	among the flowers." "Yesterday you wanted to be a sea gull," sniffed Marilla. "I think you are very fickle minded. I told you to learn that prayer and not talk. But it seems impossible for you to stop talking if you've got anybody that will listen to you. So go up to your room and learn it." "Oh, I know it pretty nearly all now--all but just the last line." "Well, never mind, do as I tell you. Go to your room and finish learning it well, and stay there until I call you down to help me get tea."<\|quote\|>"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"</\|quote\|>pleaded Anne. "No; you don't want your room cluttered up with flowers. You should have left them on the tree in the first place." "I did feel a little that way, too," said Anne. "I kind of felt I shouldn't shorten their lovely lives by picking them--I wouldn't want to be picked if I were an apple blossom. But the temptation was _irresistible_. What do you do when you meet with an irresistible temptation?" "Anne, did you hear me tell you to go to your room?" Anne sighed, retreated to the east gable, and sat down in a chair by	But don't let Mrs. Barry hear you talking about your Katie Maurices and your Violettas or she'll think you tell stories." "Oh, I won't. I couldn't talk of them to everybody--their memories are too sacred for that. But I thought I'd like to have you know about them. Oh, look, here's a big bee just tumbled out of an apple blossom. Just think what a lovely place to live--in an apple blossom! Fancy going to sleep in it when the wind was rocking it. If I wasn't a human girl I think I'd like to be a bee and live among the flowers." "Yesterday you wanted to be a sea gull," sniffed Marilla. "I think you are very fickle minded. I told you to learn that prayer and not talk. But it seems impossible for you to stop talking if you've got anybody that will listen to you. So go up to your room and learn it." "Oh, I know it pretty nearly all now--all but just the last line." "Well, never mind, do as I tell you. Go to your room and finish learning it well, and stay there until I call you down to help me get tea."<\|quote\|>"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"</\|quote\|>pleaded Anne. "No; you don't want your room cluttered up with flowers. You should have left them on the tree in the first place." "I did feel a little that way, too," said Anne. "I kind of felt I shouldn't shorten their lovely lives by picking them--I wouldn't want to be picked if I were an apple blossom. But the temptation was _irresistible_. What do you do when you meet with an irresistible temptation?" "Anne, did you hear me tell you to go to your room?" Anne sighed, retreated to the east gable, and sat down in a chair by the window. "There--I know this prayer. I learned that last sentence coming upstairs. Now I'm going to imagine things into this room so that they'll always stay imagined. The floor is covered with a white velvet carpet with pink roses all over it and there are pink silk curtains at the windows. The walls are hung with gold and silver brocade tapestry. The furniture is mahogany. I never saw any mahogany, but it does sound _so_ luxurious. This is a couch all heaped with gorgeous silken cushions, pink and blue and crimson and gold, and I am reclining gracefully on	it dreadfully, too, I know she did, for she was crying when she kissed me good-bye through the bookcase door. There was no bookcase at Mrs. Hammond's. But just up the river a little way from the house there was a long green little valley, and the loveliest echo lived there. It echoed back every word you said, even if you didn't talk a bit loud. So I imagined that it was a little girl called Violetta and we were great friends and I loved her almost as well as I loved Katie Maurice--not quite, but almost, you know. The night before I went to the asylum I said good-bye to Violetta, and oh, her good-bye came back to me in such sad, sad tones. I had become so attached to her that I hadn't the heart to imagine a bosom friend at the asylum, even if there had been any scope for imagination there." "I think it's just as well there wasn't," said Marilla drily. "I don't approve of such goings-on. You seem to half believe your own imaginations. It will be well for you to have a real live friend to put such nonsense out of your head. But don't let Mrs. Barry hear you talking about your Katie Maurices and your Violettas or she'll think you tell stories." "Oh, I won't. I couldn't talk of them to everybody--their memories are too sacred for that. But I thought I'd like to have you know about them. Oh, look, here's a big bee just tumbled out of an apple blossom. Just think what a lovely place to live--in an apple blossom! Fancy going to sleep in it when the wind was rocking it. If I wasn't a human girl I think I'd like to be a bee and live among the flowers." "Yesterday you wanted to be a sea gull," sniffed Marilla. "I think you are very fickle minded. I told you to learn that prayer and not talk. But it seems impossible for you to stop talking if you've got anybody that will listen to you. So go up to your room and learn it." "Oh, I know it pretty nearly all now--all but just the last line." "Well, never mind, do as I tell you. Go to your room and finish learning it well, and stay there until I call you down to help me get tea."<\|quote\|>"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"</\|quote\|>pleaded Anne. "No; you don't want your room cluttered up with flowers. You should have left them on the tree in the first place." "I did feel a little that way, too," said Anne. "I kind of felt I shouldn't shorten their lovely lives by picking them--I wouldn't want to be picked if I were an apple blossom. But the temptation was _irresistible_. What do you do when you meet with an irresistible temptation?" "Anne, did you hear me tell you to go to your room?" Anne sighed, retreated to the east gable, and sat down in a chair by the window. "There--I know this prayer. I learned that last sentence coming upstairs. Now I'm going to imagine things into this room so that they'll always stay imagined. The floor is covered with a white velvet carpet with pink roses all over it and there are pink silk curtains at the windows. The walls are hung with gold and silver brocade tapestry. The furniture is mahogany. I never saw any mahogany, but it does sound _so_ luxurious. This is a couch all heaped with gorgeous silken cushions, pink and blue and crimson and gold, and I am reclining gracefully on it. I can see my reflection in that splendid big mirror hanging on the wall. I am tall and regal, clad in a gown of trailing white lace, with a pearl cross on my breast and pearls in my hair. My hair is of midnight darkness and my skin is a clear ivory pallor. My name is the Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald. No, it isn't--I can't make _that_ seem real." She danced up to the little looking-glass and peered into it. Her pointed freckled face and solemn gray eyes peered back at her. "You're only Anne of Green Gables," she said earnestly, "and I see you, just as you are looking now, whenever I try to imagine I'm the Lady Cordelia. But it's a million times nicer to be Anne of Green Gables than Anne of nowhere in particular, isn't it?" She bent forward, kissed her reflection affectionately, and betook herself to the open window. "Dear Snow Queen, good afternoon. And good afternoon dear birches down in the hollow. And good afternoon, dear gray house up on the hill. I wonder if Diana is to be my bosom friend. I hope she will, and I shall love her very much. But	she comes home. She's visiting her aunt over at Carmody just now. You'll have to be careful how you behave yourself, though. Mrs. Barry is a very particular woman. She won't let Diana play with any little girl who isn't nice and good." Anne looked at Marilla through the apple blossoms, her eyes aglow with interest. "What is Diana like? Her hair isn't red, is it? Oh, I hope not. It's bad enough to have red hair myself, but I positively couldn't endure it in a bosom friend." "Diana is a very pretty little girl. She has black eyes and hair and rosy cheeks. And she is good and smart, which is better than being pretty." Marilla was as fond of morals as the Duchess in Wonderland, and was firmly convinced that one should be tacked on to every remark made to a child who was being brought up. But Anne waved the moral inconsequently aside and seized only on the delightful possibilities before it. "Oh, I'm so glad she's pretty. Next to being beautiful oneself--and that's impossible in my case--it would be best to have a beautiful bosom friend. When I lived with Mrs. Thomas she had a bookcase in her sitting room with glass doors. There weren't any books in it; Mrs. Thomas kept her best china and her preserves there--when she had any preserves to keep. One of the doors was broken. Mr. Thomas smashed it one night when he was slightly intoxicated. But the other was whole and I used to pretend that my reflection in it was another little girl who lived in it. I called her Katie Maurice, and we were very intimate. I used to talk to her by the hour, especially on Sunday, and tell her everything. Katie was the comfort and consolation of my life. We used to pretend that the bookcase was enchanted and that if I only knew the spell I could open the door and step right into the room where Katie Maurice lived, instead of into Mrs. Thomas' shelves of preserves and china. And then Katie Maurice would have taken me by the hand and led me out into a wonderful place, all flowers and sunshine and fairies, and we would have lived there happy for ever after. When I went to live with Mrs. Hammond it just broke my heart to leave Katie Maurice. She felt it dreadfully, too, I know she did, for she was crying when she kissed me good-bye through the bookcase door. There was no bookcase at Mrs. Hammond's. But just up the river a little way from the house there was a long green little valley, and the loveliest echo lived there. It echoed back every word you said, even if you didn't talk a bit loud. So I imagined that it was a little girl called Violetta and we were great friends and I loved her almost as well as I loved Katie Maurice--not quite, but almost, you know. The night before I went to the asylum I said good-bye to Violetta, and oh, her good-bye came back to me in such sad, sad tones. I had become so attached to her that I hadn't the heart to imagine a bosom friend at the asylum, even if there had been any scope for imagination there." "I think it's just as well there wasn't," said Marilla drily. "I don't approve of such goings-on. You seem to half believe your own imaginations. It will be well for you to have a real live friend to put such nonsense out of your head. But don't let Mrs. Barry hear you talking about your Katie Maurices and your Violettas or she'll think you tell stories." "Oh, I won't. I couldn't talk of them to everybody--their memories are too sacred for that. But I thought I'd like to have you know about them. Oh, look, here's a big bee just tumbled out of an apple blossom. Just think what a lovely place to live--in an apple blossom! Fancy going to sleep in it when the wind was rocking it. If I wasn't a human girl I think I'd like to be a bee and live among the flowers." "Yesterday you wanted to be a sea gull," sniffed Marilla. "I think you are very fickle minded. I told you to learn that prayer and not talk. But it seems impossible for you to stop talking if you've got anybody that will listen to you. So go up to your room and learn it." "Oh, I know it pretty nearly all now--all but just the last line." "Well, never mind, do as I tell you. Go to your room and finish learning it well, and stay there until I call you down to help me get tea."<\|quote\|>"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"</\|quote\|>pleaded Anne. "No; you don't want your room cluttered up with flowers. You should have left them on the tree in the first place." "I did feel a little that way, too," said Anne. "I kind of felt I shouldn't shorten their lovely lives by picking them--I wouldn't want to be picked if I were an apple blossom. But the temptation was _irresistible_. What do you do when you meet with an irresistible temptation?" "Anne, did you hear me tell you to go to your room?" Anne sighed, retreated to the east gable, and sat down in a chair by the window. "There--I know this prayer. I learned that last sentence coming upstairs. Now I'm going to imagine things into this room so that they'll always stay imagined. The floor is covered with a white velvet carpet with pink roses all over it and there are pink silk curtains at the windows. The walls are hung with gold and silver brocade tapestry. The furniture is mahogany. I never saw any mahogany, but it does sound _so_ luxurious. This is a couch all heaped with gorgeous silken cushions, pink and blue and crimson and gold, and I am reclining gracefully on it. I can see my reflection in that splendid big mirror hanging on the wall. I am tall and regal, clad in a gown of trailing white lace, with a pearl cross on my breast and pearls in my hair. My hair is of midnight darkness and my skin is a clear ivory pallor. My name is the Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald. No, it isn't--I can't make _that_ seem real." She danced up to the little looking-glass and peered into it. Her pointed freckled face and solemn gray eyes peered back at her. "You're only Anne of Green Gables," she said earnestly, "and I see you, just as you are looking now, whenever I try to imagine I'm the Lady Cordelia. But it's a million times nicer to be Anne of Green Gables than Anne of nowhere in particular, isn't it?" She bent forward, kissed her reflection affectionately, and betook herself to the open window. "Dear Snow Queen, good afternoon. And good afternoon dear birches down in the hollow. And good afternoon, dear gray house up on the hill. I wonder if Diana is to be my bosom friend. I hope she will, and I shall love her very much. But I must never quite forget Katie Maurice and Violetta. They would feel so hurt if I did and I'd hate to hurt anybody's feelings, even a little bookcase girl's or a little echo girl's. I must be careful to remember them and send them a kiss every day." Anne blew a couple of airy kisses from her fingertips past the cherry blossoms and then, with her chin in her hands, drifted luxuriously out on a sea of daydreams. CHAPTER IX. Mrs. Rachel Lynde Is Properly Horrified \|ANNE had been a fortnight at Green Gables before Mrs. Lynde arrived to inspect her. Mrs. Rachel, to do her justice, was not to blame for this. A severe and unseasonable attack of grippe had confined that good lady to her house ever since the occasion of her last visit to Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel was not often sick and had a well-defined contempt for people who were; but grippe, she asserted, was like no other illness on earth and could only be interpreted as one of the special visitations of Providence. As soon as her doctor allowed her to put her foot out-of-doors she hurried up to Green Gables, bursting with curiosity to see Matthew and Marilla's orphan, concerning whom all sorts of stories and suppositions had gone abroad in Avonlea. Anne had made good use of every waking moment of that fortnight. Already she was acquainted with every tree and shrub about the place. She had discovered that a lane opened out below the apple orchard and ran up through a belt of woodland; and she had explored it to its furthest end in all its delicious vagaries of brook and bridge, fir coppice and wild cherry arch, corners thick with fern, and branching byways of maple and mountain ash. She had made friends with the spring down in the hollow--that wonderful deep, clear icy-cold spring; it was set about with smooth red sandstones and rimmed in by great palm-like clumps of water fern; and beyond it was a log bridge over the brook. That bridge led Anne's dancing feet up over a wooded hill beyond, where perpetual twilight reigned under the straight, thick-growing firs and spruces; the only flowers there were myriads of delicate "June bells," those shyest and sweetest of woodland blooms, and a few pale, aerial starflowers, like the spirits of last year's blossoms. Gossamers glimmered like threads of	was crying when she kissed me good-bye through the bookcase door. There was no bookcase at Mrs. Hammond's. But just up the river a little way from the house there was a long green little valley, and the loveliest echo lived there. It echoed back every word you said, even if you didn't talk a bit loud. So I imagined that it was a little girl called Violetta and we were great friends and I loved her almost as well as I loved Katie Maurice--not quite, but almost, you know. The night before I went to the asylum I said good-bye to Violetta, and oh, her good-bye came back to me in such sad, sad tones. I had become so attached to her that I hadn't the heart to imagine a bosom friend at the asylum, even if there had been any scope for imagination there." "I think it's just as well there wasn't," said Marilla drily. "I don't approve of such goings-on. You seem to half believe your own imaginations. It will be well for you to have a real live friend to put such nonsense out of your head. But don't let Mrs. Barry hear you talking about your Katie Maurices and your Violettas or she'll think you tell stories." "Oh, I won't. I couldn't talk of them to everybody--their memories are too sacred for that. But I thought I'd like to have you know about them. Oh, look, here's a big bee just tumbled out of an apple blossom. Just think what a lovely place to live--in an apple blossom! Fancy going to sleep in it when the wind was rocking it. If I wasn't a human girl I think I'd like to be a bee and live among the flowers." "Yesterday you wanted to be a sea gull," sniffed Marilla. "I think you are very fickle minded. I told you to learn that prayer and not talk. But it seems impossible for you to stop talking if you've got anybody that will listen to you. So go up to your room and learn it." "Oh, I know it pretty nearly all now--all but just the last line." "Well, never mind, do as I tell you. Go to your room and finish learning it well, and stay there until I call you down to help me get tea."<\|quote\|>"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?"</\|quote\|>pleaded Anne. "No; you don't want your room cluttered up with flowers. You should have left them on the tree in the first place." "I did feel a little that way, too," said Anne. "I kind of felt I shouldn't shorten their lovely lives by picking them--I wouldn't want to be picked if I were an apple blossom. But the temptation was _irresistible_. What do you do when you meet with an irresistible temptation?" "Anne, did you hear me tell you to go to your room?" Anne sighed, retreated to the east gable, and sat down in a chair by the window. "There--I know this prayer. I learned that last sentence coming upstairs. Now I'm going to imagine things into this room so that they'll always stay imagined. The floor is covered with a white velvet carpet with pink roses all over it and there are pink silk curtains at the windows. The walls are hung with gold and silver brocade tapestry. The furniture is mahogany. I never saw any mahogany, but it does sound _so_ luxurious. This is a couch all heaped with gorgeous silken cushions, pink and blue and crimson and gold, and I am reclining gracefully on it. I can see my reflection in that splendid big mirror hanging on the wall. I am tall and regal, clad in a gown of trailing white lace, with a pearl cross on my breast and pearls in my hair. My hair is of midnight darkness and my skin is a clear ivory pallor. My name is the Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald. No, it isn't--I can't make _that_ seem real." She danced up to the little looking-glass and peered into it. Her pointed freckled face and solemn gray eyes peered back at her. "You're only Anne of Green Gables," she said earnestly, "and I see you, just as you are looking now, whenever I try to imagine I'm the Lady Cordelia. But it's a million times	Anne Of Green Gables
Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.	No speaker	than you want to know."<\|quote\|>Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.</\|quote\|>"Let us go and sit	just as you know less than you want to know."<\|quote\|>Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.</\|quote\|>"Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord	Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of life to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know."<\|quote\|>Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.</\|quote\|>"Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be	tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling. "Yes," continued Lord Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of life to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know."<\|quote\|>Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.</\|quote\|>"Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming." "What can it matter?" cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden. "It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray." "Why?" "Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having." "I don t feel	than I am to-day. This is going to be my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands." Lord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his hand upon his shoulder. "You are quite right to do that," he murmured. "Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul." The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling. "Yes," continued Lord Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of life to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know."<\|quote\|>Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.</\|quote\|>"Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming." "What can it matter?" cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden. "It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray." "Why?" "Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having." "I don t feel that, Lord Henry." "No, you don t feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don t frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts of the world,	"My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can t think of anything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And I have caught the effect I wanted the half-parted lips and the bright look in the eyes. I don t know what Harry has been saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose he has been paying you compliments. You mustn t believe a word that he says." "He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the reason that I don t believe anything he has told me." "You know you believe it all," said Lord Henry, looking at him with his dreamy languorous eyes. "I will go out to the garden with you. It is horribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced to drink, something with strawberries in it." "Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I will join you later on. Don t keep Dorian too long. I have never been in better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands." Lord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his hand upon his shoulder. "You are quite right to do that," he murmured. "Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul." The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling. "Yes," continued Lord Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of life to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know."<\|quote\|>Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.</\|quote\|>"Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming." "What can it matter?" cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden. "It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray." "Why?" "Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having." "I don t feel that, Lord Henry." "No, you don t feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don t frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won t smile.... People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.... Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against	to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don t speak. Let me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think." For nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips and eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh influences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have come really from himself. The few words that Basil s friend had said to him words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in them had touched some secret chord that had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses. Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words? Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood. He understood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-coloured to him. It seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known it? With his subtle smile, Lord Henry watched him. He knew the precise psychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely interested. He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he wondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through a similar experience. He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How fascinating the lad was! Hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had the true refinement and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate comes only from strength. He was unconscious of the silence. "Basil, I am tired of standing," cried Dorian Gray suddenly. "I must go out and sit in the garden. The air is stifling here." "My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can t think of anything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And I have caught the effect I wanted the half-parted lips and the bright look in the eyes. I don t know what Harry has been saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose he has been paying you compliments. You mustn t believe a word that he says." "He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the reason that I don t believe anything he has told me." "You know you believe it all," said Lord Henry, looking at him with his dreamy languorous eyes. "I will go out to the garden with you. It is horribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced to drink, something with strawberries in it." "Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I will join you later on. Don t keep Dorian too long. I have never been in better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands." Lord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his hand upon his shoulder. "You are quite right to do that," he murmured. "Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul." The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling. "Yes," continued Lord Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of life to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know."<\|quote\|>Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.</\|quote\|>"Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming." "What can it matter?" cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden. "It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray." "Why?" "Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having." "I don t feel that, Lord Henry." "No, you don t feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don t frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won t smile.... People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.... Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly.... Ah! realize your youth while you have it. Don t squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure, or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar. These are the sickly aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing.... A new Hedonism that is what our century wants. You might be its visible symbol. With your personality there is nothing you could not do. The world belongs to you for a season.... The moment I met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are, of what you really might be. There was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will last such a little time. The common hill-flowers wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!" Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the oval stellated globe of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which we cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to	is stifling here." "My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can t think of anything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And I have caught the effect I wanted the half-parted lips and the bright look in the eyes. I don t know what Harry has been saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose he has been paying you compliments. You mustn t believe a word that he says." "He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the reason that I don t believe anything he has told me." "You know you believe it all," said Lord Henry, looking at him with his dreamy languorous eyes. "I will go out to the garden with you. It is horribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced to drink, something with strawberries in it." "Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I will join you later on. Don t keep Dorian too long. I have never been in better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands." Lord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his hand upon his shoulder. "You are quite right to do that," he murmured. "Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul." The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling. "Yes," continued Lord Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of life to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know."<\|quote\|>Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.</\|quote\|>"Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming." "What can it matter?" cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden. "It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray." "Why?" "Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having." "I don t feel that, Lord Henry." "No, you don t feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don t frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won t smile.... People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
Aunt Celia continued firmly.	No speaker	"I went to Seton Street,"<\|quote\|>Aunt Celia continued firmly.</\|quote\|>"A very low place lodging-houses,	tune, as if to interrupt. "I went to Seton Street,"<\|quote\|>Aunt Celia continued firmly.</\|quote\|>"A very low place lodging-houses, you know, with canaries in	I suspected something directly. I went to his room, and there was an envelope on the mantelpiece, and a letter with an address in Seton Street, off the Kennington Road." Mrs. Hilbery fidgeted rather restlessly, and hummed fragments of her tune, as if to interrupt. "I went to Seton Street,"<\|quote\|>Aunt Celia continued firmly.</\|quote\|>"A very low place lodging-houses, you know, with canaries in the window. Number seven just like all the others. I rang, I knocked; no one came. I went down the area. I am certain I saw some one inside children a cradle. But no reply no reply." She sighed, and	I knew he was engaged at the poor men s college. He lectures there Roman law, you know, or it may be Greek. The landlady said Mr. Alardyce only slept there about once a fortnight now. He looked so ill, she said. She had seen him with a young person. I suspected something directly. I went to his room, and there was an envelope on the mantelpiece, and a letter with an address in Seton Street, off the Kennington Road." Mrs. Hilbery fidgeted rather restlessly, and hummed fragments of her tune, as if to interrupt. "I went to Seton Street,"<\|quote\|>Aunt Celia continued firmly.</\|quote\|>"A very low place lodging-houses, you know, with canaries in the window. Number seven just like all the others. I rang, I knocked; no one came. I went down the area. I am certain I saw some one inside children a cradle. But no reply no reply." She sighed, and looked straight in front of her with a glazed expression in her half-veiled blue eyes. "I stood in the street," she resumed, "in case I could catch a sight of one of them. It seemed a very long time. There were rough men singing in the public-house round the corner.	William s son! I can t believe my ears!" Feeling that the burden of proof was laid upon her, Mrs. Milvain now proceeded with her story. She was elderly and fragile, but her childlessness seemed always to impose these painful duties on her, and to revere the family, and to keep it in repair, had now become the chief object of her life. She told her story in a low, spasmodic, and somewhat broken voice. "I have suspected for some time that he was not happy. There were new lines on his face. So I went to his rooms, when I knew he was engaged at the poor men s college. He lectures there Roman law, you know, or it may be Greek. The landlady said Mr. Alardyce only slept there about once a fortnight now. He looked so ill, she said. She had seen him with a young person. I suspected something directly. I went to his room, and there was an envelope on the mantelpiece, and a letter with an address in Seton Street, off the Kennington Road." Mrs. Hilbery fidgeted rather restlessly, and hummed fragments of her tune, as if to interrupt. "I went to Seton Street,"<\|quote\|>Aunt Celia continued firmly.</\|quote\|>"A very low place lodging-houses, you know, with canaries in the window. Number seven just like all the others. I rang, I knocked; no one came. I went down the area. I am certain I saw some one inside children a cradle. But no reply no reply." She sighed, and looked straight in front of her with a glazed expression in her half-veiled blue eyes. "I stood in the street," she resumed, "in case I could catch a sight of one of them. It seemed a very long time. There were rough men singing in the public-house round the corner. At last the door opened, and some one it must have been the woman herself came right past me. There was only the pillar-box between us." "And what did she look like?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded. "One could see how the poor boy had been deluded," was all that Mrs. Milvain vouchsafed by way of description. "Poor thing!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Poor Cyril!" Mrs. Milvain said, laying a slight emphasis upon Cyril. "But they ve got nothing to live upon," Mrs. Hilbery continued. "If he d come to us like a man," she went on, "and said, I ve been a	has discovered that Cyril is married. He has a wife and children." "No, he is _not_ married," Mrs. Milvain interposed, in low tones, addressing herself to Mrs. Hilbery. "He has two children, and another on the way." Mrs. Hilbery looked from one to the other in bewilderment. "We thought it better to wait until it was proved before we told you," Katharine added. "But I met Cyril only a fortnight ago at the National Gallery!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "I don t believe a word of it," and she tossed her head with a smile on her lips at Mrs. Milvain, as though she could quite understand her mistake, which was a very natural mistake, in the case of a childless woman, whose husband was something very dull in the Board of Trade. "I didn t _wish_ to believe it, Maggie," said Mrs. Milvain. "For a long time I _couldn t_ believe it. But now I ve seen, and I _have_ to believe it." "Katharine," Mrs. Hilbery demanded, "does your father know of this?" Katharine nodded. "Cyril married!" Mrs. Hilbery repeated. "And never telling us a word, though we ve had him in our house since he was a child noble William s son! I can t believe my ears!" Feeling that the burden of proof was laid upon her, Mrs. Milvain now proceeded with her story. She was elderly and fragile, but her childlessness seemed always to impose these painful duties on her, and to revere the family, and to keep it in repair, had now become the chief object of her life. She told her story in a low, spasmodic, and somewhat broken voice. "I have suspected for some time that he was not happy. There were new lines on his face. So I went to his rooms, when I knew he was engaged at the poor men s college. He lectures there Roman law, you know, or it may be Greek. The landlady said Mr. Alardyce only slept there about once a fortnight now. He looked so ill, she said. She had seen him with a young person. I suspected something directly. I went to his room, and there was an envelope on the mantelpiece, and a letter with an address in Seton Street, off the Kennington Road." Mrs. Hilbery fidgeted rather restlessly, and hummed fragments of her tune, as if to interrupt. "I went to Seton Street,"<\|quote\|>Aunt Celia continued firmly.</\|quote\|>"A very low place lodging-houses, you know, with canaries in the window. Number seven just like all the others. I rang, I knocked; no one came. I went down the area. I am certain I saw some one inside children a cradle. But no reply no reply." She sighed, and looked straight in front of her with a glazed expression in her half-veiled blue eyes. "I stood in the street," she resumed, "in case I could catch a sight of one of them. It seemed a very long time. There were rough men singing in the public-house round the corner. At last the door opened, and some one it must have been the woman herself came right past me. There was only the pillar-box between us." "And what did she look like?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded. "One could see how the poor boy had been deluded," was all that Mrs. Milvain vouchsafed by way of description. "Poor thing!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Poor Cyril!" Mrs. Milvain said, laying a slight emphasis upon Cyril. "But they ve got nothing to live upon," Mrs. Hilbery continued. "If he d come to us like a man," she went on, "and said, I ve been a fool, one would have pitied him; one would have tried to help him. There s nothing so disgraceful after all But he s been going about all these years, pretending, letting one take it for granted, that he was single. And the poor deserted little wife" "She is _not_ his wife," Aunt Celia interrupted. "I ve never heard anything so detestable!" Mrs. Hilbery wound up, striking her fist on the arm of her chair. As she realized the facts she became thoroughly disgusted, although, perhaps, she was more hurt by the concealment of the sin than by the sin itself. She looked splendidly roused and indignant; and Katharine felt an immense relief and pride in her mother. It was plain that her indignation was very genuine, and that her mind was as perfectly focused upon the facts as any one could wish more so, by a long way, than Aunt Celia s mind, which seemed to be timidly circling, with a morbid pleasure, in these unpleasant shades. She and her mother together would take the situation in hand, visit Cyril, and see the whole thing through. "We must realize Cyril s point of view first," she said, speaking directly to	a very sweet voice, trolled out a famous lyric of her father s which had been set to an absurdly and charmingly sentimental air by some early Victorian composer. "It s the vitality of them!" she concluded, striking her fist against the table. "That s what we haven t got! We re virtuous, we re earnest, we go to meetings, we pay the poor their wages, but we don t live as they lived. As often as not, my father wasn t in bed three nights out of the seven, but always fresh as paint in the morning. I hear him now, come singing up the stairs to the nursery, and tossing the loaf for breakfast on his sword-stick, and then off we went for a day s pleasuring Richmond, Hampton Court, the Surrey Hills. Why shouldn t we go, Katharine? It s going to be a fine day." At this moment, just as Mrs. Hilbery was examining the weather from the window, there was a knock at the door. A slight, elderly lady came in, and was saluted by Katharine, with very evident dismay, as "Aunt Celia!" She was dismayed because she guessed why Aunt Celia had come. It was certainly in order to discuss the case of Cyril and the woman who was not his wife, and owing to her procrastination Mrs. Hilbery was quite unprepared. Who could be more unprepared? Here she was, suggesting that all three of them should go on a jaunt to Blackfriars to inspect the site of Shakespeare s theater, for the weather was hardly settled enough for the country. To this proposal Mrs. Milvain listened with a patient smile, which indicated that for many years she had accepted such eccentricities in her sister-in-law with bland philosophy. Katharine took up her position at some distance, standing with her foot on the fender, as though by so doing she could get a better view of the matter. But, in spite of her aunt s presence, how unreal the whole question of Cyril and his morality appeared! The difficulty, it now seemed, was not to break the news gently to Mrs. Hilbery, but to make her understand it. How was one to lasso her mind, and tether it to this minute, unimportant spot? A matter-of-fact statement seemed best. "I think Aunt Celia has come to talk about Cyril, mother," she said rather brutally. "Aunt Celia has discovered that Cyril is married. He has a wife and children." "No, he is _not_ married," Mrs. Milvain interposed, in low tones, addressing herself to Mrs. Hilbery. "He has two children, and another on the way." Mrs. Hilbery looked from one to the other in bewilderment. "We thought it better to wait until it was proved before we told you," Katharine added. "But I met Cyril only a fortnight ago at the National Gallery!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "I don t believe a word of it," and she tossed her head with a smile on her lips at Mrs. Milvain, as though she could quite understand her mistake, which was a very natural mistake, in the case of a childless woman, whose husband was something very dull in the Board of Trade. "I didn t _wish_ to believe it, Maggie," said Mrs. Milvain. "For a long time I _couldn t_ believe it. But now I ve seen, and I _have_ to believe it." "Katharine," Mrs. Hilbery demanded, "does your father know of this?" Katharine nodded. "Cyril married!" Mrs. Hilbery repeated. "And never telling us a word, though we ve had him in our house since he was a child noble William s son! I can t believe my ears!" Feeling that the burden of proof was laid upon her, Mrs. Milvain now proceeded with her story. She was elderly and fragile, but her childlessness seemed always to impose these painful duties on her, and to revere the family, and to keep it in repair, had now become the chief object of her life. She told her story in a low, spasmodic, and somewhat broken voice. "I have suspected for some time that he was not happy. There were new lines on his face. So I went to his rooms, when I knew he was engaged at the poor men s college. He lectures there Roman law, you know, or it may be Greek. The landlady said Mr. Alardyce only slept there about once a fortnight now. He looked so ill, she said. She had seen him with a young person. I suspected something directly. I went to his room, and there was an envelope on the mantelpiece, and a letter with an address in Seton Street, off the Kennington Road." Mrs. Hilbery fidgeted rather restlessly, and hummed fragments of her tune, as if to interrupt. "I went to Seton Street,"<\|quote\|>Aunt Celia continued firmly.</\|quote\|>"A very low place lodging-houses, you know, with canaries in the window. Number seven just like all the others. I rang, I knocked; no one came. I went down the area. I am certain I saw some one inside children a cradle. But no reply no reply." She sighed, and looked straight in front of her with a glazed expression in her half-veiled blue eyes. "I stood in the street," she resumed, "in case I could catch a sight of one of them. It seemed a very long time. There were rough men singing in the public-house round the corner. At last the door opened, and some one it must have been the woman herself came right past me. There was only the pillar-box between us." "And what did she look like?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded. "One could see how the poor boy had been deluded," was all that Mrs. Milvain vouchsafed by way of description. "Poor thing!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Poor Cyril!" Mrs. Milvain said, laying a slight emphasis upon Cyril. "But they ve got nothing to live upon," Mrs. Hilbery continued. "If he d come to us like a man," she went on, "and said, I ve been a fool, one would have pitied him; one would have tried to help him. There s nothing so disgraceful after all But he s been going about all these years, pretending, letting one take it for granted, that he was single. And the poor deserted little wife" "She is _not_ his wife," Aunt Celia interrupted. "I ve never heard anything so detestable!" Mrs. Hilbery wound up, striking her fist on the arm of her chair. As she realized the facts she became thoroughly disgusted, although, perhaps, she was more hurt by the concealment of the sin than by the sin itself. She looked splendidly roused and indignant; and Katharine felt an immense relief and pride in her mother. It was plain that her indignation was very genuine, and that her mind was as perfectly focused upon the facts as any one could wish more so, by a long way, than Aunt Celia s mind, which seemed to be timidly circling, with a morbid pleasure, in these unpleasant shades. She and her mother together would take the situation in hand, visit Cyril, and see the whole thing through. "We must realize Cyril s point of view first," she said, speaking directly to her mother, as if to a contemporary, but before the words were out of her mouth, there was more confusion outside, and Cousin Caroline, Mrs. Hilbery s maiden cousin, entered the room. Although she was by birth an Alardyce, and Aunt Celia a Hilbery, the complexities of the family relationship were such that each was at once first and second cousin to the other, and thus aunt and cousin to the culprit Cyril, so that his misbehavior was almost as much Cousin Caroline s affair as Aunt Celia s. Cousin Caroline was a lady of very imposing height and circumference, but in spite of her size and her handsome trappings, there was something exposed and unsheltered in her expression, as if for many summers her thin red skin and hooked nose and reduplication of chins, so much resembling the profile of a cockatoo, had been bared to the weather; she was, indeed, a single lady; but she had, it was the habit to say, "made a life for herself," and was thus entitled to be heard with respect. "This unhappy business," she began, out of breath as she was. "If the train had not gone out of the station just as I arrived, I should have been with you before. Celia has doubtless told you. You will agree with me, Maggie. He must be made to marry her at once for the sake of the children" "But does he refuse to marry her?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired, with a return of her bewilderment. "He has written an absurd perverted letter, all quotations," Cousin Caroline puffed. "He thinks he s doing a very fine thing, where we only see the folly of it.... The girl s every bit as infatuated as he is for which I blame him." "She entangled him," Aunt Celia intervened, with a very curious smoothness of intonation, which seemed to convey a vision of threads weaving and interweaving a close, white mesh round their victim. "It s no use going into the rights and wrongs of the affair now, Celia," said Cousin Caroline with some acerbity, for she believed herself the only practical one of the family, and regretted that, owing to the slowness of the kitchen clock, Mrs. Milvain had already confused poor dear Maggie with her own incomplete version of the facts. "The mischief s done, and very ugly mischief too. Are we to allow the	for the country. To this proposal Mrs. Milvain listened with a patient smile, which indicated that for many years she had accepted such eccentricities in her sister-in-law with bland philosophy. Katharine took up her position at some distance, standing with her foot on the fender, as though by so doing she could get a better view of the matter. But, in spite of her aunt s presence, how unreal the whole question of Cyril and his morality appeared! The difficulty, it now seemed, was not to break the news gently to Mrs. Hilbery, but to make her understand it. How was one to lasso her mind, and tether it to this minute, unimportant spot? A matter-of-fact statement seemed best. "I think Aunt Celia has come to talk about Cyril, mother," she said rather brutally. "Aunt Celia has discovered that Cyril is married. He has a wife and children." "No, he is _not_ married," Mrs. Milvain interposed, in low tones, addressing herself to Mrs. Hilbery. "He has two children, and another on the way." Mrs. Hilbery looked from one to the other in bewilderment. "We thought it better to wait until it was proved before we told you," Katharine added. "But I met Cyril only a fortnight ago at the National Gallery!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "I don t believe a word of it," and she tossed her head with a smile on her lips at Mrs. Milvain, as though she could quite understand her mistake, which was a very natural mistake, in the case of a childless woman, whose husband was something very dull in the Board of Trade. "I didn t _wish_ to believe it, Maggie," said Mrs. Milvain. "For a long time I _couldn t_ believe it. But now I ve seen, and I _have_ to believe it." "Katharine," Mrs. Hilbery demanded, "does your father know of this?" Katharine nodded. "Cyril married!" Mrs. Hilbery repeated. "And never telling us a word, though we ve had him in our house since he was a child noble William s son! I can t believe my ears!" Feeling that the burden of proof was laid upon her, Mrs. Milvain now proceeded with her story. She was elderly and fragile, but her childlessness seemed always to impose these painful duties on her, and to revere the family, and to keep it in repair, had now become the chief object of her life. She told her story in a low, spasmodic, and somewhat broken voice. "I have suspected for some time that he was not happy. There were new lines on his face. So I went to his rooms, when I knew he was engaged at the poor men s college. He lectures there Roman law, you know, or it may be Greek. The landlady said Mr. Alardyce only slept there about once a fortnight now. He looked so ill, she said. She had seen him with a young person. I suspected something directly. I went to his room, and there was an envelope on the mantelpiece, and a letter with an address in Seton Street, off the Kennington Road." Mrs. Hilbery fidgeted rather restlessly, and hummed fragments of her tune, as if to interrupt. "I went to Seton Street,"<\|quote\|>Aunt Celia continued firmly.</\|quote\|>"A very low place lodging-houses, you know, with canaries in the window. Number seven just like all the others. I rang, I knocked; no one came. I went down the area. I am certain I saw some one inside children a cradle. But no reply no reply." She sighed, and looked straight in front of her with a glazed expression in her half-veiled blue eyes. "I stood in the street," she resumed, "in case I could catch a sight of one of them. It seemed a very long time. There were rough men singing in the public-house round the corner. At last the door opened, and some one it must have been the woman herself came right past me. There was only the pillar-box between us." "And what did she look like?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded. "One could see how the poor boy had been deluded," was all that Mrs. Milvain vouchsafed by way of description. "Poor thing!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Poor Cyril!" Mrs. Milvain said, laying a slight emphasis upon Cyril. "But they ve got nothing to live upon," Mrs. Hilbery continued. "If he d come to us like a man," she went on, "and said, I ve been a fool, one would have pitied him; one would have tried to help him. There s nothing so disgraceful after all But he s been going about all these years, pretending, letting one take it for granted, that he was single. And the poor deserted little wife" "She is _not_ his wife," Aunt Celia interrupted. "I ve never heard anything so detestable!" Mrs. Hilbery wound up, striking her fist on the arm of her chair. As she realized the facts she became thoroughly disgusted, although, perhaps, she was more hurt by the concealment of the sin than by the sin itself. She looked splendidly roused and indignant; and Katharine felt an immense relief and pride in her mother. It was plain that her indignation was very genuine, and that her mind was as perfectly focused upon the facts as any one could wish more so, by a long way, than Aunt Celia s mind, which seemed to be timidly circling, with a morbid pleasure, in these unpleasant shades. She and her mother together would take the situation in hand, visit Cyril, and see the whole thing through. "We must realize Cyril s point of view first," she said, speaking directly to her mother, as if to a contemporary, but before the words were out of her mouth, there was more confusion outside, and Cousin Caroline, Mrs. Hilbery s maiden cousin, entered the room. Although she was by birth an Alardyce, and Aunt Celia a Hilbery, the complexities of the family relationship were such that each was at once first and second cousin to the other, and	Night And Day
The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that several of the fellows at the club had shady reputations, but surely to be the son of a thief or a supposed thief was not like being the criminal himself. At the Banner he took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him.	No speaker	"My Gawd, not you, Kit!"<\|quote\|>The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that several of the fellows at the club had shady reputations, but surely to be the son of a thief or a supposed thief was not like being the criminal himself. At the Banner he took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him.</\|quote\|>"Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it	her head and almost screamed, "My Gawd, not you, Kit!"<\|quote\|>The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that several of the fellows at the club had shady reputations, but surely to be the son of a thief or a supposed thief was not like being the criminal himself. At the Banner he took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him.</\|quote\|>"Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it two, Jack,'" he said with	Kit's side and mingled her tears with her daughter's. But Kit did not raise her head. "Dey ain't nothin' lef' but you now, Kit;" but the girl did not speak, she only shook with hard sobs. Then her mother raised her head and almost screamed, "My Gawd, not you, Kit!"<\|quote\|>The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that several of the fellows at the club had shady reputations, but surely to be the son of a thief or a supposed thief was not like being the criminal himself. At the Banner he took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him.</\|quote\|>"Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it two, Jack,'" he said with easy familiarity. "Well, what 's the matter, old man? You 're looking glum." "I feel glum." "The divine Hattie has n't been cutting any capers, has she? The dear old girl has n't been getting hysterical at her age? Let	He did not speak to Kit nor look at his mother. He felt like a cur, because he knew deep down in his heart that he had only been waiting for some excuse to take this step. As he slammed the door behind him, his mother flung herself down by Kit's side and mingled her tears with her daughter's. But Kit did not raise her head. "Dey ain't nothin' lef' but you now, Kit;" but the girl did not speak, she only shook with hard sobs. Then her mother raised her head and almost screamed, "My Gawd, not you, Kit!"<\|quote\|>The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that several of the fellows at the club had shady reputations, but surely to be the son of a thief or a supposed thief was not like being the criminal himself. At the Banner he took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him.</\|quote\|>"Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it two, Jack,'" he said with easy familiarity. "Well, what 's the matter, old man? You 're looking glum." "I feel glum." "The divine Hattie has n't been cutting any capers, has she? The dear old girl has n't been getting hysterical at her age? Let us hope not." Joe glared at him. Why in the devil should this fellow be so sadly gay when he was weighted down with sorrow and shame and disgust? "Come, come now, Hamilton, if you 're sore because I invited myself to take a drink with you, I 'll withdraw	him. "Don't you daih to cuss ag'in or befo' Gawd dey 'll be somep'n fu' one o' dis fambly to be rottin' in jail fu'!" The boy was cowed by his mother's manner. He was gathering his few belongings in a bundle. "I ain't goin' to cuss," he said sullenly, "I 'm goin' out o' your way." "Oh, go on," she said, "go on. It 's been a long time sence you been my son. You on yo' way to hell, an' you is been fu' lo dese many days." Joe got out of the house as soon as possible. He did not speak to Kit nor look at his mother. He felt like a cur, because he knew deep down in his heart that he had only been waiting for some excuse to take this step. As he slammed the door behind him, his mother flung herself down by Kit's side and mingled her tears with her daughter's. But Kit did not raise her head. "Dey ain't nothin' lef' but you now, Kit;" but the girl did not speak, she only shook with hard sobs. Then her mother raised her head and almost screamed, "My Gawd, not you, Kit!"<\|quote\|>The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that several of the fellows at the club had shady reputations, but surely to be the son of a thief or a supposed thief was not like being the criminal himself. At the Banner he took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him.</\|quote\|>"Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it two, Jack,'" he said with easy familiarity. "Well, what 's the matter, old man? You 're looking glum." "I feel glum." "The divine Hattie has n't been cutting any capers, has she? The dear old girl has n't been getting hysterical at her age? Let us hope not." Joe glared at him. Why in the devil should this fellow be so sadly gay when he was weighted down with sorrow and shame and disgust? "Come, come now, Hamilton, if you 're sore because I invited myself to take a drink with you, I 'll withdraw the order. I know the heroic thing to say is that I 'll pay for the drinks myself, but I can't screw my courage up to the point of doing so unnatural a thing." Young Hamilton hastened to protest. "Oh, I know you fellows now well enough to know how many drinks to pay for. It ain't that." "Well, then, out with it. What is it? Have n't been up to anything, have you?" The desire came to Joe to tell this man the whole truth, just what was the matter, and so to relieve his heart. On the impulse	to put me out on de wo'd of a stranger?" "I 'm kin' o' sorry, but everybody in the house heard what Mis' Brown said, an' it 'll soon be all over town, an' that 'ud ruin the reputation of my house." "I reckon all dat kin be 'splained." "Yes, but I don't know that anybody kin 'splain your daughter allus being with Mr. Thomas, who ain't even divo'ced from his wife." She flashed a vindictive glance at the girl, who turned deadly pale and dropped her head in her hands. "You daih to say dat, Mis' Jones, you dat fust interduced my gal to dat man and got huh to go out wid him? I reckon you 'd bettah go now." And Mrs. Jones looked at Fannie's face and obeyed. As soon as the woman's back was turned, Joe burst out, "There, there! see what you 've done with your damned foolishness." Fannie turned on him like a tigress. "Don't you cuss hyeah befo' me; I ain't nevah brung you up to it, an' I won't stan' it. Go to dem whaih you larned it, an whaih de wo'ds soun' sweet." The boy started to speak, but she checked him. "Don't you daih to cuss ag'in or befo' Gawd dey 'll be somep'n fu' one o' dis fambly to be rottin' in jail fu'!" The boy was cowed by his mother's manner. He was gathering his few belongings in a bundle. "I ain't goin' to cuss," he said sullenly, "I 'm goin' out o' your way." "Oh, go on," she said, "go on. It 's been a long time sence you been my son. You on yo' way to hell, an' you is been fu' lo dese many days." Joe got out of the house as soon as possible. He did not speak to Kit nor look at his mother. He felt like a cur, because he knew deep down in his heart that he had only been waiting for some excuse to take this step. As he slammed the door behind him, his mother flung herself down by Kit's side and mingled her tears with her daughter's. But Kit did not raise her head. "Dey ain't nothin' lef' but you now, Kit;" but the girl did not speak, she only shook with hard sobs. Then her mother raised her head and almost screamed, "My Gawd, not you, Kit!"<\|quote\|>The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that several of the fellows at the club had shady reputations, but surely to be the son of a thief or a supposed thief was not like being the criminal himself. At the Banner he took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him.</\|quote\|>"Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it two, Jack,'" he said with easy familiarity. "Well, what 's the matter, old man? You 're looking glum." "I feel glum." "The divine Hattie has n't been cutting any capers, has she? The dear old girl has n't been getting hysterical at her age? Let us hope not." Joe glared at him. Why in the devil should this fellow be so sadly gay when he was weighted down with sorrow and shame and disgust? "Come, come now, Hamilton, if you 're sore because I invited myself to take a drink with you, I 'll withdraw the order. I know the heroic thing to say is that I 'll pay for the drinks myself, but I can't screw my courage up to the point of doing so unnatural a thing." Young Hamilton hastened to protest. "Oh, I know you fellows now well enough to know how many drinks to pay for. It ain't that." "Well, then, out with it. What is it? Have n't been up to anything, have you?" The desire came to Joe to tell this man the whole truth, just what was the matter, and so to relieve his heart. On the impulse he did. If he had expected much from Sadness he was disappointed, for not a muscle of the man's face changed during the entire recital. When it was over, he looked at his companion critically through a wreath of smoke. Then he said: "For a fellow who has had for a full year the advantage of the education of the New York clubs, you are strangely young. Let me see, you are nineteen or twenty now--yes. Well, that perhaps accounts for it. It 's a pity you were n't born older. It 's a pity most men are n't. They would n't have to take so much time and lose so many good things learning. Now, Mr. Hamilton, let me tell you, and you will pardon me for it, that you are a fool. Your case is n't half as bad as that of nine-tenths of the fellows that hang around here. Now, for instance, my father was hung." Joe started and gave a gasp of horror. "Oh, yes, but it was done with a very good rope and by the best citizens of Texas, so it seems that I really ought to be very grateful to them for the	it. I 'm ashamed o' you, Kitty, fu' wantin' me to." The girl began to cry, while her brother walked the floor angrily. "You 'll see what 'll happen," he cried; "you 'll see." Fannie looked at her son, and she seemed to see him more clearly than she had ever seen him before,--his foppery, his meanness, his cowardice. "Well," she answered with a sigh, "it can't be no wuss den what 's already happened." "You 'll see, you 'll see," the boy reiterated. Minty Brown allowed no wind of thought to cool the fire of her determination. She left Hattie Sterling's soon after Joe, and he was still walking the floor and uttering dire forebodings when she rang the bell below and asked for the Hamiltons. Mrs. Jones ushered her into her fearfully upholstered parlour, and then puffed up stairs to tell her lodgers that there was a friend there from the South who wanted to see them. "Tell huh," said Mrs. Hamilton, "dat dey ain't no one hyeah wants to see huh." "No, no," Kitty broke in. "Heish," said her mother; "I 'm goin' to boss you a little while yit." "Why, I don't understan' you, Mis' Hamilton," puffed Mrs. Jones. "She 's a nice-lookin' lady, an' she said she knowed you at home." "All you got to do is to tell dat ooman jes' what I say." Minty Brown downstairs had heard the little colloquy, and, perceiving that something was amiss, had come to the stairs to listen. Now her voice, striving hard to be condescending and sweet, but growing harsh with anger, floated up from below: "Oh, nevah min', lady, I ain't anxious to see 'em. I jest called out o' pity, but I reckon dey 'shamed to see me 'cause de ol' man 's in penitentiary an' dey was run out o' town." Mrs. Jones gasped, and then turned and went hastily downstairs. Kit burst out crying afresh, and Joe walked the floor muttering beneath his breath, while the mother sat grimly watching the outcome. Finally they heard Mrs. Jones' step once more on the stairs. She came in without knocking, and her manner was distinctly unpleasant. "Mis' Hamilton," she said, "I 've had a talk with the lady downstairs, an' she 's tol' me everything. I 'd be glad if you 'd let me have my rooms as soon as possible." "So you goin' to put me out on de wo'd of a stranger?" "I 'm kin' o' sorry, but everybody in the house heard what Mis' Brown said, an' it 'll soon be all over town, an' that 'ud ruin the reputation of my house." "I reckon all dat kin be 'splained." "Yes, but I don't know that anybody kin 'splain your daughter allus being with Mr. Thomas, who ain't even divo'ced from his wife." She flashed a vindictive glance at the girl, who turned deadly pale and dropped her head in her hands. "You daih to say dat, Mis' Jones, you dat fust interduced my gal to dat man and got huh to go out wid him? I reckon you 'd bettah go now." And Mrs. Jones looked at Fannie's face and obeyed. As soon as the woman's back was turned, Joe burst out, "There, there! see what you 've done with your damned foolishness." Fannie turned on him like a tigress. "Don't you cuss hyeah befo' me; I ain't nevah brung you up to it, an' I won't stan' it. Go to dem whaih you larned it, an whaih de wo'ds soun' sweet." The boy started to speak, but she checked him. "Don't you daih to cuss ag'in or befo' Gawd dey 'll be somep'n fu' one o' dis fambly to be rottin' in jail fu'!" The boy was cowed by his mother's manner. He was gathering his few belongings in a bundle. "I ain't goin' to cuss," he said sullenly, "I 'm goin' out o' your way." "Oh, go on," she said, "go on. It 's been a long time sence you been my son. You on yo' way to hell, an' you is been fu' lo dese many days." Joe got out of the house as soon as possible. He did not speak to Kit nor look at his mother. He felt like a cur, because he knew deep down in his heart that he had only been waiting for some excuse to take this step. As he slammed the door behind him, his mother flung herself down by Kit's side and mingled her tears with her daughter's. But Kit did not raise her head. "Dey ain't nothin' lef' but you now, Kit;" but the girl did not speak, she only shook with hard sobs. Then her mother raised her head and almost screamed, "My Gawd, not you, Kit!"<\|quote\|>The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that several of the fellows at the club had shady reputations, but surely to be the son of a thief or a supposed thief was not like being the criminal himself. At the Banner he took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him.</\|quote\|>"Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it two, Jack,'" he said with easy familiarity. "Well, what 's the matter, old man? You 're looking glum." "I feel glum." "The divine Hattie has n't been cutting any capers, has she? The dear old girl has n't been getting hysterical at her age? Let us hope not." Joe glared at him. Why in the devil should this fellow be so sadly gay when he was weighted down with sorrow and shame and disgust? "Come, come now, Hamilton, if you 're sore because I invited myself to take a drink with you, I 'll withdraw the order. I know the heroic thing to say is that I 'll pay for the drinks myself, but I can't screw my courage up to the point of doing so unnatural a thing." Young Hamilton hastened to protest. "Oh, I know you fellows now well enough to know how many drinks to pay for. It ain't that." "Well, then, out with it. What is it? Have n't been up to anything, have you?" The desire came to Joe to tell this man the whole truth, just what was the matter, and so to relieve his heart. On the impulse he did. If he had expected much from Sadness he was disappointed, for not a muscle of the man's face changed during the entire recital. When it was over, he looked at his companion critically through a wreath of smoke. Then he said: "For a fellow who has had for a full year the advantage of the education of the New York clubs, you are strangely young. Let me see, you are nineteen or twenty now--yes. Well, that perhaps accounts for it. It 's a pity you were n't born older. It 's a pity most men are n't. They would n't have to take so much time and lose so many good things learning. Now, Mr. Hamilton, let me tell you, and you will pardon me for it, that you are a fool. Your case is n't half as bad as that of nine-tenths of the fellows that hang around here. Now, for instance, my father was hung." Joe started and gave a gasp of horror. "Oh, yes, but it was done with a very good rope and by the best citizens of Texas, so it seems that I really ought to be very grateful to them for the distinction they conferred upon my family, but I am not. I am ungratefully sad. A man must be very high or very low to take the sensible view of life that keeps him from being sad. I must confess that I have aspired to the depths without ever being fully able to reach them." "Now look around a bit. See that little girl over there? That 's Viola. Two years ago she wrenched up an iron stool from the floor of a lunch-room, and killed another woman with it. She 's nineteen,--just about your age, by the way. Well, she had friends with a certain amount of pull. She got out of it, and no one thinks the worse of Viola. You see, Hamilton, in this life we are all suffering from fever, and no one edges away from the other because he finds him a little warm. It 's dangerous when you 're not used to it; but once you go through the parching process, you become inoculated against further contagion. Now, there 's Barney over there, as decent a fellow as I know; but he has been indicted twice for pocket-picking. A half-dozen fellows whom you meet here every night have killed their man. Others have done worse things for which you respect them less. Poor Wallace, who is just coming in, and who looks like a jaunty ragpicker, came here about six months ago with about two thousand dollars, the proceeds from the sale of a house his father had left him. He 'll sleep in one of the club chairs to-night, and not from choice. He spent his two thousand learning. But, after all, it was a good investment. It was like buying an annuity. He begins to know already how to live on others as they have lived on him. The plucked bird's beak is sharpened for other's feathers. From now on Wallace will live, eat, drink, and sleep at the expense of others, and will forget to mourn his lost money. He will go on this way until, broken and useless, the poor-house or the potter's field gets him. Oh, it 's a fine, rich life, my lad. I know you 'll like it. I said you would the first time I saw you. It has plenty of stir in it, and a man never gets lonesome. Only the rich are lonesome. It 's	anybody kin 'splain your daughter allus being with Mr. Thomas, who ain't even divo'ced from his wife." She flashed a vindictive glance at the girl, who turned deadly pale and dropped her head in her hands. "You daih to say dat, Mis' Jones, you dat fust interduced my gal to dat man and got huh to go out wid him? I reckon you 'd bettah go now." And Mrs. Jones looked at Fannie's face and obeyed. As soon as the woman's back was turned, Joe burst out, "There, there! see what you 've done with your damned foolishness." Fannie turned on him like a tigress. "Don't you cuss hyeah befo' me; I ain't nevah brung you up to it, an' I won't stan' it. Go to dem whaih you larned it, an whaih de wo'ds soun' sweet." The boy started to speak, but she checked him. "Don't you daih to cuss ag'in or befo' Gawd dey 'll be somep'n fu' one o' dis fambly to be rottin' in jail fu'!" The boy was cowed by his mother's manner. He was gathering his few belongings in a bundle. "I ain't goin' to cuss," he said sullenly, "I 'm goin' out o' your way." "Oh, go on," she said, "go on. It 's been a long time sence you been my son. You on yo' way to hell, an' you is been fu' lo dese many days." Joe got out of the house as soon as possible. He did not speak to Kit nor look at his mother. He felt like a cur, because he knew deep down in his heart that he had only been waiting for some excuse to take this step. As he slammed the door behind him, his mother flung herself down by Kit's side and mingled her tears with her daughter's. But Kit did not raise her head. "Dey ain't nothin' lef' but you now, Kit;" but the girl did not speak, she only shook with hard sobs. Then her mother raised her head and almost screamed, "My Gawd, not you, Kit!"<\|quote\|>The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that several of the fellows at the club had shady reputations, but surely to be the son of a thief or a supposed thief was not like being the criminal himself. At the Banner he took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him.</\|quote\|>"Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it two, Jack,'" he said with easy familiarity. "Well, what 's the matter, old man? You 're looking glum." "I feel glum." "The divine Hattie has n't been cutting any capers, has she? The dear old girl has n't been getting hysterical at her age? Let us hope not." Joe glared at him. Why in the devil should this fellow be so sadly gay when he was weighted down with sorrow and shame and disgust? "Come, come now, Hamilton, if you 're sore because I invited myself to take a drink with you, I 'll withdraw the order. I know the heroic thing to say is that I 'll pay for the drinks myself, but I can't screw my courage up to the point of doing so unnatural a thing." Young Hamilton hastened to protest. "Oh, I know you fellows now well enough to know how many drinks to pay for. It ain't that." "Well, then, out with it. What is it? Have n't been up to anything, have you?" The desire came to Joe to tell this man the whole truth, just what was the matter, and so to relieve his heart. On the impulse he did. If he had expected much from Sadness he was disappointed, for not a muscle of the man's face changed during the entire recital. When it was over, he looked at his companion critically through a wreath of smoke. Then he said: "For a fellow who has had for a full year the advantage of the education of the New York clubs, you are strangely young. Let me see, you are nineteen or twenty now--yes. Well, that perhaps accounts for it. It 's a pity you were n't born older. It 's a pity most men are n't. They would n't have to take so much time and lose so many good things learning. Now, Mr. Hamilton, let me	The Sport Of The Gods
"And ever since that,"	The Hatter	"How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice.<\|quote\|>"And ever since that,"</\|quote\|>the Hatter went on in	time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice.<\|quote\|>"And ever since that,"</\|quote\|>the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't	"_Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_--" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. "Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse," said the Hatter, "when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, 'He's murdering the time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice.<\|quote\|>"And ever since that,"</\|quote\|>the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's	you're at!' "You know the song, perhaps?" "I've heard something like it," said Alice. "It goes on, you know," the Hatter continued, "in this way:--" 'Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--'" Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep "_Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_--" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. "Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse," said the Hatter, "when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, 'He's murdering the time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice.<\|quote\|>"And ever since that,"</\|quote\|>the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." "Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice. "Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the	whisper.) "That would be grand, certainly," said Alice thoughtfully: "but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know." "Not at first, perhaps," said the Hatter: "but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked." "Is that the way _you_ manage?" Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. "Not I!" he replied. "We quarrelled last March--just before _he_ went mad, you know--" (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) "--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing" 'Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at!' "You know the song, perhaps?" "I've heard something like it," said Alice. "It goes on, you know," the Hatter continued, "in this way:--" 'Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--'" Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep "_Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_--" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. "Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse," said the Hatter, "when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, 'He's murdering the time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice.<\|quote\|>"And ever since that,"</\|quote\|>the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." "Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice. "Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." "I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. "Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be	turning to Alice again. "No, I give it up," Alice replied: "what's the answer?" "I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter. "Nor I," said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers." "If you knew Time as well as I do," said the Hatter, "you wouldn't talk about wasting _it_. It's _him_." "I don't know what you mean," said Alice. "Of course you don't!" the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. "I dare say you never even spoke to Time!" "Perhaps not," Alice cautiously replied: "but I know I have to beat time when I learn music." "Ah! that accounts for it," said the Hatter. "He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!" (" "I only wish it was," the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) "That would be grand, certainly," said Alice thoughtfully: "but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know." "Not at first, perhaps," said the Hatter: "but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked." "Is that the way _you_ manage?" Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. "Not I!" he replied. "We quarrelled last March--just before _he_ went mad, you know--" (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) "--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing" 'Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at!' "You know the song, perhaps?" "I've heard something like it," said Alice. "It goes on, you know," the Hatter continued, "in this way:--" 'Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--'" Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep "_Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_--" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. "Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse," said the Hatter, "when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, 'He's murdering the time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice.<\|quote\|>"And ever since that,"</\|quote\|>the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." "Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice. "Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." "I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. "Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone, "so I can't take more." "You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she	I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!" "You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!" "It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. "What day of the month is it?" he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!" he added looking angrily at the March Hare. "It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied. "Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well," the Hatter grumbled: "you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife." The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, "It was the _best_ butter, you know." Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. "What a funny watch!" she remarked. "It tells the day of the month, and doesn't tell what o'clock it is!" "Why should it?" muttered the Hatter. "Does _your_ watch tell you what year it is?" "Of course not," Alice replied very readily: "but that's because it stays the same year for such a long time together." "Which is just the case with _mine_," said the Hatter. Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter's remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. "I don't quite understand you," she said, as politely as she could. "The Dormouse is asleep again," said the Hatter, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose. The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its eyes, "Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself." "Have you guessed the riddle yet?" the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. "No, I give it up," Alice replied: "what's the answer?" "I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter. "Nor I," said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers." "If you knew Time as well as I do," said the Hatter, "you wouldn't talk about wasting _it_. It's _him_." "I don't know what you mean," said Alice. "Of course you don't!" the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. "I dare say you never even spoke to Time!" "Perhaps not," Alice cautiously replied: "but I know I have to beat time when I learn music." "Ah! that accounts for it," said the Hatter. "He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!" (" "I only wish it was," the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) "That would be grand, certainly," said Alice thoughtfully: "but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know." "Not at first, perhaps," said the Hatter: "but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked." "Is that the way _you_ manage?" Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. "Not I!" he replied. "We quarrelled last March--just before _he_ went mad, you know--" (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) "--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing" 'Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at!' "You know the song, perhaps?" "I've heard something like it," said Alice. "It goes on, you know," the Hatter continued, "in this way:--" 'Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--'" Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep "_Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_--" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. "Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse," said the Hatter, "when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, 'He's murdering the time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice.<\|quote\|>"And ever since that,"</\|quote\|>the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." "Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice. "Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." "I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. "Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone, "so I can't take more." "You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?" The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, "If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself." "No, please go on!" Alice said very humbly; "I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be _one_." "One, indeed!" said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. "And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--" "What did they draw?" said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. "Treacle," said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. "I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter: "let's all move one place on." He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?" "You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?" "But they were _in_ the well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. "Of course they were," said the Dormouse; "--well in." This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. "They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--" "Why with an M?" said Alice. "Why not?" said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on:	it was," the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) "That would be grand, certainly," said Alice thoughtfully: "but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know." "Not at first, perhaps," said the Hatter: "but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked." "Is that the way _you_ manage?" Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. "Not I!" he replied. "We quarrelled last March--just before _he_ went mad, you know--" (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) "--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing" 'Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at!' "You know the song, perhaps?" "I've heard something like it," said Alice. "It goes on, you know," the Hatter continued, "in this way:--" 'Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--'" Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep "_Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_--" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. "Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse," said the Hatter, "when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, 'He's murdering the time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice.<\|quote\|>"And ever since that,"</\|quote\|>the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." "Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice. "Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." "I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. "Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone, "so I can't take more." "You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?" The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! sh!" and the Dormouse	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
"It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!"	Bill Sikes	enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes.<\|quote\|>"It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!"</\|quote\|>said the robber, poising a	is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes.<\|quote\|>"It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!"</\|quote\|>said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn	work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes.<\|quote\|>"It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!"</\|quote\|>said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead. "I've thought of it all," said the Jew with energy. "I've I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with	up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill." "I know he is," rejoined Fagin. "He's been in good training these last few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes.<\|quote\|>"It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!"</\|quote\|>said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead. "I've thought of it all," said the Jew with energy. "I've I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about better!" The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy. "Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you	"Now, Fagin," said Nancy with a laugh. "Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!" "Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!" said the Jew, patting her on the neck. "It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!" "What about him?" demanded Sikes. "He's the boy for you, my dear," replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully. "He!" exclaimed Sikes. "Have him, Bill!" said Nancy. "I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill." "I know he is," rejoined Fagin. "He's been in good training these last few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes.<\|quote\|>"It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!"</\|quote\|>said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead. "I've thought of it all," said the Jew with energy. "I've I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about better!" The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy. "Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you mean." "Perhaps I do, my dear," said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. "Mine, if you like, Bill." "And wot," said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, "wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?" "Because they're of no use to me, my dear," replied the Jew, with some confusion, "not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I	"Go on, Fagin. I know what he's going to say, Bill; he needn't mind me." The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some surprise. "Why, you don't mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?" he asked at length. "You've known her long enough to trust her, or the Devil's in it. She ain't one to blab. Are you Nancy?" "_I_ should think not!" replied the young lady: drawing her chair up to the table, and putting her elbows upon it. "No, no, my dear, I know you're not," said the Jew; "but" and again the old man paused. "But wot?" inquired Sikes. "I didn't know whether she mightn't p'r'aps be out of sorts, you know, my dear, as she was the other night," replied the Jew. At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into sundry exclamations of "Keep the game a-going!" "Never say die!" and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise. "Now, Fagin," said Nancy with a laugh. "Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!" "Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!" said the Jew, patting her on the neck. "It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!" "What about him?" demanded Sikes. "He's the boy for you, my dear," replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully. "He!" exclaimed Sikes. "Have him, Bill!" said Nancy. "I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill." "I know he is," rejoined Fagin. "He's been in good training these last few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes.<\|quote\|>"It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!"</\|quote\|>said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead. "I've thought of it all," said the Jew with energy. "I've I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about better!" The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy. "Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you mean." "Perhaps I do, my dear," said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. "Mine, if you like, Bill." "And wot," said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, "wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?" "Because they're of no use to me, my dear," replied the Jew, with some confusion, "not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides," said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, "he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides." "When is it to be done?" asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity. "Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?" "I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow," rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, "if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy." "Good," said the Jew; "there's no moon." "No," rejoined Sikes. "It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?" asked the Jew. Sikes nodded. "And about" "Oh, ah, it's all planned," rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. "Never mind particulars. You'd better	shutters. The crib's barred up at night like a jail; but there's one part we can crack, safe and softly." "Which is that, Bill?" asked the Jew eagerly. "Why," whispered Sikes, "as you cross the lawn" "Yes?" said the Jew, bending his head forward, with his eyes almost starting out of it. "Umph!" cried Sikes, stopping short, as the girl, scarcely moving her head, looked suddenly round, and pointed for an instant to the Jew's face. "Never mind which part it is. You can't do it without me, I know; but it's best to be on the safe side when one deals with you." "As you like, my dear, as you like" replied the Jew. "Is there no help wanted, but yours and Toby's?" "None," said Sikes. "Cept a centre-bit and a boy. The first we've both got; the second you must find us." "A boy!" exclaimed the Jew. "Oh! then it's a panel, eh?" "Never mind wot it is!" replied Sikes. "I want a boy, and he musn't be a big 'un. Lord!" said Mr. Sikes, reflectively, "if I'd only got that young boy of Ned, the chimbley-sweeper's! He kept him small on purpose, and let him out by the job. But the father gets lagged; and then the Juvenile Delinquent Society comes, and takes the boy away from a trade where he was earning money, teaches him to read and write, and in time makes a 'prentice of him. And so they go on," said Mr. Sikes, his wrath rising with the recollection of his wrongs, "so they go on; and, if they'd got money enough (which it's a Providence they haven't,) we shouldn't have half a dozen boys left in the whole trade, in a year or two." "No more we should," acquiesced the Jew, who had been considering during this speech, and had only caught the last sentence. "Bill!" "What now?" inquired Sikes. The Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, who was still gazing at the fire; and intimated, by a sign, that he would have her told to leave the room. Sikes shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought the precaution unnecessary; but complied, nevertheless, by requesting Miss Nancy to fetch him a jug of beer. "You don't want any beer," said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining her seat very composedly. "I tell you I do!" replied Sikes. "Nonsense," rejoined the girl coolly, "Go on, Fagin. I know what he's going to say, Bill; he needn't mind me." The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some surprise. "Why, you don't mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?" he asked at length. "You've known her long enough to trust her, or the Devil's in it. She ain't one to blab. Are you Nancy?" "_I_ should think not!" replied the young lady: drawing her chair up to the table, and putting her elbows upon it. "No, no, my dear, I know you're not," said the Jew; "but" and again the old man paused. "But wot?" inquired Sikes. "I didn't know whether she mightn't p'r'aps be out of sorts, you know, my dear, as she was the other night," replied the Jew. At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into sundry exclamations of "Keep the game a-going!" "Never say die!" and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise. "Now, Fagin," said Nancy with a laugh. "Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!" "Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!" said the Jew, patting her on the neck. "It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!" "What about him?" demanded Sikes. "He's the boy for you, my dear," replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully. "He!" exclaimed Sikes. "Have him, Bill!" said Nancy. "I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill." "I know he is," rejoined Fagin. "He's been in good training these last few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes.<\|quote\|>"It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!"</\|quote\|>said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead. "I've thought of it all," said the Jew with energy. "I've I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about better!" The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy. "Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you mean." "Perhaps I do, my dear," said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. "Mine, if you like, Bill." "And wot," said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, "wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?" "Because they're of no use to me, my dear," replied the Jew, with some confusion, "not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides," said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, "he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides." "When is it to be done?" asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity. "Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?" "I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow," rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, "if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy." "Good," said the Jew; "there's no moon." "No," rejoined Sikes. "It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?" asked the Jew. Sikes nodded. "And about" "Oh, ah, it's all planned," rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. "Never mind particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do." After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit. These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell. "Good-night, Nancy," said the Jew, muffling himself up as before. "Good-night." Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as Toby Crackit himself could be. The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the prostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped downstairs. "Always the way!" muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward. "The worst of these women is, that a very little thing serves to call up some	any beer," said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining her seat very composedly. "I tell you I do!" replied Sikes. "Nonsense," rejoined the girl coolly, "Go on, Fagin. I know what he's going to say, Bill; he needn't mind me." The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some surprise. "Why, you don't mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?" he asked at length. "You've known her long enough to trust her, or the Devil's in it. She ain't one to blab. Are you Nancy?" "_I_ should think not!" replied the young lady: drawing her chair up to the table, and putting her elbows upon it. "No, no, my dear, I know you're not," said the Jew; "but" and again the old man paused. "But wot?" inquired Sikes. "I didn't know whether she mightn't p'r'aps be out of sorts, you know, my dear, as she was the other night," replied the Jew. At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into sundry exclamations of "Keep the game a-going!" "Never say die!" and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise. "Now, Fagin," said Nancy with a laugh. "Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!" "Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!" said the Jew, patting her on the neck. "It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!" "What about him?" demanded Sikes. "He's the boy for you, my dear," replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully. "He!" exclaimed Sikes. "Have him, Bill!" said Nancy. "I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill." "I know he is," rejoined Fagin. "He's been in good training these last few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes.<\|quote\|>"It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!"</\|quote\|>said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead. "I've thought of it all," said the Jew with energy. "I've I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about better!" The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy. "Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you mean." "Perhaps I do, my dear," said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. "Mine, if you like, Bill." "And wot," said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, "wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?" "Because they're of no use to me, my dear," replied the Jew, with some confusion, "not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides," said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, "he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides." "When is it to be done?" asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity. "Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?" "I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow," rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, "if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy." "Good," said the Jew; "there's no moon." "No," rejoined Sikes. "It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?" asked the Jew. Sikes nodded. "And about" "Oh, ah, it's all planned," rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. "Never mind particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do." After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more	Oliver Twist
Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.	No speaker	ask me what I thought!"<\|quote\|>Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.</\|quote\|>"I do ask you." "Well,	thought--" "You thought?" "Ah, don't ask me what I thought!"<\|quote\|>Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.</\|quote\|>"I do ask you." "Well, then: there were things in	sank down on the sofa again, crouching among the festive ripples of her dress like a stricken masquerader; and the young man stood by the fireplace and continued to gaze at her without moving. "Good God," he groaned. "When I thought--" "You thought?" "Ah, don't ask me what I thought!"<\|quote\|>Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.</\|quote\|>"I do ask you." "Well, then: there were things in that letter you asked me to read--" "My husband's letter?" "Yes." "I had nothing to fear from that letter: absolutely nothing! All I feared was to bring notoriety, scandal, on the family--on you and May." "Good God," he groaned again,	scandal? And because my family was going to be your family--for May's sake and for yours--I did what you told me, what you proved to me that I ought to do. Ah," she broke out with a sudden laugh, "I've made no secret of having done it for you!" She sank down on the sofa again, crouching among the festive ripples of her dress like a stricken masquerader; and the young man stood by the fireplace and continued to gaze at her without moving. "Good God," he groaned. "When I thought--" "You thought?" "Ah, don't ask me what I thought!"<\|quote\|>Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.</\|quote\|>"I do ask you." "Well, then: there were things in that letter you asked me to read--" "My husband's letter?" "Yes." "I had nothing to fear from that letter: absolutely nothing! All I feared was to bring notoriety, scandal, on the family--on you and May." "Good God," he groaned again, bowing his face in his hands. The silence that followed lay on them with the weight of things final and irrevocable. It seemed to Archer to be crushing him down like his own grave-stone; in all the wide future he saw nothing that would ever lift that load from his	of us?" She looked at him with unfeigned astonishment. "And you say that--when it's you who've made it impossible?" He stared at her, groping in a blackness through which a single arrow of light tore its blinding way. "I'VE made it impossible--?" "You, you, YOU!" she cried, her lip trembling like a child's on the verge of tears. "Isn't it you who made me give up divorcing--give it up because you showed me how selfish and wicked it was, how one must sacrifice one's self to preserve the dignity of marriage ... and to spare one's family the publicity, the scandal? And because my family was going to be your family--for May's sake and for yours--I did what you told me, what you proved to me that I ought to do. Ah," she broke out with a sudden laugh, "I've made no secret of having done it for you!" She sank down on the sofa again, crouching among the festive ripples of her dress like a stricken masquerader; and the young man stood by the fireplace and continued to gaze at her without moving. "Good God," he groaned. "When I thought--" "You thought?" "Ah, don't ask me what I thought!"<\|quote\|>Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.</\|quote\|>"I do ask you." "Well, then: there were things in that letter you asked me to read--" "My husband's letter?" "Yes." "I had nothing to fear from that letter: absolutely nothing! All I feared was to bring notoriety, scandal, on the family--on you and May." "Good God," he groaned again, bowing his face in his hands. The silence that followed lay on them with the weight of things final and irrevocable. It seemed to Archer to be crushing him down like his own grave-stone; in all the wide future he saw nothing that would ever lift that load from his heart. He did not move from his place, or raise his head from his hands; his hidden eyeballs went on staring into utter darkness. "At least I loved you--" he brought out. On the other side of the hearth, from the sofa-corner where he supposed that she still crouched, he heard a faint stifled crying like a child's. He started up and came to her side. "Ellen! What madness! Why are you crying? Nothing's done that can't be undone. I'm still free, and you're going to be." He had her in his arms, her face like a wet flower at	lonely. Why not come with me?" Archer felt that at any cost he must keep her beside him, must make her give him the rest of her evening. Ignoring her question, he continued to lean against the chimney-piece, his eyes fixed on the hand in which she held her gloves and fan, as if watching to see if he had the power to make her drop them. "May guessed the truth," he said. "There is another woman--but not the one she thinks." Ellen Olenska made no answer, and did not move. After a moment he sat down beside her, and, taking her hand, softly unclasped it, so that the gloves and fan fell on the sofa between them. She started up, and freeing herself from him moved away to the other side of the hearth. "Ah, don't make love to me! Too many people have done that," she said, frowning. Archer, changing colour, stood up also: it was the bitterest rebuke she could have given him. "I have never made love to you," he said, "and I never shall. But you are the woman I would have married if it had been possible for either of us." "Possible for either of us?" She looked at him with unfeigned astonishment. "And you say that--when it's you who've made it impossible?" He stared at her, groping in a blackness through which a single arrow of light tore its blinding way. "I'VE made it impossible--?" "You, you, YOU!" she cried, her lip trembling like a child's on the verge of tears. "Isn't it you who made me give up divorcing--give it up because you showed me how selfish and wicked it was, how one must sacrifice one's self to preserve the dignity of marriage ... and to spare one's family the publicity, the scandal? And because my family was going to be your family--for May's sake and for yours--I did what you told me, what you proved to me that I ought to do. Ah," she broke out with a sudden laugh, "I've made no secret of having done it for you!" She sank down on the sofa again, crouching among the festive ripples of her dress like a stricken masquerader; and the young man stood by the fireplace and continued to gaze at her without moving. "Good God," he groaned. "When I thought--" "You thought?" "Ah, don't ask me what I thought!"<\|quote\|>Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.</\|quote\|>"I do ask you." "Well, then: there were things in that letter you asked me to read--" "My husband's letter?" "Yes." "I had nothing to fear from that letter: absolutely nothing! All I feared was to bring notoriety, scandal, on the family--on you and May." "Good God," he groaned again, bowing his face in his hands. The silence that followed lay on them with the weight of things final and irrevocable. It seemed to Archer to be crushing him down like his own grave-stone; in all the wide future he saw nothing that would ever lift that load from his heart. He did not move from his place, or raise his head from his hands; his hidden eyeballs went on staring into utter darkness. "At least I loved you--" he brought out. On the other side of the hearth, from the sofa-corner where he supposed that she still crouched, he heard a faint stifled crying like a child's. He started up and came to her side. "Ellen! What madness! Why are you crying? Nothing's done that can't be undone. I'm still free, and you're going to be." He had her in his arms, her face like a wet flower at his lips, and all their vain terrors shrivelling up like ghosts at sunrise. The one thing that astonished him now was that he should have stood for five minutes arguing with her across the width of the room, when just touching her made everything so simple. She gave him back all his kiss, but after a moment he felt her stiffening in his arms, and she put him aside and stood up. "Ah, my poor Newland--I suppose this had to be. But it doesn't in the least alter things," she said, looking down at him in her turn from the hearth. "It alters the whole of life for me." "No, no--it mustn't, it can't. You're engaged to May Welland; and I'm married." He stood up too, flushed and resolute. "Nonsense! It's too late for that sort of thing. We've no right to lie to other people or to ourselves. We won't talk of your marriage; but do you see me marrying May after this?" She stood silent, resting her thin elbows on the mantelpiece, her profile reflected in the glass behind her. One of the locks of her chignon had become loosened and hung on her neck; she looked haggard	all, she had perhaps purposely deflected the conversation from her own affairs, and after the pain his last words had evidently caused her he felt that all he could do was to follow her lead. But the sense of the waning hour made him desperate: he could not bear the thought that a barrier of words should drop between them again. "Yes," he said abruptly; "I went south to ask May to marry me after Easter. There's no reason why we shouldn't be married then." "And May adores you--and yet you couldn't convince her? I thought her too intelligent to be the slave of such absurd superstitions." "She IS too intelligent--she's not their slave." Madame Olenska looked at him. "Well, then--I don't understand." Archer reddened, and hurried on with a rush. "We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign." "Merciful heavens--a bad sign?" "She thinks it means that I can't trust myself to go on caring for her. She thinks, in short, I want to marry her at once to get away from some one that I--care for more." Madame Olenska examined this curiously. "But if she thinks that--why isn't she in a hurry too?" "Because she's not like that: she's so much nobler. She insists all the more on the long engagement, to give me time--" "Time to give her up for the other woman?" "If I want to." Madame Olenska leaned toward the fire and gazed into it with fixed eyes. Down the quiet street Archer heard the approaching trot of her horses. "That IS noble," she said, with a slight break in her voice. "Yes. But it's ridiculous." "Ridiculous? Because you don't care for any one else?" "Because I don't mean to marry any one else." "Ah." There was another long interval. At length she looked up at him and asked: "This other woman--does she love you?" "Oh, there's no other woman; I mean, the person that May was thinking of is--was never--" "Then, why, after all, are you in such haste?" "There's your carriage," said Archer. She half-rose and looked about her with absent eyes. Her fan and gloves lay on the sofa beside her and she picked them up mechanically. "Yes; I suppose I must be going." "You're going to Mrs. Struthers's?" "Yes." She smiled and added: "I must go where I am invited, or I should be too lonely. Why not come with me?" Archer felt that at any cost he must keep her beside him, must make her give him the rest of her evening. Ignoring her question, he continued to lean against the chimney-piece, his eyes fixed on the hand in which she held her gloves and fan, as if watching to see if he had the power to make her drop them. "May guessed the truth," he said. "There is another woman--but not the one she thinks." Ellen Olenska made no answer, and did not move. After a moment he sat down beside her, and, taking her hand, softly unclasped it, so that the gloves and fan fell on the sofa between them. She started up, and freeing herself from him moved away to the other side of the hearth. "Ah, don't make love to me! Too many people have done that," she said, frowning. Archer, changing colour, stood up also: it was the bitterest rebuke she could have given him. "I have never made love to you," he said, "and I never shall. But you are the woman I would have married if it had been possible for either of us." "Possible for either of us?" She looked at him with unfeigned astonishment. "And you say that--when it's you who've made it impossible?" He stared at her, groping in a blackness through which a single arrow of light tore its blinding way. "I'VE made it impossible--?" "You, you, YOU!" she cried, her lip trembling like a child's on the verge of tears. "Isn't it you who made me give up divorcing--give it up because you showed me how selfish and wicked it was, how one must sacrifice one's self to preserve the dignity of marriage ... and to spare one's family the publicity, the scandal? And because my family was going to be your family--for May's sake and for yours--I did what you told me, what you proved to me that I ought to do. Ah," she broke out with a sudden laugh, "I've made no secret of having done it for you!" She sank down on the sofa again, crouching among the festive ripples of her dress like a stricken masquerader; and the young man stood by the fireplace and continued to gaze at her without moving. "Good God," he groaned. "When I thought--" "You thought?" "Ah, don't ask me what I thought!"<\|quote\|>Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.</\|quote\|>"I do ask you." "Well, then: there were things in that letter you asked me to read--" "My husband's letter?" "Yes." "I had nothing to fear from that letter: absolutely nothing! All I feared was to bring notoriety, scandal, on the family--on you and May." "Good God," he groaned again, bowing his face in his hands. The silence that followed lay on them with the weight of things final and irrevocable. It seemed to Archer to be crushing him down like his own grave-stone; in all the wide future he saw nothing that would ever lift that load from his heart. He did not move from his place, or raise his head from his hands; his hidden eyeballs went on staring into utter darkness. "At least I loved you--" he brought out. On the other side of the hearth, from the sofa-corner where he supposed that she still crouched, he heard a faint stifled crying like a child's. He started up and came to her side. "Ellen! What madness! Why are you crying? Nothing's done that can't be undone. I'm still free, and you're going to be." He had her in his arms, her face like a wet flower at his lips, and all their vain terrors shrivelling up like ghosts at sunrise. The one thing that astonished him now was that he should have stood for five minutes arguing with her across the width of the room, when just touching her made everything so simple. She gave him back all his kiss, but after a moment he felt her stiffening in his arms, and she put him aside and stood up. "Ah, my poor Newland--I suppose this had to be. But it doesn't in the least alter things," she said, looking down at him in her turn from the hearth. "It alters the whole of life for me." "No, no--it mustn't, it can't. You're engaged to May Welland; and I'm married." He stood up too, flushed and resolute. "Nonsense! It's too late for that sort of thing. We've no right to lie to other people or to ourselves. We won't talk of your marriage; but do you see me marrying May after this?" She stood silent, resting her thin elbows on the mantelpiece, her profile reflected in the glass behind her. One of the locks of her chignon had become loosened and hung on her neck; she looked haggard and almost old. "I don't see you," she said at length, "putting that question to May. Do you?" He gave a reckless shrug. "It's too late to do anything else." "You say that because it's the easiest thing to say at this moment--not because it's true. In reality it's too late to do anything but what we'd both decided on." "Ah, I don't understand you!" She forced a pitiful smile that pinched her face instead of smoothing it. "You don't understand because you haven't yet guessed how you've changed things for me: oh, from the first--long before I knew all you'd done." "All I'd done?" "Yes. I was perfectly unconscious at first that people here were shy of me--that they thought I was a dreadful sort of person. It seems they had even refused to meet me at dinner. I found that out afterward; and how you'd made your mother go with you to the van der Luydens'; and how you'd insisted on announcing your engagement at the Beaufort ball, so that I might have two families to stand by me instead of one--" At that he broke into a laugh. "Just imagine," she said, "how stupid and unobservant I was! I knew nothing of all this till Granny blurted it out one day. New York simply meant peace and freedom to me: it was coming home. And I was so happy at being among my own people that every one I met seemed kind and good, and glad to see me. But from the very beginning," she continued, "I felt there was no one as kind as you; no one who gave me reasons that I understood for doing what at first seemed so hard and--unnecessary. The very good people didn't convince me; I felt they'd never been tempted. But you knew; you understood; you had felt the world outside tugging at one with all its golden hands--and yet you hated the things it asks of one; you hated happiness bought by disloyalty and cruelty and indifference. That was what I'd never known before--and it's better than anything I've known." She spoke in a low even voice, without tears or visible agitation; and each word, as it dropped from her, fell into his breast like burning lead. He sat bowed over, his head between his hands, staring at the hearthrug, and at the tip of the satin shoe that	fan fell on the sofa between them. She started up, and freeing herself from him moved away to the other side of the hearth. "Ah, don't make love to me! Too many people have done that," she said, frowning. Archer, changing colour, stood up also: it was the bitterest rebuke she could have given him. "I have never made love to you," he said, "and I never shall. But you are the woman I would have married if it had been possible for either of us." "Possible for either of us?" She looked at him with unfeigned astonishment. "And you say that--when it's you who've made it impossible?" He stared at her, groping in a blackness through which a single arrow of light tore its blinding way. "I'VE made it impossible--?" "You, you, YOU!" she cried, her lip trembling like a child's on the verge of tears. "Isn't it you who made me give up divorcing--give it up because you showed me how selfish and wicked it was, how one must sacrifice one's self to preserve the dignity of marriage ... and to spare one's family the publicity, the scandal? And because my family was going to be your family--for May's sake and for yours--I did what you told me, what you proved to me that I ought to do. Ah," she broke out with a sudden laugh, "I've made no secret of having done it for you!" She sank down on the sofa again, crouching among the festive ripples of her dress like a stricken masquerader; and the young man stood by the fireplace and continued to gaze at her without moving. "Good God," he groaned. "When I thought--" "You thought?" "Ah, don't ask me what I thought!"<\|quote\|>Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.</\|quote\|>"I do ask you." "Well, then: there were things in that letter you asked me to read--" "My husband's letter?" "Yes." "I had nothing to fear from that letter: absolutely nothing! All I feared was to bring notoriety, scandal, on the family--on you and May." "Good God," he groaned again, bowing his face in his hands. The silence that followed lay on them with the weight of things final and irrevocable. It seemed to Archer to be crushing him down like his own grave-stone; in all the wide future he saw nothing that would ever lift that load from his heart. He did not move from his place, or raise his head from his hands; his hidden eyeballs went on staring into utter darkness. "At least I loved you--" he brought out. On the other side of the hearth, from the sofa-corner where he supposed that she still crouched, he heard a faint stifled crying like a child's. He started up and came to her side. "Ellen! What madness! Why are you crying? Nothing's done that can't be undone. I'm still free, and you're going to be." He had her in his arms, her face like a wet flower at his lips, and all their vain terrors shrivelling up like ghosts at sunrise. The one thing that astonished him now was that he should have stood for five minutes arguing with her across the width of the room, when just touching her made everything so simple. She gave him back all his kiss, but after a moment he felt her stiffening in his arms, and she put him aside and stood up. "Ah, my poor Newland--I suppose this had to be. But it doesn't in the least alter things," she said, looking down at him in her turn from the hearth. "It alters the whole of life for me." "No, no--it mustn't, it can't. You're engaged to May Welland; and I'm married." He stood up too, flushed and resolute. "Nonsense! It's too late for that sort of thing. We've no right to lie to other people or to ourselves. We won't talk of your marriage; but do you see me marrying May after this?" She stood silent, resting her thin elbows on the mantelpiece, her profile reflected in the glass behind her. One of the locks of her chignon had become loosened and hung on her neck; she looked haggard and almost old. "I don't see you," she said at length, "putting that question to May. Do you?" He gave a reckless shrug. "It's too late to do anything else." "You say that because it's the easiest thing to say at this moment--not because it's true. In reality it's too late to do anything but what we'd both decided on." "Ah, I don't understand you!" She forced a pitiful smile that pinched her face instead of smoothing it. "You don't understand because you haven't yet guessed how you've changed things for me: oh, from the first--long before I knew all you'd done." "All I'd done?" "Yes. I was perfectly unconscious at first that people here were shy of me--that they thought I was a dreadful sort of person. It seems they had even refused to meet me at dinner. I found that out afterward; and how you'd made your mother go with you to the	The Age Of Innocence
"You see"	Katharine Hilbery	worth doing nowadays," she remarked.<\|quote\|>"You see"</\|quote\|>she tapped the volume of	"Nobody ever does do anything worth doing nowadays," she remarked.<\|quote\|>"You see"</\|quote\|>she tapped the volume of her grandfather s poems "we	himself, but at the same time she wished to annoy him, to waft him away from her on some light current of ridicule or satire, as she was wont to do with these intermittent young men of her father s. "Nobody ever does do anything worth doing nowadays," she remarked.<\|quote\|>"You see"</\|quote\|>she tapped the volume of her grandfather s poems "we don t even print as well as they did, and as for poets or painters or novelists there are none; so, at any rate, I m not singular." "No, we haven t any great men," Denham replied. "I m very	you do anything yourself?" he demanded. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I don t leave the house at ten and come back at six." "I don t mean that." Mr. Denham had recovered his self-control; he spoke with a quietness which made Katharine rather anxious that he should explain himself, but at the same time she wished to annoy him, to waft him away from her on some light current of ridicule or satire, as she was wont to do with these intermittent young men of her father s. "Nobody ever does do anything worth doing nowadays," she remarked.<\|quote\|>"You see"</\|quote\|>she tapped the volume of her grandfather s poems "we don t even print as well as they did, and as for poets or painters or novelists there are none; so, at any rate, I m not singular." "No, we haven t any great men," Denham replied. "I m very glad that we haven t. I hate great men. The worship of greatness in the nineteenth century seems to me to explain the worthlessness of that generation." Katharine opened her lips and drew in her breath, as if to reply with equal vigor, when the shutting of a door in	a little stiffly, "but I suppose you have to show people round. You are writing a life of your grandfather, aren t you? And this kind of thing" he nodded towards the other room, where they could hear bursts of cultivated laughter "must take up a lot of time." She looked at him expectantly, as if between them they were decorating a small figure of herself, and she saw him hesitating in the disposition of some bow or sash. "You ve got it very nearly right," she said, "but I only help my mother. I don t write myself." "Do you do anything yourself?" he demanded. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I don t leave the house at ten and come back at six." "I don t mean that." Mr. Denham had recovered his self-control; he spoke with a quietness which made Katharine rather anxious that he should explain himself, but at the same time she wished to annoy him, to waft him away from her on some light current of ridicule or satire, as she was wont to do with these intermittent young men of her father s. "Nobody ever does do anything worth doing nowadays," she remarked.<\|quote\|>"You see"</\|quote\|>she tapped the volume of her grandfather s poems "we don t even print as well as they did, and as for poets or painters or novelists there are none; so, at any rate, I m not singular." "No, we haven t any great men," Denham replied. "I m very glad that we haven t. I hate great men. The worship of greatness in the nineteenth century seems to me to explain the worthlessness of that generation." Katharine opened her lips and drew in her breath, as if to reply with equal vigor, when the shutting of a door in the next room withdrew her attention, and they both became conscious that the voices, which had been rising and falling round the tea-table, had fallen silent; the light, even, seemed to have sunk lower. A moment later Mrs. Hilbery appeared in the doorway of the ante-room. She stood looking at them with a smile of expectancy on her face, as if a scene from the drama of the younger generation were being played for her benefit. She was a remarkable-looking woman, well advanced in the sixties, but owing to the lightness of her frame and the brightness of her eyes	he replied, as if he were saying what he thought as accurately as he could. "No, but one never would like to be any one else." "I should. I should like to be lots of other people." "Then why not us?" Katharine asked. Denham looked at her as she sat in her grandfather s arm-chair, drawing her great-uncle s malacca cane smoothly through her fingers, while her background was made up equally of lustrous blue-and-white paint, and crimson books with gilt lines on them. The vitality and composure of her attitude, as of a bright-plumed bird poised easily before further flights, roused him to show her the limitations of her lot. So soon, so easily, would he be forgotten. "You ll never know anything at first hand," he began, almost savagely. "It s all been done for you. You ll never know the pleasure of buying things after saving up for them, or reading books for the first time, or making discoveries." "Go on," Katharine observed, as he paused, suddenly doubtful, when he heard his voice proclaiming aloud these facts, whether there was any truth in them. "Of course, I don t know how you spend your time," he continued, a little stiffly, "but I suppose you have to show people round. You are writing a life of your grandfather, aren t you? And this kind of thing" he nodded towards the other room, where they could hear bursts of cultivated laughter "must take up a lot of time." She looked at him expectantly, as if between them they were decorating a small figure of herself, and she saw him hesitating in the disposition of some bow or sash. "You ve got it very nearly right," she said, "but I only help my mother. I don t write myself." "Do you do anything yourself?" he demanded. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I don t leave the house at ten and come back at six." "I don t mean that." Mr. Denham had recovered his self-control; he spoke with a quietness which made Katharine rather anxious that he should explain himself, but at the same time she wished to annoy him, to waft him away from her on some light current of ridicule or satire, as she was wont to do with these intermittent young men of her father s. "Nobody ever does do anything worth doing nowadays," she remarked.<\|quote\|>"You see"</\|quote\|>she tapped the volume of her grandfather s poems "we don t even print as well as they did, and as for poets or painters or novelists there are none; so, at any rate, I m not singular." "No, we haven t any great men," Denham replied. "I m very glad that we haven t. I hate great men. The worship of greatness in the nineteenth century seems to me to explain the worthlessness of that generation." Katharine opened her lips and drew in her breath, as if to reply with equal vigor, when the shutting of a door in the next room withdrew her attention, and they both became conscious that the voices, which had been rising and falling round the tea-table, had fallen silent; the light, even, seemed to have sunk lower. A moment later Mrs. Hilbery appeared in the doorway of the ante-room. She stood looking at them with a smile of expectancy on her face, as if a scene from the drama of the younger generation were being played for her benefit. She was a remarkable-looking woman, well advanced in the sixties, but owing to the lightness of her frame and the brightness of her eyes she seemed to have been wafted over the surface of the years without taking much harm in the passage. Her face was shrunken and aquiline, but any hint of sharpness was dispelled by the large blue eyes, at once sagacious and innocent, which seemed to regard the world with an enormous desire that it should behave itself nobly, and an entire confidence that it could do so, if it would only take the pains. Certain lines on the broad forehead and about the lips might be taken to suggest that she had known moments of some difficulty and perplexity in the course of her career, but these had not destroyed her trustfulness, and she was clearly still prepared to give every one any number of fresh chances and the whole system the benefit of the doubt. She wore a great resemblance to her father, and suggested, as he did, the fresh airs and open spaces of a younger world. "Well," she said, "how do you like our things, Mr. Denham?" Mr. Denham rose, put his book down, opened his mouth, but said nothing, as Katharine observed, with some amusement. Mrs. Hilbery handled the book he had laid down. "There are	peculiarly provoking way. He was amused and gratified to find that he had the power to annoy his oblivious, supercilious hostess, if he could not impress her; though he would have preferred to impress her. He sat silent, holding the precious little book of poems unopened in his hands, and Katharine watched him, the melancholy or contemplative expression deepening in her eyes as her annoyance faded. She appeared to be considering many things. She had forgotten her duties. "Well," said Denham again, suddenly opening the little book of poems, as though he had said all that he meant to say or could, with propriety, say. He turned over the pages with great decision, as if he were judging the book in its entirety, the printing and paper and binding, as well as the poetry, and then, having satisfied himself of its good or bad quality, he placed it on the writing-table, and examined the malacca cane with the gold knob which had belonged to the soldier. "But aren t you proud of your family?" Katharine demanded. "No," said Denham. "We ve never done anything to be proud of unless you count paying one s bills a matter for pride." "That sounds rather dull," Katharine remarked. "You would think us horribly dull," Denham agreed. "Yes, I might find you dull, but I don t think I should find you ridiculous," Katharine added, as if Denham had actually brought that charge against her family. "No because we re not in the least ridiculous. We re a respectable middle-class family, living at Highgate." "We don t live at Highgate, but we re middle class too, I suppose." Denham merely smiled, and replacing the malacca cane on the rack, he drew a sword from its ornamental sheath. "That belonged to Clive, so we say," said Katharine, taking up her duties as hostess again automatically. "Is it a lie?" Denham inquired. "It s a family tradition. I don t know that we can prove it." "You see, we don t have traditions in our family," said Denham. "You sound very dull," Katharine remarked, for the second time. "Merely middle class," Denham replied. "You pay your bills, and you speak the truth. I don t see why you should despise us." Mr. Denham carefully sheathed the sword which the Hilberys said belonged to Clive. "I shouldn t like to be you; that s all I said," he replied, as if he were saying what he thought as accurately as he could. "No, but one never would like to be any one else." "I should. I should like to be lots of other people." "Then why not us?" Katharine asked. Denham looked at her as she sat in her grandfather s arm-chair, drawing her great-uncle s malacca cane smoothly through her fingers, while her background was made up equally of lustrous blue-and-white paint, and crimson books with gilt lines on them. The vitality and composure of her attitude, as of a bright-plumed bird poised easily before further flights, roused him to show her the limitations of her lot. So soon, so easily, would he be forgotten. "You ll never know anything at first hand," he began, almost savagely. "It s all been done for you. You ll never know the pleasure of buying things after saving up for them, or reading books for the first time, or making discoveries." "Go on," Katharine observed, as he paused, suddenly doubtful, when he heard his voice proclaiming aloud these facts, whether there was any truth in them. "Of course, I don t know how you spend your time," he continued, a little stiffly, "but I suppose you have to show people round. You are writing a life of your grandfather, aren t you? And this kind of thing" he nodded towards the other room, where they could hear bursts of cultivated laughter "must take up a lot of time." She looked at him expectantly, as if between them they were decorating a small figure of herself, and she saw him hesitating in the disposition of some bow or sash. "You ve got it very nearly right," she said, "but I only help my mother. I don t write myself." "Do you do anything yourself?" he demanded. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I don t leave the house at ten and come back at six." "I don t mean that." Mr. Denham had recovered his self-control; he spoke with a quietness which made Katharine rather anxious that he should explain himself, but at the same time she wished to annoy him, to waft him away from her on some light current of ridicule or satire, as she was wont to do with these intermittent young men of her father s. "Nobody ever does do anything worth doing nowadays," she remarked.<\|quote\|>"You see"</\|quote\|>she tapped the volume of her grandfather s poems "we don t even print as well as they did, and as for poets or painters or novelists there are none; so, at any rate, I m not singular." "No, we haven t any great men," Denham replied. "I m very glad that we haven t. I hate great men. The worship of greatness in the nineteenth century seems to me to explain the worthlessness of that generation." Katharine opened her lips and drew in her breath, as if to reply with equal vigor, when the shutting of a door in the next room withdrew her attention, and they both became conscious that the voices, which had been rising and falling round the tea-table, had fallen silent; the light, even, seemed to have sunk lower. A moment later Mrs. Hilbery appeared in the doorway of the ante-room. She stood looking at them with a smile of expectancy on her face, as if a scene from the drama of the younger generation were being played for her benefit. She was a remarkable-looking woman, well advanced in the sixties, but owing to the lightness of her frame and the brightness of her eyes she seemed to have been wafted over the surface of the years without taking much harm in the passage. Her face was shrunken and aquiline, but any hint of sharpness was dispelled by the large blue eyes, at once sagacious and innocent, which seemed to regard the world with an enormous desire that it should behave itself nobly, and an entire confidence that it could do so, if it would only take the pains. Certain lines on the broad forehead and about the lips might be taken to suggest that she had known moments of some difficulty and perplexity in the course of her career, but these had not destroyed her trustfulness, and she was clearly still prepared to give every one any number of fresh chances and the whole system the benefit of the doubt. She wore a great resemblance to her father, and suggested, as he did, the fresh airs and open spaces of a younger world. "Well," she said, "how do you like our things, Mr. Denham?" Mr. Denham rose, put his book down, opened his mouth, but said nothing, as Katharine observed, with some amusement. Mrs. Hilbery handled the book he had laid down. "There are some books that _live_," she mused. "They are young with us, and they grow old with us. Are you fond of poetry, Mr. Denham? But what an absurd question to ask! The truth is, dear Mr. Fortescue has almost tired me out. He is so eloquent and so witty, so searching and so profound that, after half an hour or so, I feel inclined to turn out all the lights. But perhaps he d be more wonderful than ever in the dark. What d you think, Katharine? Shall we give a little party in complete darkness? There d have to be bright rooms for the bores...." Here Mr. Denham held out his hand. "But we ve any number of things to show you!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed, taking no notice of it. "Books, pictures, china, manuscripts, and the very chair that Mary Queen of Scots sat in when she heard of Darnley s murder. I must lie down for a little, and Katharine must change her dress (though she s wearing a very pretty one), but if you don t mind being left alone, supper will be at eight. I dare say you ll write a poem of your own while you re waiting. Ah, how I love the firelight! Doesn t our room look charming?" She stepped back and bade them contemplate the empty drawing-room, with its rich, irregular lights, as the flames leapt and wavered. "Dear things!" she exclaimed. "Dear chairs and tables! How like old friends they are faithful, silent friends. Which reminds me, Katharine, little Mr. Anning is coming to-night, and Tite Street, and Cadogan Square.... Do remember to get that drawing of your great-uncle glazed. Aunt Millicent remarked it last time she was here, and I know how it would hurt me to see _my_ father in a broken glass." It was like tearing through a maze of diamond-glittering spiders webs to say good-bye and escape, for at each movement Mrs. Hilbery remembered something further about the villainies of picture-framers or the delights of poetry, and at one time it seemed to the young man that he would be hypnotized into doing what she pretended to want him to do, for he could not suppose that she attached any value whatever to his presence. Katharine, however, made an opportunity for him to leave, and for that he was grateful to her, as one young person is	s all I said," he replied, as if he were saying what he thought as accurately as he could. "No, but one never would like to be any one else." "I should. I should like to be lots of other people." "Then why not us?" Katharine asked. Denham looked at her as she sat in her grandfather s arm-chair, drawing her great-uncle s malacca cane smoothly through her fingers, while her background was made up equally of lustrous blue-and-white paint, and crimson books with gilt lines on them. The vitality and composure of her attitude, as of a bright-plumed bird poised easily before further flights, roused him to show her the limitations of her lot. So soon, so easily, would he be forgotten. "You ll never know anything at first hand," he began, almost savagely. "It s all been done for you. You ll never know the pleasure of buying things after saving up for them, or reading books for the first time, or making discoveries." "Go on," Katharine observed, as he paused, suddenly doubtful, when he heard his voice proclaiming aloud these facts, whether there was any truth in them. "Of course, I don t know how you spend your time," he continued, a little stiffly, "but I suppose you have to show people round. You are writing a life of your grandfather, aren t you? And this kind of thing" he nodded towards the other room, where they could hear bursts of cultivated laughter "must take up a lot of time." She looked at him expectantly, as if between them they were decorating a small figure of herself, and she saw him hesitating in the disposition of some bow or sash. "You ve got it very nearly right," she said, "but I only help my mother. I don t write myself." "Do you do anything yourself?" he demanded. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I don t leave the house at ten and come back at six." "I don t mean that." Mr. Denham had recovered his self-control; he spoke with a quietness which made Katharine rather anxious that he should explain himself, but at the same time she wished to annoy him, to waft him away from her on some light current of ridicule or satire, as she was wont to do with these intermittent young men of her father s. "Nobody ever does do anything worth doing nowadays," she remarked.<\|quote\|>"You see"</\|quote\|>she tapped the volume of her grandfather s poems "we don t even print as well as they did, and as for poets or painters or novelists there are none; so, at any rate, I m not singular." "No, we haven t any great men," Denham replied. "I m very glad that we haven t. I hate great men. The worship of greatness in the nineteenth century seems to me to explain the worthlessness of that generation." Katharine opened her lips and drew in her breath, as if to reply with equal vigor, when the shutting of a door in the next room withdrew her attention, and they both became conscious that the voices, which had been rising and falling round the tea-table, had fallen silent; the light, even, seemed to have sunk lower. A moment later Mrs. Hilbery appeared in the doorway of the ante-room. She stood looking at them with a smile of expectancy on her face, as if a scene from the drama of the younger generation were being played for her benefit. She was a remarkable-looking woman, well advanced in the sixties, but owing to the lightness of her frame and the brightness of her eyes she seemed to have been wafted over the surface of the years without taking much harm in the passage. Her face was shrunken and aquiline, but any hint of sharpness was dispelled by the large blue eyes, at once sagacious and innocent, which seemed to regard the world with an enormous desire that it should behave itself nobly, and an entire confidence that it could do so, if it would only take the pains. Certain lines on the broad forehead and about the lips might be taken to suggest that she had known moments of some difficulty and perplexity in the course of her career, but these had not destroyed her trustfulness, and she was clearly still prepared to give every one any number of fresh chances and the whole system the benefit of the doubt. She wore a great resemblance to her father, and suggested, as he did, the fresh airs and open spaces of a younger world. "Well," she said, "how do you like our things, Mr. Denham?" Mr. Denham rose, put his book down, opened his mouth, but said nothing, as Katharine observed, with some amusement. Mrs. Hilbery handled the book he had laid down. "There are some books that _live_," she mused. "They are young with us, and they grow old with us. Are you fond of poetry, Mr. Denham? But what an absurd question to ask! The truth is, dear Mr. Fortescue has almost tired me out. He is so eloquent and so witty, so searching and so profound that, after half an hour or so, I feel inclined to turn out all the lights. But perhaps he d be more wonderful than ever in the dark.	Night And Day
Mrs. Braddocks put in.	No speaker	you know we've revived them?"<\|quote\|>Mrs. Braddocks put in.</\|quote\|>"You must come, Jake. We're	dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?"<\|quote\|>Mrs. Braddocks put in.</\|quote\|>"You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from	a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?"<\|quote\|>Mrs. Braddocks put in.</\|quote\|>"You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and	dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!" "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?"<\|quote\|>Mrs. Braddocks put in.</\|quote\|>"You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and had all their easy social graces. "Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went back to the small room. "Who are your friends?" Georgette asked. "Writers and artists." "There are lots of those on this side of the river." "Too many." "I think so. Still, some of them make money."	restaurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the food. "It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all right." "Better than you eat in Li ge." "Brussels, you mean." We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses. "You're not a bad type," she said. "It's a shame you're sick. We get on well. What's the matter with you, anyway?" "I got hurt in the war," I said. "Oh, that dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!" "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?"<\|quote\|>Mrs. Braddocks put in.</\|quote\|>"You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and had all their easy social graces. "Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went back to the small room. "Who are your friends?" Georgette asked. "Writers and artists." "There are lots of those on this side of the river." "Too many." "I think so. Still, some of them make money." "Oh, yes." We finished the meal and the wine. "Come on," I said. "We're going to have coffee with the others." Georgette opened her bag, made a few passes at her face as she looked in the little mirror, re-defined her lips with the lipstick, and straightened her hat. "Good," she said. We went into the room full of people and Braddocks and the men at his table stood up. "I wish to present my fianc e, Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc," I said. Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round. "Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the	kissed. She touched me with one hand and I put her hand away. "Never mind." "What's the matter? You sick?" "Yes." "Everybody's sick. I'm sick, too." We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints P res. "You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick." "You neither." "It doesn't make any difference with me. It doesn't make any difference with a woman." "What are you called?" "Georgette. How are you called?" "Jacob." "That's a Flemish name." "American too." "You're not Flamand?" "No, American." "Good, I detest Flamands." By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the _cocher_ to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. "This is no great thing of a restaurant." "No," I said. "Maybe you would rather go to Foyot's. Why don't you keep the cab and go on?" I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea that it would be nice to eat with some one. It was a long time since I had dined with a _poule_, and I had forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the restaurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the food. "It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all right." "Better than you eat in Li ge." "Brussels, you mean." We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses. "You're not a bad type," she said. "It's a shame you're sick. We get on well. What's the matter with you, anyway?" "I got hurt in the war," I said. "Oh, that dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!" "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?"<\|quote\|>Mrs. Braddocks put in.</\|quote\|>"You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and had all their easy social graces. "Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went back to the small room. "Who are your friends?" Georgette asked. "Writers and artists." "There are lots of those on this side of the river." "Too many." "I think so. Still, some of them make money." "Oh, yes." We finished the meal and the wine. "Come on," I said. "We're going to have coffee with the others." Georgette opened her bag, made a few passes at her face as she looked in the little mirror, re-defined her lips with the lipstick, and straightened her hat. "Good," she said. We went into the room full of people and Braddocks and the men at his table stood up. "I wish to present my fianc e, Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc," I said. Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round. "Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the singer?" Mrs. Braddocks asked. "Connais pas," Georgette answered. "But you have the same name," Mrs. Braddocks insisted cordially. "No," said Georgette. "Not at all. My name is Hobin." "But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc. Surely he did," insisted Mrs. Braddocks, who in the excitement of talking French was liable to have no idea what she was saying. "He's a fool," Georgette said. "Oh, it was a joke, then," Mrs. Braddocks said. "Yes," said Georgette. "To laugh at." "Did you hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called down the table to Braddocks. "Mr. Barnes introduced his fianc e as Mademoiselle Leblanc, and her name is actually Hobin." "Of course, darling. Mademoiselle Hobin, I've known her for a very long time." "Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin," Frances Clyne called, speaking French very rapidly and not seeming so proud and astonished as Mrs. Braddocks at its coming out really French. "Have you been in Paris long? Do you like it here? You love Paris, do you not?" "Who's she?" Georgette turned to me. "Do I have to talk to her?" She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed ready to start talking	was a warm spring night and I sat at a table on the terrace of the Napolitain after Robert had gone, watching it get dark and the electric signs come on, and the red and green stop-and-go traffic-signal, and the crowd going by, and the horse-cabs clippety-clopping along at the edge of the solid taxi traffic, and the _poules_ going by, singly and in pairs, looking for the evening meal. I watched a good-looking girl walk past the table and watched her go up the street and lost sight of her, and watched another, and then saw the first one coming back again. She went by once more and I caught her eye, and she came over and sat down at the table. The waiter came up. "Well, what will you drink?" I asked. "Pernod." "That's not good for little girls." "Little girl yourself. Dites gar on, un pernod." "A pernod for me, too." "What's the matter?" she asked. "Going on a party?" "Sure. Aren't you?" "I don't know. You never know in this town." "Don't you like Paris?" "No." "Why don't you go somewhere else?" "Isn't anywhere else." "You're happy, all right." "Happy, hell!" Pernod is greenish imitation absinthe. When you add water it turns milky. It tastes like licorice and it has a good uplift, but it drops you just as far. We sat and drank it, and the girl looked sullen. "Well," I said, "are you going to buy me a dinner?" She grinned and I saw why she made a point of not laughing. With her mouth closed she was a rather pretty girl. I paid for the saucers and we walked out to the street. I hailed a horse-cab and the driver pulled up at the curb. Settled back in the slow, smoothly rolling _fiacre_ we moved up the Avenue de l'Op ra, passed the locked doors of the shops, their windows lighted, the Avenue broad and shiny and almost deserted. The cab passed the New York _Herald_ bureau with the window full of clocks. "What are all the clocks for?" she asked. "They show the hour all over America." "Don't kid me." We turned off the Avenue up the Rue des Pyramides, through the traffic of the Rue de Rivoli, and through a dark gate into the Tuileries. She cuddled against me and I put my arm around her. She looked up to be kissed. She touched me with one hand and I put her hand away. "Never mind." "What's the matter? You sick?" "Yes." "Everybody's sick. I'm sick, too." We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints P res. "You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick." "You neither." "It doesn't make any difference with me. It doesn't make any difference with a woman." "What are you called?" "Georgette. How are you called?" "Jacob." "That's a Flemish name." "American too." "You're not Flamand?" "No, American." "Good, I detest Flamands." By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the _cocher_ to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. "This is no great thing of a restaurant." "No," I said. "Maybe you would rather go to Foyot's. Why don't you keep the cab and go on?" I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea that it would be nice to eat with some one. It was a long time since I had dined with a _poule_, and I had forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the restaurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the food. "It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all right." "Better than you eat in Li ge." "Brussels, you mean." We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses. "You're not a bad type," she said. "It's a shame you're sick. We get on well. What's the matter with you, anyway?" "I got hurt in the war," I said. "Oh, that dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!" "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?"<\|quote\|>Mrs. Braddocks put in.</\|quote\|>"You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and had all their easy social graces. "Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went back to the small room. "Who are your friends?" Georgette asked. "Writers and artists." "There are lots of those on this side of the river." "Too many." "I think so. Still, some of them make money." "Oh, yes." We finished the meal and the wine. "Come on," I said. "We're going to have coffee with the others." Georgette opened her bag, made a few passes at her face as she looked in the little mirror, re-defined her lips with the lipstick, and straightened her hat. "Good," she said. We went into the room full of people and Braddocks and the men at his table stood up. "I wish to present my fianc e, Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc," I said. Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round. "Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the singer?" Mrs. Braddocks asked. "Connais pas," Georgette answered. "But you have the same name," Mrs. Braddocks insisted cordially. "No," said Georgette. "Not at all. My name is Hobin." "But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc. Surely he did," insisted Mrs. Braddocks, who in the excitement of talking French was liable to have no idea what she was saying. "He's a fool," Georgette said. "Oh, it was a joke, then," Mrs. Braddocks said. "Yes," said Georgette. "To laugh at." "Did you hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called down the table to Braddocks. "Mr. Barnes introduced his fianc e as Mademoiselle Leblanc, and her name is actually Hobin." "Of course, darling. Mademoiselle Hobin, I've known her for a very long time." "Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin," Frances Clyne called, speaking French very rapidly and not seeming so proud and astonished as Mrs. Braddocks at its coming out really French. "Have you been in Paris long? Do you like it here? You love Paris, do you not?" "Who's she?" Georgette turned to me. "Do I have to talk to her?" She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed ready to start talking again. "No, I don't like Paris. It's expensive and dirty." "Really? I find it so extraordinarily clean. One of the cleanest cities in all Europe." "I find it dirty." "How strange! But perhaps you have not been here very long." "I've been here long enough." "But it does have nice people in it. One must grant that." Georgette turned to me. "You have nice friends." Frances was a little drunk and would have liked to have kept it up but the coffee came, and Lavigne with the liqueurs, and after that we all went out and started for Braddocks's dancing-club. The dancing-club was a _bal musette_ in the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevi ve. Five nights a week the working people of the Pantheon quarter danced there. One night a week it was the dancing-club. On Monday nights it was closed. When we arrived it was quite empty, except for a policeman sitting near the door, the wife of the proprietor back of the zinc bar, and the proprietor himself. The daughter of the house came downstairs as we went in. There were long benches, and tables ran across the room, and at the far end a dancing-floor. "I wish people would come earlier," Braddocks said. The daughter came up and wanted to know what we would drink. The proprietor got up on a high stool beside the dancing-floor and began to play the accordion. He had a string of bells around one of his ankles and beat time with his foot as he played. Every one danced. It was hot and we came off the floor perspiring. "My God," Georgette said. "What a box to sweat in!" "It's hot." "Hot, my God!" "Take off your hat." "That's a good idea." Some one asked Georgette to dance, and I went over to the bar. It was really very hot and the accordion music was pleasant in the hot night. I drank a beer, standing in the doorway and getting the cool breath of wind from the street. Two taxis were coming down the steep street. They both stopped in front of the Bal. A crowd of young men, some in jerseys and some in their shirt-sleeves, got out. I could see their hands and newly washed, wavy hair in the light from the door. The policeman standing by the door looked at me and smiled. They came in. As	and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints P res. "You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick." "You neither." "It doesn't make any difference with me. It doesn't make any difference with a woman." "What are you called?" "Georgette. How are you called?" "Jacob." "That's a Flemish name." "American too." "You're not Flamand?" "No, American." "Good, I detest Flamands." By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the _cocher_ to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. "This is no great thing of a restaurant." "No," I said. "Maybe you would rather go to Foyot's. Why don't you keep the cab and go on?" I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea that it would be nice to eat with some one. It was a long time since I had dined with a _poule_, and I had forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the restaurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the food. "It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all right." "Better than you eat in Li ge." "Brussels, you mean." We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses. "You're not a bad type," she said. "It's a shame you're sick. We get on well. What's the matter with you, anyway?" "I got hurt in the war," I said. "Oh, that dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!" "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?"<\|quote\|>Mrs. Braddocks put in.</\|quote\|>"You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and had all their easy social graces. "Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went back to the small room. "Who are your friends?" Georgette asked. "Writers and artists." "There are lots of those on this side of the river." "Too many." "I think so. Still, some of them make money." "Oh, yes." We finished the meal and the wine. "Come on," I said. "We're going to have coffee with the others." Georgette opened her bag, made a few passes at her face as she looked in the little mirror, re-defined her lips with the lipstick, and straightened her hat. "Good," she said. We went into the room full of people and Braddocks and the men at his table stood up. "I wish to present my fianc e, Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc," I said. Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round. "Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the singer?" Mrs. Braddocks asked. "Connais pas," Georgette answered. "But you have the same name," Mrs. Braddocks insisted cordially. "No," said Georgette. "Not at all. My name is Hobin." "But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc. Surely he did," insisted Mrs. Braddocks, who in the excitement of talking French was liable to have no idea what she was saying. "He's a fool," Georgette said. "Oh, it was a joke, then," Mrs. Braddocks said. "Yes," said Georgette. "To laugh at." "Did you hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called down the table to Braddocks. "Mr. Barnes introduced his fianc e as Mademoiselle Leblanc, and her name is actually Hobin." "Of course, darling. Mademoiselle Hobin, I've known her for a very long time." "Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin," Frances Clyne called, speaking French very rapidly and not seeming so proud and astonished as Mrs. Braddocks at its coming out really French. "Have you been in Paris long? Do you like it here? You love Paris, do you not?" "Who's she?" Georgette turned to me. "Do I have to talk to her?" She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed ready to start talking again. "No, I don't like Paris. It's expensive and dirty." "Really? I find it so extraordinarily clean. One of the cleanest cities in all Europe." "I find it dirty." "How strange! But perhaps you have not been here very long." "I've been here long enough." "But it does have nice people in it. One must grant that." Georgette turned to me. "You have nice friends." Frances was a little drunk and would have liked to have kept it up but the coffee came, and Lavigne with the liqueurs, and after that we all went out and started for Braddocks's dancing-club. The dancing-club was a _bal musette_ in the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevi ve. Five nights a week the working people of the Pantheon quarter danced there. One night a week it was the dancing-club. On Monday nights it was closed. When we arrived it was quite	The Sun Also Rises
"Light him down,"	Bill Sikes	him down the dark stairs.<\|quote\|>"Light him down,"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, who was filling	asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.<\|quote\|>"Light him down,"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. "It's a pity	in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.<\|quote\|>"Light him down,"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. "It's a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light." Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the	swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed her head; and, after a little time, burst out laughing. "Why, now she's on the other tack!" exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of excessive surprise on his companion. Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.<\|quote\|>"Light him down,"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. "It's a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light." Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the girl, said, in a whisper. "What is it, Nancy, dear?" "What do you mean?" replied the girl, in the same tone. "The reason of all this," replied Fagin. "If _he_" he pointed with his skinny fore-finger up the stairs "is so hard with you (he's a brute, Nance, a brute-beast),	nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment. "She was hanging about me all day, and night too, when I was stretched on my back; and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself aloof," said Sikes. "We was poor too, all the time, and I think, one way or other, it's worried and fretted her; and that being shut up here so long has made her restless eh?" "That's it, my dear," replied the Jew in a whisper. "Hush!" As he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her former seat. Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed her head; and, after a little time, burst out laughing. "Why, now she's on the other tack!" exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of excessive surprise on his companion. Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.<\|quote\|>"Light him down,"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. "It's a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light." Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the girl, said, in a whisper. "What is it, Nancy, dear?" "What do you mean?" replied the girl, in the same tone. "The reason of all this," replied Fagin. "If _he_" he pointed with his skinny fore-finger up the stairs "is so hard with you (he's a brute, Nance, a brute-beast), why don't you" "Well?" said the girl, as Fagin paused, with his mouth almost touching her ear, and his eyes looking into hers. "No matter just now. We'll talk of this again. You have a friend in me, Nance; a staunch friend. I have the means at hand, quiet and close. If you want revenge on those that treat you like a dog like a dog! worse than his dog, for he humours him sometimes come to me. I say, come to me. He is the mere hound of a day, but you know me of old, Nance." "I know	chair, held her down by force. She struggled and implored by turns until twelve o'clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the point any further. With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make no more efforts to go out that night, Sikes left her to recover at leisure and rejoined Fagin. "Whew!" said the housebreaker wiping the perspiration from his face. "Wot a precious strange gal that is!" "You may say that, Bill," replied Fagin thoughtfully. "You may say that." "Wot did she take it into her head to go out to-night for, do you think?" asked Sikes. "Come; you should know her better than me. Wot does it mean?" "Obstinacy; woman's obstinacy, I suppose, my dear." "Well, I suppose it is," growled Sikes. "I thought I had tamed her, but she's as bad as ever." "Worse," said Fagin thoughtfully. "I never knew her like this, for such a little cause." "Nor I," said Sikes. "I think she's got a touch of that fever in her blood yet, and it won't come out eh?" "Like enough." "I'll let her a little blood, without troubling the doctor, if she's took that way again," said Sikes. Fagin nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment. "She was hanging about me all day, and night too, when I was stretched on my back; and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself aloof," said Sikes. "We was poor too, all the time, and I think, one way or other, it's worried and fretted her; and that being shut up here so long has made her restless eh?" "That's it, my dear," replied the Jew in a whisper. "Hush!" As he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her former seat. Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed her head; and, after a little time, burst out laughing. "Why, now she's on the other tack!" exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of excessive surprise on his companion. Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.<\|quote\|>"Light him down,"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. "It's a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light." Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the girl, said, in a whisper. "What is it, Nancy, dear?" "What do you mean?" replied the girl, in the same tone. "The reason of all this," replied Fagin. "If _he_" he pointed with his skinny fore-finger up the stairs "is so hard with you (he's a brute, Nance, a brute-beast), why don't you" "Well?" said the girl, as Fagin paused, with his mouth almost touching her ear, and his eyes looking into hers. "No matter just now. We'll talk of this again. You have a friend in me, Nance; a staunch friend. I have the means at hand, quiet and close. If you want revenge on those that treat you like a dog like a dog! worse than his dog, for he humours him sometimes come to me. I say, come to me. He is the mere hound of a day, but you know me of old, Nance." "I know you well," replied the girl, without manifesting the least emotion. "Good-night." She shrank back, as Fagin offered to lay his hand on hers, but said good-night again, in a steady voice, and, answering his parting look with a nod of intelligence, closed the door between them. Fagin walked towards his home, intent upon the thoughts that were working within his brain. He had conceived the idea not from what had just passed though that had tended to confirm him, but slowly and by degrees that Nancy, wearied of the housebreaker's brutality, had conceived an attachment for some new friend. Her altered manner, her repeated absences from home alone, her comparative indifference to the interests of the gang for which she had once been so zealous, and, added to these, her desperate impatience to leave home that night at a particular hour, all favoured the supposition, and rendered it, to him at least, almost matter of certainty. The object of this new liking was not among his myrmidons. He would be a valuable acquisition with such an assistant as Nancy, and must (thus Fagin argued) be secured without delay. There was another, and a darker object, to be gained. Sikes knew	of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. "Nowhere. Sit down." "I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath of air." "Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes. "There's not enough there," said the girl. "I want it in the street." "Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press. "There," said the robber. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?" "It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl turning very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?" "Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out of her senses, you know, or she daren't talk to me in that way." "You'll drive me on the something desperate," muttered the girl placing both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. "Let me go, will you, this minute this instant." "No!" said Sikes. "Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It'll be better for him. Do you hear me?" cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground. "Hear you!" repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her. "Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your throat as'll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has come over you, you jade! Wot is it?" "Let me go," said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself down on the floor, before the door, she said, "Bill, let me go; you don't know what you are doing. You don't, indeed. For only one hour do do!" "Cut my limbs off one by one!" cried Sikes, seizing her roughly by the arm, "If I don't think the gal's stark raving mad. Get up." "Not till you let me go not till you let me go Never never!" screamed the girl. Sikes looked on, for a minute, watching his opportunity, and suddenly pinioning her hands dragged her, struggling and wrestling with him by the way, into a small room adjoining, where he sat himself on a bench, and thrusting her into a chair, held her down by force. She struggled and implored by turns until twelve o'clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the point any further. With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make no more efforts to go out that night, Sikes left her to recover at leisure and rejoined Fagin. "Whew!" said the housebreaker wiping the perspiration from his face. "Wot a precious strange gal that is!" "You may say that, Bill," replied Fagin thoughtfully. "You may say that." "Wot did she take it into her head to go out to-night for, do you think?" asked Sikes. "Come; you should know her better than me. Wot does it mean?" "Obstinacy; woman's obstinacy, I suppose, my dear." "Well, I suppose it is," growled Sikes. "I thought I had tamed her, but she's as bad as ever." "Worse," said Fagin thoughtfully. "I never knew her like this, for such a little cause." "Nor I," said Sikes. "I think she's got a touch of that fever in her blood yet, and it won't come out eh?" "Like enough." "I'll let her a little blood, without troubling the doctor, if she's took that way again," said Sikes. Fagin nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment. "She was hanging about me all day, and night too, when I was stretched on my back; and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself aloof," said Sikes. "We was poor too, all the time, and I think, one way or other, it's worried and fretted her; and that being shut up here so long has made her restless eh?" "That's it, my dear," replied the Jew in a whisper. "Hush!" As he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her former seat. Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed her head; and, after a little time, burst out laughing. "Why, now she's on the other tack!" exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of excessive surprise on his companion. Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.<\|quote\|>"Light him down,"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. "It's a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light." Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the girl, said, in a whisper. "What is it, Nancy, dear?" "What do you mean?" replied the girl, in the same tone. "The reason of all this," replied Fagin. "If _he_" he pointed with his skinny fore-finger up the stairs "is so hard with you (he's a brute, Nance, a brute-beast), why don't you" "Well?" said the girl, as Fagin paused, with his mouth almost touching her ear, and his eyes looking into hers. "No matter just now. We'll talk of this again. You have a friend in me, Nance; a staunch friend. I have the means at hand, quiet and close. If you want revenge on those that treat you like a dog like a dog! worse than his dog, for he humours him sometimes come to me. I say, come to me. He is the mere hound of a day, but you know me of old, Nance." "I know you well," replied the girl, without manifesting the least emotion. "Good-night." She shrank back, as Fagin offered to lay his hand on hers, but said good-night again, in a steady voice, and, answering his parting look with a nod of intelligence, closed the door between them. Fagin walked towards his home, intent upon the thoughts that were working within his brain. He had conceived the idea not from what had just passed though that had tended to confirm him, but slowly and by degrees that Nancy, wearied of the housebreaker's brutality, had conceived an attachment for some new friend. Her altered manner, her repeated absences from home alone, her comparative indifference to the interests of the gang for which she had once been so zealous, and, added to these, her desperate impatience to leave home that night at a particular hour, all favoured the supposition, and rendered it, to him at least, almost matter of certainty. The object of this new liking was not among his myrmidons. He would be a valuable acquisition with such an assistant as Nancy, and must (thus Fagin argued) be secured without delay. There was another, and a darker object, to be gained. Sikes knew too much, and his ruffian taunts had not galled Fagin the less, because the wounds were hidden. The girl must know, well, that if she shook him off, she could never be safe from his fury, and that it would be surely wreaked to the maiming of limbs, or perhaps the loss of life on the object of her more recent fancy. "With a little persuasion," thought Fagin, "what more likely than that she would consent to poison him? Women have done such things, and worse, to secure the same object before now. There would be the dangerous villain: the man I hate: gone; another secured in his place; and my influence over the girl, with a knowledge of this crime to back it, unlimited." These things passed through the mind of Fagin, during the short time he sat alone, in the housebreaker's room; and with them uppermost in his thoughts, he had taken the opportunity afterwards afforded him, of sounding the girl in the broken hints he threw out at parting. There was no expression of surprise, no assumption of an inability to understand his meaning. The girl clearly comprehended it. Her glance at parting showed _that_. But perhaps she would recoil from a plot to take the life of Sikes, and that was one of the chief ends to be attained. "How," thought Fagin, as he crept homeward, "can I increase my influence with her? What new power can I acquire?" Such brains are fertile in expedients. If, without extracting a confession from herself, he laid a watch, discovered the object of her altered regard, and threatened to reveal the whole history to Sikes (of whom she stood in no common fear) unless she entered into his designs, could he not secure her compliance? "I can," said Fagin, almost aloud. "She durst not refuse me then. Not for her life, not for her life! I have it all. The means are ready, and shall be set to work. I shall have you yet!" He cast back a dark look, and a threatening motion of the hand, towards the spot where he had left the bolder villain; and went on his way: busying his bony hands in the folds of his tattered garment, which he wrenched tightly in his grasp, as though there were a hated enemy crushed with every motion of his fingers. CHAPTER XLV. NOAH CLAYPOLE IS	thoughtfully. "You may say that." "Wot did she take it into her head to go out to-night for, do you think?" asked Sikes. "Come; you should know her better than me. Wot does it mean?" "Obstinacy; woman's obstinacy, I suppose, my dear." "Well, I suppose it is," growled Sikes. "I thought I had tamed her, but she's as bad as ever." "Worse," said Fagin thoughtfully. "I never knew her like this, for such a little cause." "Nor I," said Sikes. "I think she's got a touch of that fever in her blood yet, and it won't come out eh?" "Like enough." "I'll let her a little blood, without troubling the doctor, if she's took that way again," said Sikes. Fagin nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment. "She was hanging about me all day, and night too, when I was stretched on my back; and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself aloof," said Sikes. "We was poor too, all the time, and I think, one way or other, it's worried and fretted her; and that being shut up here so long has made her restless eh?" "That's it, my dear," replied the Jew in a whisper. "Hush!" As he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her former seat. Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed her head; and, after a little time, burst out laughing. "Why, now she's on the other tack!" exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of excessive surprise on his companion. Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.<\|quote\|>"Light him down,"</\|quote\|>said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. "It's a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light." Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the girl, said, in a whisper. "What is it, Nancy, dear?" "What do you mean?" replied the girl, in the same tone. "The reason of all this," replied Fagin. "If _he_" he pointed with his skinny fore-finger up the stairs "is so hard with you (he's a brute, Nance, a brute-beast), why don't you" "Well?" said the girl, as Fagin paused, with his mouth almost touching her ear, and his eyes looking into hers. "No matter just now. We'll talk of this again. You have a friend in me, Nance; a staunch friend. I have the means at hand, quiet and close. If you want revenge on those that treat you like a dog like a dog! worse than his dog, for he humours him sometimes come to me. I say, come to me. He is the mere hound of a day, but you know me of old, Nance." "I know you well," replied the girl, without manifesting the least emotion. "Good-night." She shrank back, as Fagin offered to lay his hand on hers, but said good-night again, in a steady voice, and, answering his parting look with a nod of intelligence, closed the door between them. Fagin walked towards his home, intent upon the thoughts that were working within his brain. He had conceived the idea not from what had just passed though that had tended to confirm him, but slowly and by degrees that Nancy, wearied of the housebreaker's brutality, had conceived an attachment for some new friend. Her altered manner, her repeated absences from home alone, her comparative indifference to the interests of the gang for which she had once been so zealous, and, added to these, her desperate impatience to leave home that night at a particular hour, all favoured the supposition, and rendered it, to him at least, almost matter of certainty. The object of this new liking was not among his myrmidons. He would be a valuable acquisition with such an assistant as Nancy, and must (thus Fagin argued) be secured without delay. There was another, and a darker object, to be gained. Sikes knew too much, and his ruffian taunts had not galled Fagin the less, because the wounds were hidden. The girl must know, well, that if she shook him off, she could never be safe from his fury, and that it would be surely wreaked to the maiming of limbs, or perhaps the loss of life on the object of her more recent fancy. "With a little persuasion," thought Fagin, "what more likely than that she would consent to poison him? Women have done such things, and worse, to secure the same object before now. There would be the dangerous villain: the man I hate: gone; another secured in his place; and my influence over the girl, with a knowledge of this crime to back	Oliver Twist
"I've never seen him do an awkward thing,"	Brett Ashley	prepared him for the killing.<\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing,"</\|quote\|>Brett said. "You won't until	he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.<\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing,"</\|quote\|>Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said.	in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.<\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing,"</\|quote\|>Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling	have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.<\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing,"</\|quote\|>Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time	she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.<\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing,"</\|quote\|>Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the	not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.<\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing,"</\|quote\|>Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the ring to where the bull would come out. After it was over we went out and were pressed tight in the crowd. "These bull-fights are hell on one," Brett said. "I'm limp as a rag." "Oh, you'll get a drink," Mike said. The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was Miura bulls, and a very bad bull-fight. The next day there was no bull-fight scheduled. But all day and all night the fiesta kept on. CHAPTER 16 In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over the mountains from the sea. You could not see the tops of the mountains. The plateau was dull and gloomy, and the shapes of the trees and the houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the sea. The flags in the square hung wet from the white poles and the banners were wet and hung damp against the front of the houses, and in between the steady drizzle the rain came down and drove every one under the arcades and made pools of water in the square, and the streets wet and dark and	right?" "I didn't feel badly at all." "Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert." "The first horse did bother me," Cohn said. "You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill. Cohn laughed. "No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that." "It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick." "I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute." "I thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?" "Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "He said Brett was a sadist," Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it." The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.<\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing,"</\|quote\|>Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the ring to where the bull would come out. After it was over we went out and were pressed tight in the crowd. "These bull-fights are hell on one," Brett said. "I'm limp as a rag." "Oh, you'll get a drink," Mike said. The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was Miura bulls, and a very bad bull-fight. The next day there was no bull-fight scheduled. But all day and all night the fiesta kept on. CHAPTER 16 In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over the mountains from the sea. You could not see the tops of the mountains. The plateau was dull and gloomy, and the shapes of the trees and the houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the sea. The flags in the square hung wet from the white poles and the banners were wet and hung damp against the front of the houses, and in between the steady drizzle the rain came down and drove every one under the arcades and made pools of water in the square, and the streets wet and dark and deserted; yet the fiesta kept up without any pause. It was only driven under cover. The covered seats of the bull-ring had been crowded with people sitting out of the rain watching the concourse of Basque and Navarrais dancers and singers, and afterward the Val Carlos dancers in their costumes danced down the street in the rain, the drums sounding hollow and damp, and the chiefs of the bands riding ahead on their big, heavy-footed horses, their costumes wet, the horses' coats wet in the rain. The crowd was in the caf s and the dancers came in, too, and sat, their tight-wound white legs under the tables, shaking the water from their belled caps, and spreading their red and purple jackets over the chairs to dry. It was raining hard outside. I left the crowd in the caf and went over to the hotel to get shaved for dinner. I was shaving in my room when there was a knock on the door. "Come in," I called. Montoya walked in. "How are you?" he said. "Fine," I said. "No bulls to-day." "No," I said, "nothing but rain." "Where are your friends?" "Over at the Iru a." Montoya smiled his embarrassed smile. "Look," he said. "Do you know the American ambassador?" "Yes," I said. "Everybody knows the American ambassador." "He's here in town, now." "Yes," I said. "Everybody's seen them." "I've seen them, too," Montoya said. He didn't say anything. I went on shaving. "Sit down," I said. "Let me send for a drink." "No, I have to go." I finished shaving and put my face down into the bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was standing there looking more embarrassed. "Look," he said. "I've just had a message from them at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and Marcial Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after dinner." "Well," I said, "it can't hurt Marcial any." "Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don't think they'll be back to-night." Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say something. "Don't give Romero the message," I said. "You think so?" "Absolutely." Montoya was very pleased. "I wanted to ask you because you were an American," he said. "That's what I'd do." "Look," said Montoya. "People take a boy like that. They don't know what he's	how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.<\|quote\|>"I've never seen him do an awkward thing,"</\|quote\|>Brett said. "You won't until he gets frightened," I said. "He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much." "He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with." "And God, what looks," Brett said. "I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said. "I wouldn't be surprised." "Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers." "Tell me what drunks they are." "Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers." "He looks that way," Brett said. "Doesn't he?" I said. They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, straining forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate. "This next is the last one." "Not really," Brett said. She leaned forward on the barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the ring to where the bull would come out. After it was over we went out and were pressed tight in the crowd. "These bull-fights are hell on one," Brett said. "I'm limp as a rag." "Oh, you'll get a drink," Mike said. The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was Miura bulls, and a very bad bull-fight. The next day there was no bull-fight scheduled. But all day and all night the fiesta kept on. CHAPTER 16 In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over the mountains from the sea. You could not see the tops of the mountains. The plateau was dull and gloomy, and the shapes of the trees and the houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the sea. The flags in the square hung wet from the white poles and the banners were wet and hung damp against the front of the houses, and in between the steady drizzle the rain came down and drove every one under the arcades and made pools of water in the square, and the streets wet and dark and deserted; yet the fiesta kept up without any pause. It was only driven under cover. The covered seats of the bull-ring had been crowded with people sitting out of the rain watching the concourse of Basque and Navarrais dancers and singers, and afterward the Val Carlos dancers in their costumes danced down the street in the rain, the drums sounding hollow and damp, and the chiefs of the bands riding ahead on their big, heavy-footed horses, their costumes wet, the horses' coats wet in the rain. The crowd was in the caf s and the dancers came in, too, and sat, their tight-wound white legs under the tables, shaking the water from their belled caps, and spreading their red and purple jackets over the chairs to dry. It was raining hard outside. I left the crowd in the caf and went over to the hotel to get shaved for dinner. I was shaving in my room when there was a knock on the door. "Come in," I called. Montoya walked in. "How are you?"	The Sun Also Rises
"But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?"	Ellen Olenska	heaped-up curls of her chignon.<\|quote\|>"But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?"</\|quote\|>She followed the Marchioness into	raising her hand to the heaped-up curls of her chignon.<\|quote\|>"But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?"</\|quote\|>She followed the Marchioness into the hall, saw her fitted	from the Marchioness to Archer, asked abruptly: "And you two--have you made friends!" "It's for Mr. Archer to say, darling; he has waited patiently while you were dressing." "Yes--I gave you time enough: my hair wouldn't go," Madame Olenska said, raising her hand to the heaped-up curls of her chignon.<\|quote\|>"But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?"</\|quote\|>She followed the Marchioness into the hall, saw her fitted into a miscellaneous heap of overshoes, shawls and tippets, and called from the doorstep: "Mind, the carriage is to be back for me at ten!" Then she returned to the drawing-room, where Archer, on re-entering it, found her standing by	from me!" She flung her velvet opera cloak over the maid's shoulders and turned back into the drawing-room, shutting the door sharply. Her bosom was rising high under its lace, and for a moment Archer thought she was about to cry; but she burst into a laugh instead, and looking from the Marchioness to Archer, asked abruptly: "And you two--have you made friends!" "It's for Mr. Archer to say, darling; he has waited patiently while you were dressing." "Yes--I gave you time enough: my hair wouldn't go," Madame Olenska said, raising her hand to the heaped-up curls of her chignon.<\|quote\|>"But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?"</\|quote\|>She followed the Marchioness into the hall, saw her fitted into a miscellaneous heap of overshoes, shawls and tippets, and called from the doorstep: "Mind, the carriage is to be back for me at ten!" Then she returned to the drawing-room, where Archer, on re-entering it, found her standing by the mantelpiece, examining herself in the mirror. It was not usual, in New York society, for a lady to address her parlour-maid as "my dear one," and send her out on an errand wrapped in her own opera-cloak; and Archer, through all his deeper feelings, tasted the pleasurable excitement of	pronounce with intentional deliberateness in order that he might follow it: "Here--throw this into the dustbin!" and then, as Nastasia stared protestingly: "But no--it's not the fault of the poor flowers. Tell the boy to carry them to the house three doors away, the house of Mr. Winsett, the dark gentleman who dined here. His wife is ill--they may give her pleasure ... The boy is out, you say? Then, my dear one, run yourself; here, put my cloak over you and fly. I want the thing out of the house immediately! And, as you live, don't say they come from me!" She flung her velvet opera cloak over the maid's shoulders and turned back into the drawing-room, shutting the door sharply. Her bosom was rising high under its lace, and for a moment Archer thought she was about to cry; but she burst into a laugh instead, and looking from the Marchioness to Archer, asked abruptly: "And you two--have you made friends!" "It's for Mr. Archer to say, darling; he has waited patiently while you were dressing." "Yes--I gave you time enough: my hair wouldn't go," Madame Olenska said, raising her hand to the heaped-up curls of her chignon.<\|quote\|>"But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?"</\|quote\|>She followed the Marchioness into the hall, saw her fitted into a miscellaneous heap of overshoes, shawls and tippets, and called from the doorstep: "Mind, the carriage is to be back for me at ten!" Then she returned to the drawing-room, where Archer, on re-entering it, found her standing by the mantelpiece, examining herself in the mirror. It was not usual, in New York society, for a lady to address her parlour-maid as "my dear one," and send her out on an errand wrapped in her own opera-cloak; and Archer, through all his deeper feelings, tasted the pleasurable excitement of being in a world where action followed on emotion with such Olympian speed. Madame Olenska did not move when he came up behind her, and for a second their eyes met in the mirror; then she turned, threw herself into her sofa-corner, and sighed out: "There's time for a cigarette." He handed her the box and lit a spill for her; and as the flame flashed up into her face she glanced at him with laughing eyes and said: "What do you think of me in a temper?" Archer paused a moment; then he answered with sudden resolution: "It makes	still a wife..." XVIII. "What are you two plotting together, aunt Medora?" Madame Olenska cried as she came into the room. She was dressed as if for a ball. Everything about her shimmered and glimmered softly, as if her dress had been woven out of candle-beams; and she carried her head high, like a pretty woman challenging a roomful of rivals. "We were saying, my dear, that here was something beautiful to surprise you with," Mrs. Manson rejoined, rising to her feet and pointing archly to the flowers. Madame Olenska stopped short and looked at the bouquet. Her colour did not change, but a sort of white radiance of anger ran over her like summer lightning. "Ah," she exclaimed, in a shrill voice that the young man had never heard, "who is ridiculous enough to send me a bouquet? Why a bouquet? And why tonight of all nights? I am not going to a ball; I am not a girl engaged to be married. But some people are always ridiculous." She turned back to the door, opened it, and called out: "Nastasia!" The ubiquitous handmaiden promptly appeared, and Archer heard Madame Olenska say, in an Italian that she seemed to pronounce with intentional deliberateness in order that he might follow it: "Here--throw this into the dustbin!" and then, as Nastasia stared protestingly: "But no--it's not the fault of the poor flowers. Tell the boy to carry them to the house three doors away, the house of Mr. Winsett, the dark gentleman who dined here. His wife is ill--they may give her pleasure ... The boy is out, you say? Then, my dear one, run yourself; here, put my cloak over you and fly. I want the thing out of the house immediately! And, as you live, don't say they come from me!" She flung her velvet opera cloak over the maid's shoulders and turned back into the drawing-room, shutting the door sharply. Her bosom was rising high under its lace, and for a moment Archer thought she was about to cry; but she burst into a laugh instead, and looking from the Marchioness to Archer, asked abruptly: "And you two--have you made friends!" "It's for Mr. Archer to say, darling; he has waited patiently while you were dressing." "Yes--I gave you time enough: my hair wouldn't go," Madame Olenska said, raising her hand to the heaped-up curls of her chignon.<\|quote\|>"But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?"</\|quote\|>She followed the Marchioness into the hall, saw her fitted into a miscellaneous heap of overshoes, shawls and tippets, and called from the doorstep: "Mind, the carriage is to be back for me at ten!" Then she returned to the drawing-room, where Archer, on re-entering it, found her standing by the mantelpiece, examining herself in the mirror. It was not usual, in New York society, for a lady to address her parlour-maid as "my dear one," and send her out on an errand wrapped in her own opera-cloak; and Archer, through all his deeper feelings, tasted the pleasurable excitement of being in a world where action followed on emotion with such Olympian speed. Madame Olenska did not move when he came up behind her, and for a second their eyes met in the mirror; then she turned, threw herself into her sofa-corner, and sighed out: "There's time for a cigarette." He handed her the box and lit a spill for her; and as the flame flashed up into her face she glanced at him with laughing eyes and said: "What do you think of me in a temper?" Archer paused a moment; then he answered with sudden resolution: "It makes me understand what your aunt has been saying about you." "I knew she'd been talking about me. Well?" "She said you were used to all kinds of things--splendours and amusements and excitements--that we could never hope to give you here." Madame Olenska smiled faintly into the circle of smoke about her lips. "Medora is incorrigibly romantic. It has made up to her for so many things!" Archer hesitated again, and again took his risk. "Is your aunt's romanticism always consistent with accuracy?" "You mean: does she speak the truth?" Her niece considered. "Well, I'll tell you: in almost everything she says, there's something true and something untrue. But why do you ask? What has she been telling you?" He looked away into the fire, and then back at her shining presence. His heart tightened with the thought that this was their last evening by that fireside, and that in a moment the carriage would come to carry her away. "She says--she pretends that Count Olenski has asked her to persuade you to go back to him." Madame Olenska made no answer. She sat motionless, holding her cigarette in her half-lifted hand. The expression of her face had not changed; and	"So she describes it--my sensitive child! But on the material side, Mr. Archer, if one may stoop to consider such things; do you know what she is giving up? Those roses there on the sofa--acres like them, under glass and in the open, in his matchless terraced gardens at Nice! Jewels--historic pearls: the Sobieski emeralds--sables,--but she cares nothing for all these! Art and beauty, those she does care for, she lives for, as I always have; and those also surrounded her. Pictures, priceless furniture, music, brilliant conversation--ah, that, my dear young man, if you'll excuse me, is what you've no conception of here! And she had it all; and the homage of the greatest. She tells me she is not thought handsome in New York--good heavens! Her portrait has been painted nine times; the greatest artists in Europe have begged for the privilege. Are these things nothing? And the remorse of an adoring husband?" As the Marchioness Manson rose to her climax her face assumed an expression of ecstatic retrospection which would have moved Archer's mirth had he not been numb with amazement. He would have laughed if any one had foretold to him that his first sight of poor Medora Manson would have been in the guise of a messenger of Satan; but he was in no mood for laughing now, and she seemed to him to come straight out of the hell from which Ellen Olenska had just escaped. "She knows nothing yet--of all this?" he asked abruptly. Mrs. Manson laid a purple finger on her lips. "Nothing directly--but does she suspect? Who can tell? The truth is, Mr. Archer, I have been waiting to see you. From the moment I heard of the firm stand you had taken, and of your influence over her, I hoped it might be possible to count on your support--to convince you ..." "That she ought to go back? I would rather see her dead!" cried the young man violently. "Ah," the Marchioness murmured, without visible resentment. For a while she sat in her arm-chair, opening and shutting the absurd ivory fan between her mittened fingers; but suddenly she lifted her head and listened. "Here she comes," she said in a rapid whisper; and then, pointing to the bouquet on the sofa: "Am I to understand that you prefer THAT, Mr. Archer? After all, marriage is marriage ... and my niece is still a wife..." XVIII. "What are you two plotting together, aunt Medora?" Madame Olenska cried as she came into the room. She was dressed as if for a ball. Everything about her shimmered and glimmered softly, as if her dress had been woven out of candle-beams; and she carried her head high, like a pretty woman challenging a roomful of rivals. "We were saying, my dear, that here was something beautiful to surprise you with," Mrs. Manson rejoined, rising to her feet and pointing archly to the flowers. Madame Olenska stopped short and looked at the bouquet. Her colour did not change, but a sort of white radiance of anger ran over her like summer lightning. "Ah," she exclaimed, in a shrill voice that the young man had never heard, "who is ridiculous enough to send me a bouquet? Why a bouquet? And why tonight of all nights? I am not going to a ball; I am not a girl engaged to be married. But some people are always ridiculous." She turned back to the door, opened it, and called out: "Nastasia!" The ubiquitous handmaiden promptly appeared, and Archer heard Madame Olenska say, in an Italian that she seemed to pronounce with intentional deliberateness in order that he might follow it: "Here--throw this into the dustbin!" and then, as Nastasia stared protestingly: "But no--it's not the fault of the poor flowers. Tell the boy to carry them to the house three doors away, the house of Mr. Winsett, the dark gentleman who dined here. His wife is ill--they may give her pleasure ... The boy is out, you say? Then, my dear one, run yourself; here, put my cloak over you and fly. I want the thing out of the house immediately! And, as you live, don't say they come from me!" She flung her velvet opera cloak over the maid's shoulders and turned back into the drawing-room, shutting the door sharply. Her bosom was rising high under its lace, and for a moment Archer thought she was about to cry; but she burst into a laugh instead, and looking from the Marchioness to Archer, asked abruptly: "And you two--have you made friends!" "It's for Mr. Archer to say, darling; he has waited patiently while you were dressing." "Yes--I gave you time enough: my hair wouldn't go," Madame Olenska said, raising her hand to the heaped-up curls of her chignon.<\|quote\|>"But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?"</\|quote\|>She followed the Marchioness into the hall, saw her fitted into a miscellaneous heap of overshoes, shawls and tippets, and called from the doorstep: "Mind, the carriage is to be back for me at ten!" Then she returned to the drawing-room, where Archer, on re-entering it, found her standing by the mantelpiece, examining herself in the mirror. It was not usual, in New York society, for a lady to address her parlour-maid as "my dear one," and send her out on an errand wrapped in her own opera-cloak; and Archer, through all his deeper feelings, tasted the pleasurable excitement of being in a world where action followed on emotion with such Olympian speed. Madame Olenska did not move when he came up behind her, and for a second their eyes met in the mirror; then she turned, threw herself into her sofa-corner, and sighed out: "There's time for a cigarette." He handed her the box and lit a spill for her; and as the flame flashed up into her face she glanced at him with laughing eyes and said: "What do you think of me in a temper?" Archer paused a moment; then he answered with sudden resolution: "It makes me understand what your aunt has been saying about you." "I knew she'd been talking about me. Well?" "She said you were used to all kinds of things--splendours and amusements and excitements--that we could never hope to give you here." Madame Olenska smiled faintly into the circle of smoke about her lips. "Medora is incorrigibly romantic. It has made up to her for so many things!" Archer hesitated again, and again took his risk. "Is your aunt's romanticism always consistent with accuracy?" "You mean: does she speak the truth?" Her niece considered. "Well, I'll tell you: in almost everything she says, there's something true and something untrue. But why do you ask? What has she been telling you?" He looked away into the fire, and then back at her shining presence. His heart tightened with the thought that this was their last evening by that fireside, and that in a moment the carriage would come to carry her away. "She says--she pretends that Count Olenski has asked her to persuade you to go back to him." Madame Olenska made no answer. She sat motionless, holding her cigarette in her half-lifted hand. The expression of her face had not changed; and Archer remembered that he had before noticed her apparent incapacity for surprise. "You knew, then?" he broke out. She was silent for so long that the ash dropped from her cigarette. She brushed it to the floor. "She has hinted about a letter: poor darling! Medora's hints--" "Is it at your husband's request that she has arrived here suddenly?" Madame Olenska seemed to consider this question also. "There again: one can't tell. She told me she had had a 'spiritual summons,' whatever that is, from Dr. Carver. I'm afraid she's going to marry Dr. Carver ... poor Medora, there's always some one she wants to marry. But perhaps the people in Cuba just got tired of her! I think she was with them as a sort of paid companion. Really, I don't know why she came." "But you do believe she has a letter from your husband?" Again Madame Olenska brooded silently; then she said: "After all, it was to be expected." The young man rose and went to lean against the fireplace. A sudden restlessness possessed him, and he was tongue-tied by the sense that their minutes were numbered, and that at any moment he might hear the wheels of the returning carriage. "You know that your aunt believes you will go back?" Madame Olenska raised her head quickly. A deep blush rose to her face and spread over her neck and shoulders. She blushed seldom and painfully, as if it hurt her like a burn. "Many cruel things have been believed of me," she said. "Oh, Ellen--forgive me; I'm a fool and a brute!" She smiled a little. "You are horribly nervous; you have your own troubles. I know you think the Wellands are unreasonable about your marriage, and of course I agree with you. In Europe people don't understand our long American engagements; I suppose they are not as calm as we are." She pronounced the "we" with a faint emphasis that gave it an ironic sound. Archer felt the irony but did not dare to take it up. After all, she had perhaps purposely deflected the conversation from her own affairs, and after the pain his last words had evidently caused her he felt that all he could do was to follow her lead. But the sense of the waning hour made him desperate: he could not bear the thought that a barrier of words should	see you. From the moment I heard of the firm stand you had taken, and of your influence over her, I hoped it might be possible to count on your support--to convince you ..." "That she ought to go back? I would rather see her dead!" cried the young man violently. "Ah," the Marchioness murmured, without visible resentment. For a while she sat in her arm-chair, opening and shutting the absurd ivory fan between her mittened fingers; but suddenly she lifted her head and listened. "Here she comes," she said in a rapid whisper; and then, pointing to the bouquet on the sofa: "Am I to understand that you prefer THAT, Mr. Archer? After all, marriage is marriage ... and my niece is still a wife..." XVIII. "What are you two plotting together, aunt Medora?" Madame Olenska cried as she came into the room. She was dressed as if for a ball. Everything about her shimmered and glimmered softly, as if her dress had been woven out of candle-beams; and she carried her head high, like a pretty woman challenging a roomful of rivals. "We were saying, my dear, that here was something beautiful to surprise you with," Mrs. Manson rejoined, rising to her feet and pointing archly to the flowers. Madame Olenska stopped short and looked at the bouquet. Her colour did not change, but a sort of white radiance of anger ran over her like summer lightning. "Ah," she exclaimed, in a shrill voice that the young man had never heard, "who is ridiculous enough to send me a bouquet? Why a bouquet? And why tonight of all nights? I am not going to a ball; I am not a girl engaged to be married. But some people are always ridiculous." She turned back to the door, opened it, and called out: "Nastasia!" The ubiquitous handmaiden promptly appeared, and Archer heard Madame Olenska say, in an Italian that she seemed to pronounce with intentional deliberateness in order that he might follow it: "Here--throw this into the dustbin!" and then, as Nastasia stared protestingly: "But no--it's not the fault of the poor flowers. Tell the boy to carry them to the house three doors away, the house of Mr. Winsett, the dark gentleman who dined here. His wife is ill--they may give her pleasure ... The boy is out, you say? Then, my dear one, run yourself; here, put my cloak over you and fly. I want the thing out of the house immediately! And, as you live, don't say they come from me!" She flung her velvet opera cloak over the maid's shoulders and turned back into the drawing-room, shutting the door sharply. Her bosom was rising high under its lace, and for a moment Archer thought she was about to cry; but she burst into a laugh instead, and looking from the Marchioness to Archer, asked abruptly: "And you two--have you made friends!" "It's for Mr. Archer to say, darling; he has waited patiently while you were dressing." "Yes--I gave you time enough: my hair wouldn't go," Madame Olenska said, raising her hand to the heaped-up curls of her chignon.<\|quote\|>"But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?"</\|quote\|>She followed the Marchioness into the hall, saw her fitted into a miscellaneous heap of overshoes, shawls and tippets, and called from the doorstep: "Mind, the carriage is to be back for me at ten!" Then she returned to the drawing-room, where Archer, on re-entering it, found her standing by the mantelpiece, examining herself in the mirror. It was not usual, in New York society, for a lady to address her parlour-maid as "my dear one," and send her out on an errand wrapped in her own opera-cloak; and Archer, through all his deeper feelings, tasted the pleasurable excitement of being in a world where action followed on emotion with such Olympian speed. Madame Olenska did not move when he came up behind her, and for a second their eyes met in the mirror; then she turned, threw herself into her sofa-corner, and sighed out: "There's time for a cigarette." He handed her the box and lit a spill for her; and as the flame flashed up into her face she glanced at him with laughing eyes and said: "What do you think of me in a temper?" Archer paused a moment; then he answered with sudden resolution: "It makes me understand what your aunt has been saying about you." "I knew she'd been talking about me. Well?" "She said you were used to all kinds of things--splendours and amusements and excitements--that we could never hope to give you here." Madame Olenska smiled faintly into the circle of smoke about her lips. "Medora is incorrigibly romantic. It has made up to her for so many things!" Archer hesitated again, and again took his risk. "Is your aunt's romanticism always consistent with accuracy?" "You mean: does she speak the truth?" Her niece considered. "Well, I'll tell you: in almost everything she says, there's something true and something untrue. But why do you ask? What has she been telling you?" He looked away into the fire, and then back at her shining presence. His heart tightened with the thought that this was their last evening by that fireside, and that in a moment the carriage would come to carry her away. "She says--she pretends that Count Olenski has asked her to persuade you to go back to him." Madame Olenska made no answer. She sat motionless, holding her cigarette in her half-lifted hand. The expression of her face had not changed; and Archer remembered that he had before noticed her apparent incapacity for surprise. "You knew, then?" he broke out. She was silent for so long that the ash dropped from her cigarette. She brushed it to the floor. "She has hinted about a letter: poor darling! Medora's hints--" "Is it at your husband's request that she has arrived here suddenly?" Madame Olenska seemed to consider this question also. "There again: one can't tell. She told me she had had a 'spiritual summons,' whatever that is, from Dr. Carver. I'm afraid she's going to marry Dr. Carver ... poor Medora, there's always some one she wants to marry. But perhaps the people in Cuba just got tired of her! I think she was with them as a sort of paid companion. Really, I don't know why she came." "But you do believe she has a letter from your husband?" Again Madame Olenska brooded silently; then she said: "After all, it was to be expected." The young man rose and went to lean against the fireplace. A sudden restlessness possessed him, and he was tongue-tied by the sense that their minutes were numbered, and	The Age Of Innocence
"Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,"	Oliver Twist	know," rejoined the old lady.<\|quote\|>"Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Oliver. "I liked to	prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady.<\|quote\|>"Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved	Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see." "I see it is ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?" "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady.<\|quote\|>"Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!" said the old lady, good-humouredly; "you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else." This was all	into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed. "Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see." "I see it is ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?" "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady.<\|quote\|>"Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!" said the old lady, good-humouredly; "you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else." This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable	COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed. "Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see." "I see it is ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?" "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady.<\|quote\|>"Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!" said the old lady, good-humouredly; "you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else." This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a-year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it	Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; "there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!" With these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of concealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver. Then, he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath his clothing. A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. "Who's there?" he cried in a shrill tone. "Me!" replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole. "What now?" cried the Jew impatiently. "Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?" inquired the Dodger. "Yes," replied the Jew, "wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him out, that's all. I shall know what to do next; never fear." The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried downstairs after his companions. "He has not peached so far," said the Jew as he pursued his occupation. "If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet." CHAPTER XIV. COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed. "Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see." "I see it is ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?" "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady.<\|quote\|>"Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!" said the old lady, good-humouredly; "you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else." This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a-year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as quickly as she could teach: and at which game they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and then to go cosily to bed. They were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like Heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up	defiance of the Stamp-office. But, as neither of these criminals answered to the name of Oliver, or knew anything about him, Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in the striped waistcoat; and with the most piteous wailings and lamentations, rendered more piteous by a prompt and efficient use of the street-door key and the little basket, demanded her own dear brother. "I haven't got him, my dear," said the old man. "Where is he?" screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner. "Why, the gentleman's got him," replied the officer. "What gentleman! Oh, gracious heavens! What gentleman?" exclaimed Nancy. In reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the deeply affected sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office, and discharged in consequence of a witness having proved the robbery to have been committed by another boy, not in custody; and that the prosecutor had carried him away, in an insensible condition, to his own residence: of and concerning which, all the informant knew was, that it was somewhere in Pentonville, he having heard that word mentioned in the directions to the coachman. In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift run, returned by the most devious and complicated route she could think of, to the domicile of the Jew. Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered, than he very hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat, expeditiously departed: without devoting any time to the formality of wishing the company good-morning. "We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found," said the Jew greatly excited. "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; "there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!" "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; "there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!" With these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of concealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver. Then, he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath his clothing. A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. "Who's there?" he cried in a shrill tone. "Me!" replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole. "What now?" cried the Jew impatiently. "Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?" inquired the Dodger. "Yes," replied the Jew, "wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him out, that's all. I shall know what to do next; never fear." The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried downstairs after his companions. "He has not peached so far," said the Jew as he pursued his occupation. "If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet." CHAPTER XIV. COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed. "Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see." "I see it is ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?" "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady.<\|quote\|>"Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!" said the old lady, good-humouredly; "you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else." This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a-year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as quickly as she could teach: and at which game they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and then to go cosily to bed. They were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like Heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to think that they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger of his ever being able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell the truth; and Oliver had never had a new suit before. One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr. Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see him in his study, and talk to him a little while. "Bless us, and save us! Wash your hands, and let me part your hair nicely for you, child," said Mrs. Bedwin. "Dear heart alive! If we had known he would have asked for you, we would have put you a clean collar on, and made you as smart as sixpence!" Oliver did as the old lady bade him; and, although she lamented grievously, meanwhile, that there was not even time to crimp the little frill that bordered his shirt-collar; he looked so delicate and handsome, despite that important personal advantage, that she went so far as to say: looking at him with great complacency from head to foot, that she really didn't think it would have been possible, on the longest notice, to have made much difference in him for the better. Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door. On Mr. Brownlow calling to him to come in, he found himself in a little back room, quite full of books, with a window, looking into some pleasant little gardens. There was a table drawn up before the window, at which Mr. Brownlow was seated reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed the book away from him, and told him to come near the table, and sit down. Oliver complied; marvelling where the people could be found to read such a great number of books as seemed to be written to make the world wiser. Which is still a marvel to more experienced people than Oliver Twist, every day of their lives. "There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?" said Mr. Brownlow, observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling. "A great number, sir," replied Oliver. "I never saw so many." "You shall read them, if	Nancy says?" inquired the Dodger. "Yes," replied the Jew, "wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him out, that's all. I shall know what to do next; never fear." The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried downstairs after his companions. "He has not peached so far," said the Jew as he pursued his occupation. "If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet." CHAPTER XIV. COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed. "Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see." "I see it is ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?" "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady.<\|quote\|>"Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,"</\|quote\|>said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!" said the old lady, good-humouredly; "you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else." This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a-year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as quickly as she could teach: and at which game they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and then to go cosily to bed. They were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like Heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to think that they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger of his ever being able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell the truth; and Oliver had never had a new suit before. One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr. Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see him in his study, and talk to him a little while. "Bless us, and save us! Wash	Oliver Twist
“worked out,”	No speaker	that the country girls, who<\|quote\|>“worked out,”</\|quote\|>were not. The American farmers	that they were “refined,” and that the country girls, who<\|quote\|>“worked out,”</\|quote\|>were not. The American farmers in our county were quite	listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely put there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested. The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, uninquiring belief that they were “refined,” and that the country girls, who<\|quote\|>“worked out,”</\|quote\|>were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as hard-pressed as their neighbors from other countries. All alike had come to Nebraska with little capital and no knowledge of the soil they must subdue. All had borrowed money on their land. But no matter in what straits the	in winter because of the cold, and in summer because of the heat. When one danced with them their bodies never moved inside their clothes; their muscles seemed to ask but one thing—not to be disturbed. I remember those girls merely as faces in the schoolroom, gay and rosy, or listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely put there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested. The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, uninquiring belief that they were “refined,” and that the country girls, who<\|quote\|>“worked out,”</\|quote\|>were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as hard-pressed as their neighbors from other countries. All alike had come to Nebraska with little capital and no knowledge of the soil they must subdue. All had borrowed money on their land. But no matter in what straits the Pennsylvanian or Virginian found himself, he would not let his daughters go out into service. Unless his girls could teach a country school, they sat at home in poverty. The Bohemian and Scandinavian girls could not get positions as teachers, because they had had no opportunity to learn the language.	Physically they were almost a race apart, and out-of-door work had given them a vigor which, when they got over their first shyness on coming to town, developed into a positive carriage and freedom of movement, and made them conspicuous among Black Hawk women. That was before the day of High-School athletics. Girls who had to walk more than half a mile to school were pitied. There was not a tennis court in the town; physical exercise was thought rather inelegant for the daughters of well-to-do families. Some of the High-School girls were jolly and pretty, but they stayed indoors in winter because of the cold, and in summer because of the heat. When one danced with them their bodies never moved inside their clothes; their muscles seemed to ask but one thing—not to be disturbed. I remember those girls merely as faces in the schoolroom, gay and rosy, or listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely put there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested. The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, uninquiring belief that they were “refined,” and that the country girls, who<\|quote\|>“worked out,”</\|quote\|>were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as hard-pressed as their neighbors from other countries. All alike had come to Nebraska with little capital and no knowledge of the soil they must subdue. All had borrowed money on their land. But no matter in what straits the Pennsylvanian or Virginian found himself, he would not let his daughters go out into service. Unless his girls could teach a country school, they sat at home in poverty. The Bohemian and Scandinavian girls could not get positions as teachers, because they had had no opportunity to learn the language. Determined to help in the struggle to clear the homestead from debt, they had no alternative but to go into service. Some of them, after they came to town, remained as serious and as discreet in behavior as they had been when they ploughed and herded on their father’s farm. Others, like the three Bohemian Marys, tried to make up for the years of youth they had lost. But every one of them did what she had set out to do, and sent home those hard-earned dollars. The girls I knew were always helping to pay for ploughs and reapers,	condemnation for a waltz with “the hired girls.” IX THERE was a curious social situation in Black Hawk. All the young men felt the attraction of the fine, well-set-up country girls who had come to town to earn a living, and, in nearly every case, to help the father struggle out of debt, or to make it possible for the younger children of the family to go to school. Those girls had grown up in the first bitter-hard times, and had got little schooling themselves. But the younger brothers and sisters, for whom they made such sacrifices and who have had “advantages,” never seem to me, when I meet them now, half as interesting or as well educated. The older girls, who helped to break up the wild sod, learned so much from life, from poverty, from their mothers and grandmothers; they had all, like Ántonia, been early awakened and made observant by coming at a tender age from an old country to a new. I can remember a score of these country girls who were in service in Black Hawk during the few years I lived there, and I can remember something unusual and engaging about each of them. Physically they were almost a race apart, and out-of-door work had given them a vigor which, when they got over their first shyness on coming to town, developed into a positive carriage and freedom of movement, and made them conspicuous among Black Hawk women. That was before the day of High-School athletics. Girls who had to walk more than half a mile to school were pitied. There was not a tennis court in the town; physical exercise was thought rather inelegant for the daughters of well-to-do families. Some of the High-School girls were jolly and pretty, but they stayed indoors in winter because of the cold, and in summer because of the heat. When one danced with them their bodies never moved inside their clothes; their muscles seemed to ask but one thing—not to be disturbed. I remember those girls merely as faces in the schoolroom, gay and rosy, or listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely put there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested. The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, uninquiring belief that they were “refined,” and that the country girls, who<\|quote\|>“worked out,”</\|quote\|>were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as hard-pressed as their neighbors from other countries. All alike had come to Nebraska with little capital and no knowledge of the soil they must subdue. All had borrowed money on their land. But no matter in what straits the Pennsylvanian or Virginian found himself, he would not let his daughters go out into service. Unless his girls could teach a country school, they sat at home in poverty. The Bohemian and Scandinavian girls could not get positions as teachers, because they had had no opportunity to learn the language. Determined to help in the struggle to clear the homestead from debt, they had no alternative but to go into service. Some of them, after they came to town, remained as serious and as discreet in behavior as they had been when they ploughed and herded on their father’s farm. Others, like the three Bohemian Marys, tried to make up for the years of youth they had lost. But every one of them did what she had set out to do, and sent home those hard-earned dollars. The girls I knew were always helping to pay for ploughs and reapers, brood-sows, or steers to fatten. One result of this family solidarity was that the foreign farmers in our county were the first to become prosperous. After the fathers were out of debt, the daughters married the sons of neighbors,—usually of like nationality,—and the girls who once worked in Black Hawk kitchens are to-day managing big farms and fine families of their own; their children are better off than the children of the town women they used to serve. I thought the attitude of the town people toward these girls very stupid. If I told my schoolmates that Lena Lingard’s grandfather was a clergyman, and much respected in Norway, they looked at me blankly. What did it matter? All foreigners were ignorant people who could n’t speak English. There was not a man in Black Hawk who had the intelligence or cultivation, much less the personal distinction, of Ántonia’s father. Yet people saw no difference between her and the three Marys; they were all Bohemians, all “hired girls.” I always knew I should live long enough to see my country girls come into their own, and I have. To-day the best that a harassed Black Hawk merchant can hope for is	the laundryman’s garden, and the grass in the middle of the lot was pink with them. The Vannis kept exemplary order, and closed every evening at the hour suggested by the City Council. When Mrs. Vanni gave the signal, and the harp struck up “Home, Sweet Home,” all Black Hawk knew it was ten o’clock. You could set your watch by that tune as confidently as by the Round House whistle. At last there was something to do in those long, empty summer evenings, when the married people sat like images on their front porches, and the boys and girls tramped and tramped the board sidewalks—northward to the edge of the open prairie, south to the depot, then back again to the post-office, the ice-cream parlor, the butcher shop. Now there was a place where the girls could wear their new dresses, and where one could laugh aloud without being reproved by the ensuing silence. That silence seemed to ooze out of the ground, to hang under the foliage of the black maple trees with the bats and shadows. Now it was broken by light-hearted sounds. First the deep purring of Mr. Vanni’s harp came in silvery ripples through the blackness of the dusty-smelling night; then the violins fell in—one of them was almost like a flute. They called so archly, so seductively, that our feet hurried toward the tent of themselves. Why had n’t we had a tent before? Dancing became popular now, just as roller skating had been the summer before. The Progressive Euchre Club arranged with the Vannis for the exclusive use of the floor on Tuesday and Friday nights. At other times any one could dance who paid his money and was orderly; the railroad men, the Round House mechanics, the delivery boys, the iceman, the farmhands who lived near enough to ride into town after their day’s work was over. I never missed a Saturday night dance. The tent was open until midnight then. The country boys came in from farms eight and ten miles away, and all the country girls were on the floor,—Ántonia and Lena and Tiny, and the Danish laundry girls and their friends. I was not the only boy who found these dances gayer than the others. The young men who belonged to the Progressive Euchre Club used to drop in late and risk a tiff with their sweethearts and general condemnation for a waltz with “the hired girls.” IX THERE was a curious social situation in Black Hawk. All the young men felt the attraction of the fine, well-set-up country girls who had come to town to earn a living, and, in nearly every case, to help the father struggle out of debt, or to make it possible for the younger children of the family to go to school. Those girls had grown up in the first bitter-hard times, and had got little schooling themselves. But the younger brothers and sisters, for whom they made such sacrifices and who have had “advantages,” never seem to me, when I meet them now, half as interesting or as well educated. The older girls, who helped to break up the wild sod, learned so much from life, from poverty, from their mothers and grandmothers; they had all, like Ántonia, been early awakened and made observant by coming at a tender age from an old country to a new. I can remember a score of these country girls who were in service in Black Hawk during the few years I lived there, and I can remember something unusual and engaging about each of them. Physically they were almost a race apart, and out-of-door work had given them a vigor which, when they got over their first shyness on coming to town, developed into a positive carriage and freedom of movement, and made them conspicuous among Black Hawk women. That was before the day of High-School athletics. Girls who had to walk more than half a mile to school were pitied. There was not a tennis court in the town; physical exercise was thought rather inelegant for the daughters of well-to-do families. Some of the High-School girls were jolly and pretty, but they stayed indoors in winter because of the cold, and in summer because of the heat. When one danced with them their bodies never moved inside their clothes; their muscles seemed to ask but one thing—not to be disturbed. I remember those girls merely as faces in the schoolroom, gay and rosy, or listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely put there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested. The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, uninquiring belief that they were “refined,” and that the country girls, who<\|quote\|>“worked out,”</\|quote\|>were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as hard-pressed as their neighbors from other countries. All alike had come to Nebraska with little capital and no knowledge of the soil they must subdue. All had borrowed money on their land. But no matter in what straits the Pennsylvanian or Virginian found himself, he would not let his daughters go out into service. Unless his girls could teach a country school, they sat at home in poverty. The Bohemian and Scandinavian girls could not get positions as teachers, because they had had no opportunity to learn the language. Determined to help in the struggle to clear the homestead from debt, they had no alternative but to go into service. Some of them, after they came to town, remained as serious and as discreet in behavior as they had been when they ploughed and herded on their father’s farm. Others, like the three Bohemian Marys, tried to make up for the years of youth they had lost. But every one of them did what she had set out to do, and sent home those hard-earned dollars. The girls I knew were always helping to pay for ploughs and reapers, brood-sows, or steers to fatten. One result of this family solidarity was that the foreign farmers in our county were the first to become prosperous. After the fathers were out of debt, the daughters married the sons of neighbors,—usually of like nationality,—and the girls who once worked in Black Hawk kitchens are to-day managing big farms and fine families of their own; their children are better off than the children of the town women they used to serve. I thought the attitude of the town people toward these girls very stupid. If I told my schoolmates that Lena Lingard’s grandfather was a clergyman, and much respected in Norway, they looked at me blankly. What did it matter? All foreigners were ignorant people who could n’t speak English. There was not a man in Black Hawk who had the intelligence or cultivation, much less the personal distinction, of Ántonia’s father. Yet people saw no difference between her and the three Marys; they were all Bohemians, all “hired girls.” I always knew I should live long enough to see my country girls come into their own, and I have. To-day the best that a harassed Black Hawk merchant can hope for is to sell provisions and farm machinery and automobiles to the rich farms where that first crop of stalwart Bohemian and Scandinavian girls are now the mistresses. The Black Hawk boys looked forward to marrying Black Hawk girls, and living in a brand-new little house with best chairs that must not be sat upon, and hand-painted china that must not be used. But sometimes a young fellow would look up from his ledger, or out through the grating of his father’s bank, and let his eyes follow Lena Lingard, as she passed the window with her slow, undulating walk, or Tiny Soderball, tripping by in her short skirt and striped stockings. The country girls were considered a menace to the social order. Their beauty shone out too boldly against a conventional background. But anxious mothers need have felt no alarm. They mistook the mettle of their sons. The respect for respectability was stronger than any desire in Black Hawk youth. Our young man of position was like the son of a royal house; the boy who swept out his office or drove his delivery wagon might frolic with the jolly country girls, but he himself must sit all evening in a plush parlor where conversation dragged so perceptibly that the father often came in and made blundering efforts to warm up the atmosphere. On his way home from his dull call, he would perhaps meet Tony and Lena, coming along the sidewalk whispering to each other, or the three Bohemian Marys in their long plush coats and caps, comporting themselves with a dignity that only made their eventful histories the more piquant. If he went to the hotel to see a traveling man on business, there was Tiny, arching her shoulders at him like a kitten. If he went into the laundry to get his collars, there were the four Danish girls, smiling up from their ironing-boards, with their white throats and their pink cheeks. The three Marys were the heroines of a cycle of scandalous stories, which the old men were fond of relating as they sat about the cigar-stand in the drug-store. Mary Dusak had been housekeeper for a bachelor rancher from Boston, and after several years in his service she was forced to retire from the world for a short time. Later she came back to town to take the place of her friend, Mary Svoboda, who was	ride into town after their day’s work was over. I never missed a Saturday night dance. The tent was open until midnight then. The country boys came in from farms eight and ten miles away, and all the country girls were on the floor,—Ántonia and Lena and Tiny, and the Danish laundry girls and their friends. I was not the only boy who found these dances gayer than the others. The young men who belonged to the Progressive Euchre Club used to drop in late and risk a tiff with their sweethearts and general condemnation for a waltz with “the hired girls.” IX THERE was a curious social situation in Black Hawk. All the young men felt the attraction of the fine, well-set-up country girls who had come to town to earn a living, and, in nearly every case, to help the father struggle out of debt, or to make it possible for the younger children of the family to go to school. Those girls had grown up in the first bitter-hard times, and had got little schooling themselves. But the younger brothers and sisters, for whom they made such sacrifices and who have had “advantages,” never seem to me, when I meet them now, half as interesting or as well educated. The older girls, who helped to break up the wild sod, learned so much from life, from poverty, from their mothers and grandmothers; they had all, like Ántonia, been early awakened and made observant by coming at a tender age from an old country to a new. I can remember a score of these country girls who were in service in Black Hawk during the few years I lived there, and I can remember something unusual and engaging about each of them. Physically they were almost a race apart, and out-of-door work had given them a vigor which, when they got over their first shyness on coming to town, developed into a positive carriage and freedom of movement, and made them conspicuous among Black Hawk women. That was before the day of High-School athletics. Girls who had to walk more than half a mile to school were pitied. There was not a tennis court in the town; physical exercise was thought rather inelegant for the daughters of well-to-do families. Some of the High-School girls were jolly and pretty, but they stayed indoors in winter because of the cold, and in summer because of the heat. When one danced with them their bodies never moved inside their clothes; their muscles seemed to ask but one thing—not to be disturbed. I remember those girls merely as faces in the schoolroom, gay and rosy, or listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely put there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested. The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, uninquiring belief that they were “refined,” and that the country girls, who<\|quote\|>“worked out,”</\|quote\|>were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as hard-pressed as their neighbors from other countries. All alike had come to Nebraska with little capital and no knowledge of the soil they must subdue. All had borrowed money on their land. But no matter in what straits the Pennsylvanian or Virginian found himself, he would not let his daughters go out into service. Unless his girls could teach a country school, they sat at home in poverty. The Bohemian and Scandinavian girls could not get positions as teachers, because they had had no opportunity to learn the language. Determined to help in the struggle to clear the homestead from debt, they had no alternative but to go into service. Some of them, after they came to town, remained as serious and as discreet in behavior as they had been when they ploughed and herded on their father’s farm. Others, like the three Bohemian Marys, tried to make up for the years of youth they had lost. But every one of them did what she had set out to do, and sent home those hard-earned dollars. The girls I knew were always helping to pay for ploughs and reapers, brood-sows, or steers to fatten. One result of this family solidarity was that the foreign farmers in our county were the first to become prosperous. After the fathers were out of debt, the daughters married the sons of neighbors,—usually of like nationality,—and the girls who once worked in Black Hawk kitchens are to-day managing big farms and fine families of their own; their children are better off than the children of the town women they used to serve. I thought the attitude of the town people toward these girls very stupid. If I told my schoolmates that Lena Lingard’s grandfather was a clergyman, and much respected in Norway, they looked at me blankly. What did it matter? All foreigners were ignorant people who could n’t speak English. There was not a man in Black Hawk who had the intelligence or cultivation, much less the personal distinction, of Ántonia’s father. Yet people saw no difference between her and the three Marys; they were all Bohemians, all “hired girls.” I always knew I should live long enough to see my country girls come into their own, and I have. To-day the best that a harassed Black Hawk merchant can hope for is to sell provisions and farm machinery and automobiles to the rich farms where that first crop of stalwart Bohemian and Scandinavian girls are now the mistresses. The Black Hawk boys looked forward to marrying Black Hawk girls, and living in a brand-new little house with best chairs that must not be sat upon, and hand-painted china that must not be used. But sometimes a young fellow would look up from his ledger, or out through the grating of his father’s bank, and let his eyes follow Lena Lingard, as she passed the window with her slow, undulating walk, or Tiny Soderball, tripping by in her short skirt and striped stockings. The country girls were considered a menace	My Antonia
he said; and Madame Olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. The room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. It was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which Madame Olenska sat down opposite to him. A woman who had run away from her husband--and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. By being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other.... XXIV. They lunched slowly and meditatively, with mute intervals between rushes of talk; for, the spell once broken, they had much to say, and yet moments when saying became the mere accompaniment to long duologues of silence. Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, not with conscious intention but because he did not want to miss a word of her history; and leaning on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, she talked to him of the year and a half since they had met. She had grown tired of what people called "society"; New York was kind, it was almost oppressively hospitable; she should never forget the way in which it had welcomed her back; but after the first flush of novelty she had found herself, as she phrased it, too "different" to care for the things it cared about--and so she had decided to try Washington, where one was supposed to meet more varieties of people and of opinion. And on the whole she should probably settle down in Washington, and make a home there for poor Medora, who had worn out the patience of all her other relations just at the time when she most needed looking after and protecting from matrimonial perils.	No speaker	ask for a private room,"<\|quote\|>he said; and Madame Olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. The room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. It was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which Madame Olenska sat down opposite to him. A woman who had run away from her husband--and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. By being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other.... XXIV. They lunched slowly and meditatively, with mute intervals between rushes of talk; for, the spell once broken, they had much to say, and yet moments when saying became the mere accompaniment to long duologues of silence. Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, not with conscious intention but because he did not want to miss a word of her history; and leaning on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, she talked to him of the year and a half since they had met. She had grown tired of what people called "society"; New York was kind, it was almost oppressively hospitable; she should never forget the way in which it had welcomed her back; but after the first flush of novelty she had found herself, as she phrased it, too "different" to care for the things it cared about--and so she had decided to try Washington, where one was supposed to meet more varieties of people and of opinion. And on the whole she should probably settle down in Washington, and make a home there for poor Medora, who had worn out the patience of all her other relations just at the time when she most needed looking after and protecting from matrimonial perils.</\|quote\|>"But Dr. Carver--aren't you afraid	their noise. "This is hopeless--I'll ask for a private room,"<\|quote\|>he said; and Madame Olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. The room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. It was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which Madame Olenska sat down opposite to him. A woman who had run away from her husband--and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. By being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other.... XXIV. They lunched slowly and meditatively, with mute intervals between rushes of talk; for, the spell once broken, they had much to say, and yet moments when saying became the mere accompaniment to long duologues of silence. Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, not with conscious intention but because he did not want to miss a word of her history; and leaning on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, she talked to him of the year and a half since they had met. She had grown tired of what people called "society"; New York was kind, it was almost oppressively hospitable; she should never forget the way in which it had welcomed her back; but after the first flush of novelty she had found herself, as she phrased it, too "different" to care for the things it cared about--and so she had decided to try Washington, where one was supposed to meet more varieties of people and of opinion. And on the whole she should probably settle down in Washington, and make a home there for poor Medora, who had worn out the patience of all her other relations just at the time when she most needed looking after and protecting from matrimonial perils.</\|quote\|>"But Dr. Carver--aren't you afraid of Dr. Carver? I hear	the inn, which he had hoped they would have to themselves, they found a strident party of innocent-looking young men and women--school-teachers on a holiday, the landlord told them--and Archer's heart sank at the idea of having to talk through their noise. "This is hopeless--I'll ask for a private room,"<\|quote\|>he said; and Madame Olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. The room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. It was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which Madame Olenska sat down opposite to him. A woman who had run away from her husband--and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. By being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other.... XXIV. They lunched slowly and meditatively, with mute intervals between rushes of talk; for, the spell once broken, they had much to say, and yet moments when saying became the mere accompaniment to long duologues of silence. Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, not with conscious intention but because he did not want to miss a word of her history; and leaning on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, she talked to him of the year and a half since they had met. She had grown tired of what people called "society"; New York was kind, it was almost oppressively hospitable; she should never forget the way in which it had welcomed her back; but after the first flush of novelty she had found herself, as she phrased it, too "different" to care for the things it cared about--and so she had decided to try Washington, where one was supposed to meet more varieties of people and of opinion. And on the whole she should probably settle down in Washington, and make a home there for poor Medora, who had worn out the patience of all her other relations just at the time when she most needed looking after and protecting from matrimonial perils.</\|quote\|>"But Dr. Carver--aren't you afraid of Dr. Carver? I hear he's been staying with you at the Blenkers'." She smiled. "Oh, the Carver danger is over. Dr. Carver is a very clever man. He wants a rich wife to finance his plans, and Medora is simply a good advertisement as	it left her face uncovered, and Archer was struck by the tranquil gaiety of her expression. She seemed to take their adventure as a matter of course, and to be neither in fear of unexpected encounters, nor (what was worse) unduly elated by their possibility. In the bare dining-room of the inn, which he had hoped they would have to themselves, they found a strident party of innocent-looking young men and women--school-teachers on a holiday, the landlord told them--and Archer's heart sank at the idea of having to talk through their noise. "This is hopeless--I'll ask for a private room,"<\|quote\|>he said; and Madame Olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. The room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. It was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which Madame Olenska sat down opposite to him. A woman who had run away from her husband--and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. By being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other.... XXIV. They lunched slowly and meditatively, with mute intervals between rushes of talk; for, the spell once broken, they had much to say, and yet moments when saying became the mere accompaniment to long duologues of silence. Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, not with conscious intention but because he did not want to miss a word of her history; and leaning on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, she talked to him of the year and a half since they had met. She had grown tired of what people called "society"; New York was kind, it was almost oppressively hospitable; she should never forget the way in which it had welcomed her back; but after the first flush of novelty she had found herself, as she phrased it, too "different" to care for the things it cared about--and so she had decided to try Washington, where one was supposed to meet more varieties of people and of opinion. And on the whole she should probably settle down in Washington, and make a home there for poor Medora, who had worn out the patience of all her other relations just at the time when she most needed looking after and protecting from matrimonial perils.</\|quote\|>"But Dr. Carver--aren't you afraid of Dr. Carver? I hear he's been staying with you at the Blenkers'." She smiled. "Oh, the Carver danger is over. Dr. Carver is a very clever man. He wants a rich wife to finance his plans, and Medora is simply a good advertisement as a convert." "A convert to what?" "To all sorts of new and crazy social schemes. But, do you know, they interest me more than the blind conformity to tradition--somebody else's tradition--that I see among our own friends. It seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it into a	drifting forth into this unknown world, they seemed to have reached the kind of deeper nearness that a touch may sunder. As the boat left the harbour and turned seaward a breeze stirred about them and the bay broke up into long oily undulations, then into ripples tipped with spray. The fog of sultriness still hung over the city, but ahead lay a fresh world of ruffled waters, and distant promontories with light-houses in the sun. Madame Olenska, leaning back against the boat-rail, drank in the coolness between parted lips. She had wound a long veil about her hat, but it left her face uncovered, and Archer was struck by the tranquil gaiety of her expression. She seemed to take their adventure as a matter of course, and to be neither in fear of unexpected encounters, nor (what was worse) unduly elated by their possibility. In the bare dining-room of the inn, which he had hoped they would have to themselves, they found a strident party of innocent-looking young men and women--school-teachers on a holiday, the landlord told them--and Archer's heart sank at the idea of having to talk through their noise. "This is hopeless--I'll ask for a private room,"<\|quote\|>he said; and Madame Olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. The room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. It was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which Madame Olenska sat down opposite to him. A woman who had run away from her husband--and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. By being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other.... XXIV. They lunched slowly and meditatively, with mute intervals between rushes of talk; for, the spell once broken, they had much to say, and yet moments when saying became the mere accompaniment to long duologues of silence. Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, not with conscious intention but because he did not want to miss a word of her history; and leaning on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, she talked to him of the year and a half since they had met. She had grown tired of what people called "society"; New York was kind, it was almost oppressively hospitable; she should never forget the way in which it had welcomed her back; but after the first flush of novelty she had found herself, as she phrased it, too "different" to care for the things it cared about--and so she had decided to try Washington, where one was supposed to meet more varieties of people and of opinion. And on the whole she should probably settle down in Washington, and make a home there for poor Medora, who had worn out the patience of all her other relations just at the time when she most needed looking after and protecting from matrimonial perils.</\|quote\|>"But Dr. Carver--aren't you afraid of Dr. Carver? I hear he's been staying with you at the Blenkers'." She smiled. "Oh, the Carver danger is over. Dr. Carver is a very clever man. He wants a rich wife to finance his plans, and Medora is simply a good advertisement as a convert." "A convert to what?" "To all sorts of new and crazy social schemes. But, do you know, they interest me more than the blind conformity to tradition--somebody else's tradition--that I see among our own friends. It seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it into a copy of another country." She smiled across the table. "Do you suppose Christopher Columbus would have taken all that trouble just to go to the Opera with the Selfridge Merrys?" Archer changed colour. "And Beaufort--do you say these things to Beaufort?" he asked abruptly. "I haven't seen him for a long time. But I used to; and he understands." "Ah, it's what I've always told you; you don't like us. And you like Beaufort because he's so unlike us." He looked about the bare room and out at the bare beach and the row of stark white village houses strung	windows that made talk impossible they bumped over the disjointed cobblestones to the wharf. Seated side by side on a bench of the half-empty boat they found that they had hardly anything to say to each other, or rather that what they had to say communicated itself best in the blessed silence of their release and their isolation. As the paddle-wheels began to turn, and wharves and shipping to recede through the veil of heat, it seemed to Archer that everything in the old familiar world of habit was receding also. He longed to ask Madame Olenska if she did not have the same feeling: the feeling that they were starting on some long voyage from which they might never return. But he was afraid to say it, or anything else that might disturb the delicate balance of her trust in him. In reality he had no wish to betray that trust. There had been days and nights when the memory of their kiss had burned and burned on his lips; the day before even, on the drive to Portsmouth, the thought of her had run through him like fire; but now that she was beside him, and they were drifting forth into this unknown world, they seemed to have reached the kind of deeper nearness that a touch may sunder. As the boat left the harbour and turned seaward a breeze stirred about them and the bay broke up into long oily undulations, then into ripples tipped with spray. The fog of sultriness still hung over the city, but ahead lay a fresh world of ruffled waters, and distant promontories with light-houses in the sun. Madame Olenska, leaning back against the boat-rail, drank in the coolness between parted lips. She had wound a long veil about her hat, but it left her face uncovered, and Archer was struck by the tranquil gaiety of her expression. She seemed to take their adventure as a matter of course, and to be neither in fear of unexpected encounters, nor (what was worse) unduly elated by their possibility. In the bare dining-room of the inn, which he had hoped they would have to themselves, they found a strident party of innocent-looking young men and women--school-teachers on a holiday, the landlord told them--and Archer's heart sank at the idea of having to talk through their noise. "This is hopeless--I'll ask for a private room,"<\|quote\|>he said; and Madame Olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. The room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. It was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which Madame Olenska sat down opposite to him. A woman who had run away from her husband--and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. By being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other.... XXIV. They lunched slowly and meditatively, with mute intervals between rushes of talk; for, the spell once broken, they had much to say, and yet moments when saying became the mere accompaniment to long duologues of silence. Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, not with conscious intention but because he did not want to miss a word of her history; and leaning on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, she talked to him of the year and a half since they had met. She had grown tired of what people called "society"; New York was kind, it was almost oppressively hospitable; she should never forget the way in which it had welcomed her back; but after the first flush of novelty she had found herself, as she phrased it, too "different" to care for the things it cared about--and so she had decided to try Washington, where one was supposed to meet more varieties of people and of opinion. And on the whole she should probably settle down in Washington, and make a home there for poor Medora, who had worn out the patience of all her other relations just at the time when she most needed looking after and protecting from matrimonial perils.</\|quote\|>"But Dr. Carver--aren't you afraid of Dr. Carver? I hear he's been staying with you at the Blenkers'." She smiled. "Oh, the Carver danger is over. Dr. Carver is a very clever man. He wants a rich wife to finance his plans, and Medora is simply a good advertisement as a convert." "A convert to what?" "To all sorts of new and crazy social schemes. But, do you know, they interest me more than the blind conformity to tradition--somebody else's tradition--that I see among our own friends. It seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it into a copy of another country." She smiled across the table. "Do you suppose Christopher Columbus would have taken all that trouble just to go to the Opera with the Selfridge Merrys?" Archer changed colour. "And Beaufort--do you say these things to Beaufort?" he asked abruptly. "I haven't seen him for a long time. But I used to; and he understands." "Ah, it's what I've always told you; you don't like us. And you like Beaufort because he's so unlike us." He looked about the bare room and out at the bare beach and the row of stark white village houses strung along the shore. "We're damnably dull. We've no character, no colour, no variety.--I wonder," he broke out, "why you don't go back?" Her eyes darkened, and he expected an indignant rejoinder. But she sat silent, as if thinking over what he had said, and he grew frightened lest she should answer that she wondered too. At length she said: "I believe it's because of you." It was impossible to make the confession more dispassionately, or in a tone less encouraging to the vanity of the person addressed. Archer reddened to the temples, but dared not move or speak: it was as if her words had been some rare butterfly that the least motion might drive off on startled wings, but that might gather a flock about it if it were left undisturbed. "At least," she continued, "it was you who made me understand that under the dullness there are things so fine and sensitive and delicate that even those I most cared for in my other life look cheap in comparison. I don't know how to explain myself" "--she drew together her troubled brows--" "but it seems as if I'd never before understood with how much that is hard and	among the travellers with cooling drinks at their elbows of whom Archer had caught a glimpse as she went in? He waited, pacing up and down before the herdic. A Sicilian youth with eyes like Nastasia's offered to shine his boots, and an Irish matron to sell him peaches; and every few moments the doors opened to let out hot men with straw hats tilted far back, who glanced at him as they went by. He marvelled that the door should open so often, and that all the people it let out should look so like each other, and so like all the other hot men who, at that hour, through the length and breadth of the land, were passing continuously in and out of the swinging doors of hotels. And then, suddenly, came a face that he could not relate to the other faces. He caught but a flash of it, for his pacings had carried him to the farthest point of his beat, and it was in turning back to the hotel that he saw, in a group of typical countenances--the lank and weary, the round and surprised, the lantern-jawed and mild--this other face that was so many more things at once, and things so different. It was that of a young man, pale too, and half-extinguished by the heat, or worry, or both, but somehow, quicker, vivider, more conscious; or perhaps seeming so because he was so different. Archer hung a moment on a thin thread of memory, but it snapped and floated off with the disappearing face--apparently that of some foreign business man, looking doubly foreign in such a setting. He vanished in the stream of passersby, and Archer resumed his patrol. He did not care to be seen watch in hand within view of the hotel, and his unaided reckoning of the lapse of time led him to conclude that, if Madame Olenska was so long in reappearing, it could only be because she had met the emissary and been waylaid by him. At the thought Archer's apprehension rose to anguish. "If she doesn't come soon I'll go in and find her," he said. The doors swung open again and she was at his side. They got into the herdic, and as it drove off he took out his watch and saw that she had been absent just three minutes. In the clatter of loose windows that made talk impossible they bumped over the disjointed cobblestones to the wharf. Seated side by side on a bench of the half-empty boat they found that they had hardly anything to say to each other, or rather that what they had to say communicated itself best in the blessed silence of their release and their isolation. As the paddle-wheels began to turn, and wharves and shipping to recede through the veil of heat, it seemed to Archer that everything in the old familiar world of habit was receding also. He longed to ask Madame Olenska if she did not have the same feeling: the feeling that they were starting on some long voyage from which they might never return. But he was afraid to say it, or anything else that might disturb the delicate balance of her trust in him. In reality he had no wish to betray that trust. There had been days and nights when the memory of their kiss had burned and burned on his lips; the day before even, on the drive to Portsmouth, the thought of her had run through him like fire; but now that she was beside him, and they were drifting forth into this unknown world, they seemed to have reached the kind of deeper nearness that a touch may sunder. As the boat left the harbour and turned seaward a breeze stirred about them and the bay broke up into long oily undulations, then into ripples tipped with spray. The fog of sultriness still hung over the city, but ahead lay a fresh world of ruffled waters, and distant promontories with light-houses in the sun. Madame Olenska, leaning back against the boat-rail, drank in the coolness between parted lips. She had wound a long veil about her hat, but it left her face uncovered, and Archer was struck by the tranquil gaiety of her expression. She seemed to take their adventure as a matter of course, and to be neither in fear of unexpected encounters, nor (what was worse) unduly elated by their possibility. In the bare dining-room of the inn, which he had hoped they would have to themselves, they found a strident party of innocent-looking young men and women--school-teachers on a holiday, the landlord told them--and Archer's heart sank at the idea of having to talk through their noise. "This is hopeless--I'll ask for a private room,"<\|quote\|>he said; and Madame Olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. The room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. It was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which Madame Olenska sat down opposite to him. A woman who had run away from her husband--and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. By being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other.... XXIV. They lunched slowly and meditatively, with mute intervals between rushes of talk; for, the spell once broken, they had much to say, and yet moments when saying became the mere accompaniment to long duologues of silence. Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, not with conscious intention but because he did not want to miss a word of her history; and leaning on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, she talked to him of the year and a half since they had met. She had grown tired of what people called "society"; New York was kind, it was almost oppressively hospitable; she should never forget the way in which it had welcomed her back; but after the first flush of novelty she had found herself, as she phrased it, too "different" to care for the things it cared about--and so she had decided to try Washington, where one was supposed to meet more varieties of people and of opinion. And on the whole she should probably settle down in Washington, and make a home there for poor Medora, who had worn out the patience of all her other relations just at the time when she most needed looking after and protecting from matrimonial perils.</\|quote\|>"But Dr. Carver--aren't you afraid of Dr. Carver? I hear he's been staying with you at the Blenkers'." She smiled. "Oh, the Carver danger is over. Dr. Carver is a very clever man. He wants a rich wife to finance his plans, and Medora is simply a good advertisement as a convert." "A convert to what?" "To all sorts of new and crazy social schemes. But, do you know, they interest me more than the blind conformity to tradition--somebody else's tradition--that I see among our own friends. It seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it into a copy of another country." She smiled across the table. "Do you suppose Christopher Columbus would have taken all that trouble just to go to the Opera with the Selfridge Merrys?" Archer changed colour. "And Beaufort--do you say these things to Beaufort?" he asked abruptly. "I haven't seen him for a long time. But I used to; and he understands." "Ah, it's what I've always told you; you don't like us. And you like Beaufort because he's so unlike us." He looked about the bare room and out at the bare beach and the row of stark white village houses strung along the shore. "We're damnably dull. We've no character, no colour, no variety.--I wonder," he broke out, "why you don't go back?" Her eyes darkened, and he expected an indignant rejoinder. But she sat silent, as if thinking over what he had said, and he grew frightened lest she should answer that she wondered too. At length she said: "I believe it's because of you." It was impossible to make the confession more dispassionately, or in a tone less encouraging to the vanity of the person addressed. Archer reddened to the temples, but dared not move or speak: it was as if her words had been some rare butterfly that the least motion might drive off on startled wings, but that might gather a flock about it if it were left undisturbed. "At least," she continued, "it was you who made me understand that under the dullness there are things so fine and sensitive and delicate that even those I most cared for in my other life look cheap in comparison. I don't know how to explain myself" "--she drew together her troubled brows--" "but it seems as if I'd never before understood with how much that is hard and shabby and base the most exquisite pleasures may be paid." "Exquisite pleasures--it's something to have had them!" he felt like retorting; but the appeal in her eyes kept him silent. "I want," she went on, "to be perfectly honest with you--and with myself. For a long time I've hoped this chance would come: that I might tell you how you've helped me, what you've made of me--" Archer sat staring beneath frowning brows. He interrupted her with a laugh. "And what do you make out that you've made of me?" She paled a little. "Of you?" "Yes: for I'm of your making much more than you ever were of mine. I'm the man who married one woman because another one told him to." Her paleness turned to a fugitive flush. "I thought--you promised--you were not to say such things today." "Ah--how like a woman! None of you will ever see a bad business through!" She lowered her voice. "IS it a bad business--for May?" He stood in the window, drumming against the raised sash, and feeling in every fibre the wistful tenderness with which she had spoken her cousin's name. "For that's the thing we've always got to think of--haven't we--by your own showing?" she insisted. "My own showing?" he echoed, his blank eyes still on the sea. "Or if not," she continued, pursuing her own thought with a painful application, "if it's not worth while to have given up, to have missed things, so that others may be saved from disillusionment and misery--then everything I came home for, everything that made my other life seem by contrast so bare and so poor because no one there took account of them--all these things are a sham or a dream--" He turned around without moving from his place. "And in that case there's no reason on earth why you shouldn't go back?" he concluded for her. Her eyes were clinging to him desperately. "Oh, IS there no reason?" "Not if you staked your all on the success of my marriage. My marriage," he said savagely, "isn't going to be a sight to keep you here." She made no answer, and he went on: "What's the use? You gave me my first glimpse of a real life, and at the same moment you asked me to go on with a sham one. It's beyond human enduring--that's all." "Oh, don't say that; when	within view of the hotel, and his unaided reckoning of the lapse of time led him to conclude that, if Madame Olenska was so long in reappearing, it could only be because she had met the emissary and been waylaid by him. At the thought Archer's apprehension rose to anguish. "If she doesn't come soon I'll go in and find her," he said. The doors swung open again and she was at his side. They got into the herdic, and as it drove off he took out his watch and saw that she had been absent just three minutes. In the clatter of loose windows that made talk impossible they bumped over the disjointed cobblestones to the wharf. Seated side by side on a bench of the half-empty boat they found that they had hardly anything to say to each other, or rather that what they had to say communicated itself best in the blessed silence of their release and their isolation. As the paddle-wheels began to turn, and wharves and shipping to recede through the veil of heat, it seemed to Archer that everything in the old familiar world of habit was receding also. He longed to ask Madame Olenska if she did not have the same feeling: the feeling that they were starting on some long voyage from which they might never return. But he was afraid to say it, or anything else that might disturb the delicate balance of her trust in him. In reality he had no wish to betray that trust. There had been days and nights when the memory of their kiss had burned and burned on his lips; the day before even, on the drive to Portsmouth, the thought of her had run through him like fire; but now that she was beside him, and they were drifting forth into this unknown world, they seemed to have reached the kind of deeper nearness that a touch may sunder. As the boat left the harbour and turned seaward a breeze stirred about them and the bay broke up into long oily undulations, then into ripples tipped with spray. The fog of sultriness still hung over the city, but ahead lay a fresh world of ruffled waters, and distant promontories with light-houses in the sun. Madame Olenska, leaning back against the boat-rail, drank in the coolness between parted lips. She had wound a long veil about her hat, but it left her face uncovered, and Archer was struck by the tranquil gaiety of her expression. She seemed to take their adventure as a matter of course, and to be neither in fear of unexpected encounters, nor (what was worse) unduly elated by their possibility. In the bare dining-room of the inn, which he had hoped they would have to themselves, they found a strident party of innocent-looking young men and women--school-teachers on a holiday, the landlord told them--and Archer's heart sank at the idea of having to talk through their noise. "This is hopeless--I'll ask for a private room,"<\|quote\|>he said; and Madame Olenska, without offering any objection, waited while he went in search of it. The room opened on a long wooden verandah, with the sea coming in at the windows. It was bare and cool, with a table covered with a coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bottle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage. No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple: Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassurance in the faintly amused smile with which Madame Olenska sat down opposite to him. A woman who had run away from her husband--and reputedly with another man--was likely to have mastered the art of taking things for granted; but something in the quality of her composure took the edge from his irony. By being so quiet, so unsurprised and so simple she had managed to brush away the conventions and make him feel that to seek to be alone was the natural thing for two old friends who had so much to say to each other.... XXIV. They lunched slowly and meditatively, with mute intervals between rushes of talk; for, the spell once broken, they had much to say, and yet moments when saying became the mere accompaniment to long duologues of silence. Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, not with conscious intention but because he did not want to miss a word of her history; and leaning on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands, she talked to him of the year and a half since they had met. She had grown tired of what people called "society"; New York was kind, it was almost oppressively hospitable; she should never forget the way in which it had welcomed her back; but after the first flush of novelty she had found herself, as she phrased it, too "different" to care for the things it cared about--and so she had decided to try Washington, where one was supposed to meet more varieties of people and of opinion. And on the whole she should probably settle down in Washington, and make a home there for poor Medora, who had worn out the patience of all her other relations just at the time when she most needed looking after and protecting from matrimonial perils.</\|quote\|>"But Dr. Carver--aren't you afraid of Dr. Carver? I hear he's been staying with you at the Blenkers'." She smiled. "Oh, the Carver danger is over. Dr. Carver is a very clever man. He wants a rich wife to finance his plans, and Medora is simply a good advertisement as a convert." "A convert to what?" "To all sorts of new and crazy social schemes. But, do you know, they interest me more than the blind conformity to tradition--somebody else's tradition--that I see among our own friends. It seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it into a copy of another country." She smiled across the table. "Do you suppose Christopher Columbus would have taken all that trouble just to go to the Opera with the Selfridge Merrys?" Archer changed colour. "And Beaufort--do you say these things to Beaufort?" he asked abruptly. "I haven't seen him for a long time. But I used to; and he understands." "Ah, it's what I've always told you; you don't like us. And you like Beaufort because he's so unlike us." He looked about the bare room and out at the bare beach and the row of stark white village houses strung along the shore. "We're damnably dull. We've no character, no colour, no variety.--I wonder," he broke out, "why you don't go back?" Her eyes darkened, and he expected an indignant rejoinder. But she sat silent, as if thinking over what he had said, and he grew frightened lest she should answer that she wondered too. At length she said: "I believe it's because of you." It was impossible to make the confession more dispassionately, or in a tone less encouraging to the vanity of the person addressed. Archer reddened to the temples, but dared not move or speak: it was as if her words had been some rare butterfly that the least motion might drive off on startled wings, but that might gather a flock about it if it were left undisturbed. "At least," she continued, "it was you who made me understand that under the dullness there are things so fine and sensitive and delicate that even those I most cared for in my other life look cheap in comparison. I don't know how to explain myself" "--she drew together her troubled brows--" "but it seems as if I'd never before understood with how much that is hard and shabby and base the most exquisite pleasures may be paid." "Exquisite pleasures--it's something to have had them!" he felt like retorting; but the appeal in her eyes kept him silent. "I want,"	The Age Of Innocence
"I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals--and we, at our age, can t change houses. It s humiliating."	Margaret	easy as eating," returned Helen.<\|quote\|>"I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals--and we, at our age, can t change houses. It s humiliating."</\|quote\|>"Your father may have been	one?" "It will be as easy as eating," returned Helen.<\|quote\|>"I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals--and we, at our age, can t change houses. It s humiliating."</\|quote\|>"Your father may have been able to change countries," said	the sort. Say yes." "Say no. " Then Margaret spoke rather seriously. "I think," she said, "that our race is degenerating. We cannot settle even this little thing; what will it be like when we have to settle a big one?" "It will be as easy as eating," returned Helen.<\|quote\|>"I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals--and we, at our age, can t change houses. It s humiliating."</\|quote\|>"Your father may have been able to change countries," said Mrs. Munt with asperity, "and that may or may not be a good thing. But he could change houses no better than you can, in fact, much worse. Never shall I forget what poor Emily suffered in the move from	"Now, children, which is it to be? You know the Ducie Street house. Shall I say yes or shall I say no? Tibby love--which? I m specially anxious to pin you both." "It all depends on what meaning you attach to the word possible " "It depends on nothing of the sort. Say yes." "Say no. " Then Margaret spoke rather seriously. "I think," she said, "that our race is degenerating. We cannot settle even this little thing; what will it be like when we have to settle a big one?" "It will be as easy as eating," returned Helen.<\|quote\|>"I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals--and we, at our age, can t change houses. It s humiliating."</\|quote\|>"Your father may have been able to change countries," said Mrs. Munt with asperity, "and that may or may not be a good thing. But he could change houses no better than you can, in fact, much worse. Never shall I forget what poor Emily suffered in the move from Manchester." "I knew it," cried Helen. "I told you so. It is the little things one bungles at. The big, real ones are nothing when they come." "Bungle, my dear! You are too little to recollect--in fact, you weren t there. But the furniture was actually in the vans and	"I don t MANAGE the Wilcoxes; I don t see where they come IN." "No more do I," agreed Helen. "It s funny that we just don t lose sight of them. Out of all our hotel acquaintances, Mr. Wilcox is the only one who has stuck. It is now over three years, and we have drifted away from far more interesting people in that time." "Interesting people don t get one houses." "Meg, if you start in your honest-English vein, I shall throw the treacle at you." "It s a better vein than the cosmopolitan," said Margaret, getting up. "Now, children, which is it to be? You know the Ducie Street house. Shall I say yes or shall I say no? Tibby love--which? I m specially anxious to pin you both." "It all depends on what meaning you attach to the word possible " "It depends on nothing of the sort. Say yes." "Say no. " Then Margaret spoke rather seriously. "I think," she said, "that our race is degenerating. We cannot settle even this little thing; what will it be like when we have to settle a big one?" "It will be as easy as eating," returned Helen.<\|quote\|>"I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals--and we, at our age, can t change houses. It s humiliating."</\|quote\|>"Your father may have been able to change countries," said Mrs. Munt with asperity, "and that may or may not be a good thing. But he could change houses no better than you can, in fact, much worse. Never shall I forget what poor Emily suffered in the move from Manchester." "I knew it," cried Helen. "I told you so. It is the little things one bungles at. The big, real ones are nothing when they come." "Bungle, my dear! You are too little to recollect--in fact, you weren t there. But the furniture was actually in the vans and on the move before the lease for Wickham Place was signed, and Emily took train with baby--who was Margaret then--and the smaller luggage for London, without so much as knowing where her new home would be. Getting away from that house may be hard, but it is nothing to the misery that we all went through getting you into it." Helen, with her mouth full, cried: "And that s the man who beat the Austrians, and the Danes, and the French, and who beat the Germans that were inside himself. And we re like him." "Speak for yourself," said Tibby.	would seem strange to the others. As soon as she began speaking, the sound of her own voice reassured her. There could be nothing in it. The replies also were typical, and in the burr of conversation her fears vanished. "You needn t go though--" began her hostess. "I needn t, but hadn t I better? It s really getting rather serious. We let chance after chance slip, and the end of it is we shall be bundled out bag and baggage into the street. We don t know what we WANT, that s the mischief with us--" "No, we have no real ties," said Helen, helping herself to toast. "Shan t I go up to town to-day, take the house if it s the least possible, and then come down by the afternoon train to-morrow, and start enjoying myself. I shall be no fun to myself or to others until this business is off my mind." "But you won t do anything rash, Margaret?" "There s nothing rash to do." "Who ARE the Wilcoxes?" said Tibby, a question that sounds silly, but was really extremely subtle as his aunt found to her cost when she tried to answer it. "I don t MANAGE the Wilcoxes; I don t see where they come IN." "No more do I," agreed Helen. "It s funny that we just don t lose sight of them. Out of all our hotel acquaintances, Mr. Wilcox is the only one who has stuck. It is now over three years, and we have drifted away from far more interesting people in that time." "Interesting people don t get one houses." "Meg, if you start in your honest-English vein, I shall throw the treacle at you." "It s a better vein than the cosmopolitan," said Margaret, getting up. "Now, children, which is it to be? You know the Ducie Street house. Shall I say yes or shall I say no? Tibby love--which? I m specially anxious to pin you both." "It all depends on what meaning you attach to the word possible " "It depends on nothing of the sort. Say yes." "Say no. " Then Margaret spoke rather seriously. "I think," she said, "that our race is degenerating. We cannot settle even this little thing; what will it be like when we have to settle a big one?" "It will be as easy as eating," returned Helen.<\|quote\|>"I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals--and we, at our age, can t change houses. It s humiliating."</\|quote\|>"Your father may have been able to change countries," said Mrs. Munt with asperity, "and that may or may not be a good thing. But he could change houses no better than you can, in fact, much worse. Never shall I forget what poor Emily suffered in the move from Manchester." "I knew it," cried Helen. "I told you so. It is the little things one bungles at. The big, real ones are nothing when they come." "Bungle, my dear! You are too little to recollect--in fact, you weren t there. But the furniture was actually in the vans and on the move before the lease for Wickham Place was signed, and Emily took train with baby--who was Margaret then--and the smaller luggage for London, without so much as knowing where her new home would be. Getting away from that house may be hard, but it is nothing to the misery that we all went through getting you into it." Helen, with her mouth full, cried: "And that s the man who beat the Austrians, and the Danes, and the French, and who beat the Germans that were inside himself. And we re like him." "Speak for yourself," said Tibby. "Remember that I am cosmopolitan, please." "Helen may be right." "Of course she s right," said Helen. Helen might be right, but she did not go up to London. Margaret did that. An interrupted holiday is the worst of the minor worries, and one may be pardoned for feeling morbid when a business letter snatches one away from the sea and friends. She could not believe that her father had ever felt the same. Her eyes had been troubling her lately, so that she could not read in the train and it bored her to look at the landscape, which she had seen but yesterday. At Southampton she "waved" to Frieda; Frieda was on her way down to join them at Swanage, and Mrs. Munt had calculated that their trains would cross. But Frieda was looking the other way, and Margaret travelled on to town feeling solitary and old-maidish. How like an old maid to fancy that Mr. Wilcox was courting her! She had once visited a spinster--poor, silly, and unattractive--whose mania it was that every man who approached her fell in love. How Margaret s heart had bled for the deluded thing! How she had lectured, reasoned, and in	time they finished lunch, and Margaret, who had excused herself from the Hippodrome, took her leave. Evie had scarcely addressed her, and she suspected that the entertainment had been planned by the father. He and she were advancing out of their respective families towards a more intimate acquaintance. It had begun long ago. She had been his wife s friend and, as such, he had given her that silver vinaigrette as a memento. It was pretty of him to have given that vinaigrette, and he had always preferred her to Helen--unlike most men. But the advance had been astonishing lately. They had done more in a week than in two years, and were really beginning to know each other. She did not forget his promise to sample Eustace Miles, and asked him as soon as she could secure Tibby as his chaperon. He came, and partook of body-building dishes with humility. Next morning the Schlegels left for Swanage. They had not succeeded in finding a new home. CHAPTER XVIII As they were seated at Aunt Juley s breakfast-table at The Bays, parrying her excessive hospitality and enjoying the view of the bay, a letter came for Margaret and threw her into perturbation. It was from Mr. Wilcox. It announced an "important change" in his plans. Owing to Evie s marriage, he had decided to give up his house in Ducie Street, and was willing to let it on a yearly tenancy. It was a businesslike letter, and stated frankly what he would do for them and what he would not do. Also the rent. If they approved, Margaret was to come up AT ONCE--the words were underlined, as is necessary when dealing with women--and to go over the house with him. If they disapproved, a wire would oblige, as he should put it into the hands of an agent. The letter perturbed, because she was not sure what it meant. If he liked her, if he had manoeuvred to get her to Simpson s, might this be a manoeuvre to get her to London, and result in an offer of marriage? She put it to herself as indelicately as possible, in the hope that her brain would cry, "Rubbish, you re a self-conscious fool!" But her brain only tingled a little and was silent, and for a time she sat gazing at the mincing waves, and wondering whether the news would seem strange to the others. As soon as she began speaking, the sound of her own voice reassured her. There could be nothing in it. The replies also were typical, and in the burr of conversation her fears vanished. "You needn t go though--" began her hostess. "I needn t, but hadn t I better? It s really getting rather serious. We let chance after chance slip, and the end of it is we shall be bundled out bag and baggage into the street. We don t know what we WANT, that s the mischief with us--" "No, we have no real ties," said Helen, helping herself to toast. "Shan t I go up to town to-day, take the house if it s the least possible, and then come down by the afternoon train to-morrow, and start enjoying myself. I shall be no fun to myself or to others until this business is off my mind." "But you won t do anything rash, Margaret?" "There s nothing rash to do." "Who ARE the Wilcoxes?" said Tibby, a question that sounds silly, but was really extremely subtle as his aunt found to her cost when she tried to answer it. "I don t MANAGE the Wilcoxes; I don t see where they come IN." "No more do I," agreed Helen. "It s funny that we just don t lose sight of them. Out of all our hotel acquaintances, Mr. Wilcox is the only one who has stuck. It is now over three years, and we have drifted away from far more interesting people in that time." "Interesting people don t get one houses." "Meg, if you start in your honest-English vein, I shall throw the treacle at you." "It s a better vein than the cosmopolitan," said Margaret, getting up. "Now, children, which is it to be? You know the Ducie Street house. Shall I say yes or shall I say no? Tibby love--which? I m specially anxious to pin you both." "It all depends on what meaning you attach to the word possible " "It depends on nothing of the sort. Say yes." "Say no. " Then Margaret spoke rather seriously. "I think," she said, "that our race is degenerating. We cannot settle even this little thing; what will it be like when we have to settle a big one?" "It will be as easy as eating," returned Helen.<\|quote\|>"I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals--and we, at our age, can t change houses. It s humiliating."</\|quote\|>"Your father may have been able to change countries," said Mrs. Munt with asperity, "and that may or may not be a good thing. But he could change houses no better than you can, in fact, much worse. Never shall I forget what poor Emily suffered in the move from Manchester." "I knew it," cried Helen. "I told you so. It is the little things one bungles at. The big, real ones are nothing when they come." "Bungle, my dear! You are too little to recollect--in fact, you weren t there. But the furniture was actually in the vans and on the move before the lease for Wickham Place was signed, and Emily took train with baby--who was Margaret then--and the smaller luggage for London, without so much as knowing where her new home would be. Getting away from that house may be hard, but it is nothing to the misery that we all went through getting you into it." Helen, with her mouth full, cried: "And that s the man who beat the Austrians, and the Danes, and the French, and who beat the Germans that were inside himself. And we re like him." "Speak for yourself," said Tibby. "Remember that I am cosmopolitan, please." "Helen may be right." "Of course she s right," said Helen. Helen might be right, but she did not go up to London. Margaret did that. An interrupted holiday is the worst of the minor worries, and one may be pardoned for feeling morbid when a business letter snatches one away from the sea and friends. She could not believe that her father had ever felt the same. Her eyes had been troubling her lately, so that she could not read in the train and it bored her to look at the landscape, which she had seen but yesterday. At Southampton she "waved" to Frieda; Frieda was on her way down to join them at Swanage, and Mrs. Munt had calculated that their trains would cross. But Frieda was looking the other way, and Margaret travelled on to town feeling solitary and old-maidish. How like an old maid to fancy that Mr. Wilcox was courting her! She had once visited a spinster--poor, silly, and unattractive--whose mania it was that every man who approached her fell in love. How Margaret s heart had bled for the deluded thing! How she had lectured, reasoned, and in despair acquiesced! "I may have been deceived by the curate, my dear, but the young fellow who brings the midday post really is fond of me, and has, as a matter of fact--" It had always seemed to her the most hideous corner of old age, yet she might be driven into it herself by the mere pressure of virginity. Mr. Wilcox met her at Waterloo himself. She felt certain that he was not the same as usual; for one thing, he took offence at everything she said. "This is awfully kind of you," she began, "but I m afraid it s not going to do. The house has not been built that suits the Schlegel family." "What! Have you come up determined not to deal?" "Not exactly." "Not exactly? In that case let s be starting." She lingered to admire the motor, which was new, and a fairer creature than the vermilion giant that had borne Aunt Juley to her doom three years before. "Presumably it s very beautiful," she said. "How do you like it, Crane?" "Come, let s be starting," repeated her host. "How on earth did you know that my chauffeur was called Crane?" "Why, I know Crane; I ve been for a drive with Evie once. I know that you ve got a parlourmaid called Milton. I know all sorts of things." "Evie!" he echoed in injured tones. "You won t see her. She s gone out with Cahill. It s no fun, I can tell you, being left so much alone. I ve got my work all day--indeed, a great deal too much of it--but when I come home in the evening, I tell you, I can t stand the house." "In my absurd way, I m lonely too," Margaret replied. "It s heart-breaking to leave one s old home. I scarcely remember anything before Wickham Place, and Helen and Tibby were born there. Helen says--" "You, too, feel lonely?" "Horribly. Hullo, Parliament s back!" Mr. Wilcox glanced at Parliament contemptuously. The more important ropes of life lay elsewhere. "Yes, they are talking again," said he. "But you were going to say--" "Only some rubbish about furniture. Helen says it alone endures while men and houses perish, and that in the end the world will be a desert of chairs and sofas--just imagine it!--rolling through infinity with no one to sit upon them." "Your	as he should put it into the hands of an agent. The letter perturbed, because she was not sure what it meant. If he liked her, if he had manoeuvred to get her to Simpson s, might this be a manoeuvre to get her to London, and result in an offer of marriage? She put it to herself as indelicately as possible, in the hope that her brain would cry, "Rubbish, you re a self-conscious fool!" But her brain only tingled a little and was silent, and for a time she sat gazing at the mincing waves, and wondering whether the news would seem strange to the others. As soon as she began speaking, the sound of her own voice reassured her. There could be nothing in it. The replies also were typical, and in the burr of conversation her fears vanished. "You needn t go though--" began her hostess. "I needn t, but hadn t I better? It s really getting rather serious. We let chance after chance slip, and the end of it is we shall be bundled out bag and baggage into the street. We don t know what we WANT, that s the mischief with us--" "No, we have no real ties," said Helen, helping herself to toast. "Shan t I go up to town to-day, take the house if it s the least possible, and then come down by the afternoon train to-morrow, and start enjoying myself. I shall be no fun to myself or to others until this business is off my mind." "But you won t do anything rash, Margaret?" "There s nothing rash to do." "Who ARE the Wilcoxes?" said Tibby, a question that sounds silly, but was really extremely subtle as his aunt found to her cost when she tried to answer it. "I don t MANAGE the Wilcoxes; I don t see where they come IN." "No more do I," agreed Helen. "It s funny that we just don t lose sight of them. Out of all our hotel acquaintances, Mr. Wilcox is the only one who has stuck. It is now over three years, and we have drifted away from far more interesting people in that time." "Interesting people don t get one houses." "Meg, if you start in your honest-English vein, I shall throw the treacle at you." "It s a better vein than the cosmopolitan," said Margaret, getting up. "Now, children, which is it to be? You know the Ducie Street house. Shall I say yes or shall I say no? Tibby love--which? I m specially anxious to pin you both." "It all depends on what meaning you attach to the word possible " "It depends on nothing of the sort. Say yes." "Say no. " Then Margaret spoke rather seriously. "I think," she said, "that our race is degenerating. We cannot settle even this little thing; what will it be like when we have to settle a big one?" "It will be as easy as eating," returned Helen.<\|quote\|>"I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals--and we, at our age, can t change houses. It s humiliating."</\|quote\|>"Your father may have been able to change countries," said Mrs. Munt with asperity, "and that may or may not be a good thing. But he could change houses no better than you can, in fact, much worse. Never shall I forget what poor Emily suffered in the move from Manchester." "I knew it," cried Helen. "I told you so. It is the little things one bungles at. The big, real ones are nothing when they come." "Bungle, my dear! You are too little to recollect--in fact, you weren t there. But the furniture was actually in the vans and on the move before the lease for Wickham Place was signed, and Emily took train with baby--who was Margaret then--and the smaller luggage for London, without so much as knowing where her new home would be. Getting away from that house may be hard, but it is nothing to the misery that we all went through getting you into it." Helen, with her mouth full, cried: "And that s the man who beat the Austrians, and the Danes, and the French, and who beat the Germans that were inside himself. And we re like him." "Speak for yourself," said Tibby. "Remember that I am cosmopolitan, please." "Helen may be right." "Of course she s right," said Helen. Helen might be right, but she did not go up to London. Margaret did that. An interrupted holiday is the worst of the minor worries, and one may be pardoned for feeling morbid when a business letter snatches one away from the sea and friends. She could not believe that her father had ever felt the same. Her eyes had been troubling her lately, so that she could not read in the train and it bored her to look at the landscape, which she had seen but yesterday. At Southampton she "waved" to Frieda; Frieda was on her way down to join them at Swanage, and Mrs. Munt had calculated that their trains would cross. But Frieda was looking the other way, and Margaret travelled on to town feeling solitary and old-maidish. How like an old maid to fancy that Mr. Wilcox was courting her! She had once visited a	Howards End
"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad."	Mr. Beebe	she has none." "At present?"<\|quote\|>"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad."</\|quote\|>Cecil found his companion interesting.	"I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?"<\|quote\|>"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad."</\|quote\|>Cecil found his companion interesting. "And at present you think	of Freddy--" Cecil continued. "Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable." "She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity. "I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?"<\|quote\|>"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad."</\|quote\|>Cecil found his companion interesting. "And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?" "Well, I must say I've only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her,	very grave. Shall we look in the garden?" "I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs." "The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small." They both laughed, and things began to go better. "The faults of Freddy--" Cecil continued. "Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable." "She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity. "I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?"<\|quote\|>"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad."</\|quote\|>Cecil found his companion interesting. "And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?" "Well, I must say I've only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn't you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn't wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be." "In what way?" Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the	mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. "Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at last, "I insist on extracting tea before evening service." "I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary--I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?" "I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs." "The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small." They both laughed, and things began to go better. "The faults of Freddy--" Cecil continued. "Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable." "She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity. "I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?"<\|quote\|>"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad."</\|quote\|>Cecil found his companion interesting. "And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?" "Well, I must say I've only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn't you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn't wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be." "In what way?" Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the terrace. "I could as easily tell you what tune she'll play next. There was simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them. I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture number two: the string breaks." The sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the string himself. "But the string never broke?" "No. I mightn't have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainly	Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession," said Cecil. "It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also. "I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--for example, Freddy Honeychurch." "Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?" "Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is." Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. "Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at last, "I insist on extracting tea before evening service." "I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary--I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?" "I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs." "The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small." They both laughed, and things began to go better. "The faults of Freddy--" Cecil continued. "Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable." "She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity. "I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?"<\|quote\|>"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad."</\|quote\|>Cecil found his companion interesting. "And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?" "Well, I must say I've only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn't you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn't wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be." "In what way?" Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the terrace. "I could as easily tell you what tune she'll play next. There was simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them. I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture number two: the string breaks." The sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the string himself. "But the string never broke?" "No. I mightn't have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainly have heard Miss Bartlett fall." "It has broken now," said the young man in low, vibrating tones. Immediately he realized that of all the conceited, ludicrous, contemptible ways of announcing an engagement this was the worst. He cursed his love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him? "Broken? What do you mean?" "I meant," said Cecil stiffly, "that she is going to marry me." The clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which he could not keep out of his voice. "I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate with her, or I should never have talked in this flippant, superficial way. Mr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me." And down the garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disappointed. Cecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew down his mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action would get from the world? Of course, he despised the world as a whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement. But he was sensitive to the successive particles of it which he encountered. Occasionally he could	he reflected. "I represent all that he despises. Why should he want me for a brother-in-law?" The Honeychurches were a worthy family, but he began to realize that Lucy was of another clay; and perhaps--he did not put it very definitely--he ought to introduce her into more congenial circles as soon as possible. "Mr. Beebe!" said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street was shown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy's praise of him in her letters from Florence. Cecil greeted him rather critically. "I've come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose that I shall get it?" "I should say so. Food is the thing one does get here--Don't sit in that chair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it." "Pfui!" "I know," said Cecil. "I know. I can't think why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it." For Cecil considered the bone and the Maples' furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into the life that he desired. "I've come for tea and for gossip. Isn't this news?" "News? I don't understand you," said Cecil. "News?" Mr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward. "I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!" "Has he indeed?" said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder. "Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I'll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you." "I'm shockingly stupid over local affairs," said the young man languidly. "I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance." Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession," said Cecil. "It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also. "I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--for example, Freddy Honeychurch." "Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?" "Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is." Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. "Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at last, "I insist on extracting tea before evening service." "I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary--I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?" "I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs." "The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small." They both laughed, and things began to go better. "The faults of Freddy--" Cecil continued. "Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable." "She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity. "I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?"<\|quote\|>"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad."</\|quote\|>Cecil found his companion interesting. "And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?" "Well, I must say I've only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn't you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn't wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be." "In what way?" Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the terrace. "I could as easily tell you what tune she'll play next. There was simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them. I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture number two: the string breaks." The sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the string himself. "But the string never broke?" "No. I mightn't have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainly have heard Miss Bartlett fall." "It has broken now," said the young man in low, vibrating tones. Immediately he realized that of all the conceited, ludicrous, contemptible ways of announcing an engagement this was the worst. He cursed his love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him? "Broken? What do you mean?" "I meant," said Cecil stiffly, "that she is going to marry me." The clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which he could not keep out of his voice. "I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate with her, or I should never have talked in this flippant, superficial way. Mr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me." And down the garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disappointed. Cecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew down his mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action would get from the world? Of course, he despised the world as a whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement. But he was sensitive to the successive particles of it which he encountered. Occasionally he could be quite crude. "I am sorry I have given you a shock," he said dryly. "I fear that Lucy's choice does not meet with your approval." "Not that. But you ought to have stopped me. I know Miss Honeychurch only a little as time goes. Perhaps I oughtn't to have discussed her so freely with any one; certainly not with you." "You are conscious of having said something indiscreet?" Mr. Beebe pulled himself together. Really, Mr. Vyse had the art of placing one in the most tiresome positions. He was driven to use the prerogatives of his profession. "No, I have said nothing indiscreet. I foresaw at Florence that her quiet, uneventful childhood must end, and it has ended. I realized dimly enough that she might take some momentous step. She has taken it. She has learnt--you will let me talk freely, as I have begun freely--she has learnt what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some people will tell you, that our earthly life provides." It was now time for him to wave his hat at the approaching trio. He did not omit to do so. "She has learnt through you," and if his voice was still clerical, it was now also sincere; "let it be your care that her knowledge is profitable to her." "Grazie tante!" said Cecil, who did not like parsons. "Have you heard?" shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she toiled up the sloping garden. "Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?" Freddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wedding march. Youth seldom criticizes the accomplished fact. "Indeed I have!" he cried. He looked at Lucy. In her presence he could not act the parson any longer--at all events not without apology. "Mrs. Honeychurch, I'm going to do what I am always supposed to do, but generally I'm too shy. I want to invoke every kind of blessing on them, grave and gay, great and small. I want them all their lives to be supremely good and supremely happy as husband and wife, as father and mother. And now I want my tea." "You only asked for it just in time," the lady retorted. "How dare you be serious at Windy Corner?" He took his tone from her. There was no more heavy beneficence, no more attempts to dignify the situation with poetry or the Scriptures. None of them dared or was able to be	a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance." Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession," said Cecil. "It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also. "I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--for example, Freddy Honeychurch." "Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?" "Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is." Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. "Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at last, "I insist on extracting tea before evening service." "I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary--I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?" "I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs." "The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small." They both laughed, and things began to go better. "The faults of Freddy--" Cecil continued. "Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable." "She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity. "I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?"<\|quote\|>"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad."</\|quote\|>Cecil found his companion interesting. "And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?" "Well, I must say I've only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn't you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn't wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be." "In what way?" Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the terrace. "I could as easily tell you what tune she'll play next. There was simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them. I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture number two: the string breaks." The sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the string himself. "But the string never broke?" "No. I mightn't have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainly have heard Miss Bartlett fall." "It has broken now," said the young man in low, vibrating tones. Immediately he realized that of all the conceited, ludicrous, contemptible ways of announcing an engagement this was the worst. He cursed his love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him? "Broken? What do you mean?" "I meant," said Cecil stiffly, "that she is going to marry me." The clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which he could not keep out of his voice. "I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate with her, or I should never have talked in this flippant, superficial way. Mr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me." And down the garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disappointed. Cecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew down his mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action would get from the world? Of course, he despised the world as a whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement. But he was sensitive to the successive particles of it which he encountered. Occasionally he could be quite crude. "I am sorry I have given you a shock," he said dryly. "I fear that	A Room With A View
"And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."	Henry Tilney	should stand by your brother."<\|quote\|>"And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."</\|quote\|>Catherine was complimented out of	is very right that you should stand by your brother."<\|quote\|>"And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."</\|quote\|>Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could not	very much in love with him?" "But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that case, she would have met with very different treatment." "It is very right that you should stand by your brother."<\|quote\|>"And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."</\|quote\|>Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She resolved on not answering Isabella s letter, and tried to think no more of it. CHAPTER 28 Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for	that I do not like him at all. Though it has turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens, there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?" "But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that case, she would have met with very different treatment." "It is very right that you should stand by your brother."<\|quote\|>"And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."</\|quote\|>Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She resolved on not answering Isabella s letter, and tried to think no more of it. CHAPTER 28 Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland s company, and anxiously recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children as their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the first experimental	have very little to say for Frederick s motives, such as I believe them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the chief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet injured himself. If the _effect_ of his behaviour does not justify him with you, we had better not seek after the cause." "Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?" "I am persuaded that he never did." "And only made believe to do so for mischief s sake?" Henry bowed his assent. "Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens, there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?" "But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that case, she would have met with very different treatment." "It is very right that you should stand by your brother."<\|quote\|>"And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."</\|quote\|>Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She resolved on not answering Isabella s letter, and tried to think no more of it. CHAPTER 28 Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland s company, and anxiously recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children as their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the first experimental conviction that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The happiness with which their time now passed, every employment voluntary, every laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and good humour, walking where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures, and fatigues at their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the restraint which the general s presence had imposed, and most thankfully feel their present release from it. Such ease and such delights made her love the place and the people more and more every day; and had it not been for a dread of its	Isabella s name mentioned by her again." On Henry s arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor their brother s safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and reading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong indignation. When she had finished it "So much for Isabella," she cried, "and for all our intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she could not have written so; but perhaps this has served to make her character better known to me than mine is to her. I see what she has been about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I do not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and I wish I had never known her." "It will soon be as if you never had," said Henry. "There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has had designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and then fly off himself?" "I have very little to say for Frederick s motives, such as I believe them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the chief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet injured himself. If the _effect_ of his behaviour does not justify him with you, we had better not seek after the cause." "Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?" "I am persuaded that he never did." "And only made believe to do so for mischief s sake?" Henry bowed his assent. "Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens, there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?" "But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that case, she would have met with very different treatment." "It is very right that you should stand by your brother."<\|quote\|>"And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."</\|quote\|>Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She resolved on not answering Isabella s letter, and tried to think no more of it. CHAPTER 28 Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland s company, and anxiously recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children as their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the first experimental conviction that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The happiness with which their time now passed, every employment voluntary, every laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and good humour, walking where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures, and fatigues at their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the restraint which the general s presence had imposed, and most thankfully feel their present release from it. Such ease and such delights made her love the place and the people more and more every day; and had it not been for a dread of its soon becoming expedient to leave the one, and an apprehension of not being equally beloved by the other, she would at each moment of each day have been perfectly happy; but she was now in the fourth week of her visit; before the general came home, the fourth week would be turned, and perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it occurred; and eager to get rid of such a weight on her mind, she very soon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at once, propose going away, and be guided in her conduct by the manner in which her proposal might be taken. Aware that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it difficult to bring forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the first opportunity of being suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor s being in the middle of a speech about something very different, to start forth her obligation of going away very soon. Eleanor looked and declared herself much concerned. She had "hoped for the pleasure of her company for a much longer time had been misled (perhaps by her wishes) to	I would not even look at him. He went into the pump-room afterwards; but I would not have followed him for all the world. Such a contrast between him and your brother! Pray send me some news of the latter I am quite unhappy about him; he seemed so uncomfortable when he went away, with a cold, or something that affected his spirits. I would write to him myself, but have mislaid his direction; and, as I hinted above, am afraid he took something in my conduct amiss. Pray explain everything to his satisfaction; or, if he still harbours any doubt, a line from himself to me, or a call at Putney when next in town, might set all to rights. I have not been to the rooms this age, nor to the play, except going in last night with the Hodges, for a frolic, at half price: they teased me into it; and I was determined they should not say I shut myself up because Tilney was gone. We happened to sit by the Mitchells, and they pretended to be quite surprised to see me out. I knew their spite: at one time they could not be civil to me, but now they are all friendship; but I am not such a fool as to be taken in by them. You know I have a pretty good spirit of my own. Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a turban like mine, as I wore it the week before at the concert, but made wretched work of it it happened to become my odd face, I believe, at least Tilney told me so at the time, and said every eye was upon me; but he is the last man whose word I would take. I wear nothing but purple now: I know I look hideous in it, but no matter it is your dear brother s favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in writing to him and to me, Who ever am, etc. Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine. Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the very first. She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever loved her. Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her excuses were empty, and her demands impudent. "Write to James on her behalf! No, James should never hear Isabella s name mentioned by her again." On Henry s arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor their brother s safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and reading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong indignation. When she had finished it "So much for Isabella," she cried, "and for all our intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she could not have written so; but perhaps this has served to make her character better known to me than mine is to her. I see what she has been about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I do not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and I wish I had never known her." "It will soon be as if you never had," said Henry. "There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has had designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and then fly off himself?" "I have very little to say for Frederick s motives, such as I believe them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the chief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet injured himself. If the _effect_ of his behaviour does not justify him with you, we had better not seek after the cause." "Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?" "I am persuaded that he never did." "And only made believe to do so for mischief s sake?" Henry bowed his assent. "Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens, there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?" "But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that case, she would have met with very different treatment." "It is very right that you should stand by your brother."<\|quote\|>"And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."</\|quote\|>Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She resolved on not answering Isabella s letter, and tried to think no more of it. CHAPTER 28 Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland s company, and anxiously recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children as their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the first experimental conviction that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The happiness with which their time now passed, every employment voluntary, every laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and good humour, walking where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures, and fatigues at their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the restraint which the general s presence had imposed, and most thankfully feel their present release from it. Such ease and such delights made her love the place and the people more and more every day; and had it not been for a dread of its soon becoming expedient to leave the one, and an apprehension of not being equally beloved by the other, she would at each moment of each day have been perfectly happy; but she was now in the fourth week of her visit; before the general came home, the fourth week would be turned, and perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it occurred; and eager to get rid of such a weight on her mind, she very soon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at once, propose going away, and be guided in her conduct by the manner in which her proposal might be taken. Aware that if she gave herself much time, she might feel it difficult to bring forward so unpleasant a subject, she took the first opportunity of being suddenly alone with Eleanor, and of Eleanor s being in the middle of a speech about something very different, to start forth her obligation of going away very soon. Eleanor looked and declared herself much concerned. She had "hoped for the pleasure of her company for a much longer time had been misled (perhaps by her wishes) to suppose that a much longer visit had been promised and could not but think that if Mr. and Mrs. Morland were aware of the pleasure it was to her to have her there, they would be too generous to hasten her return." Catherine explained: "Oh! As to _that_, Papa and Mamma were in no hurry at all. As long as she was happy, they would always be satisfied." "Then why, might she ask, in such a hurry herself to leave them?" "Oh! Because she had been there so long." "Nay, if you can use such a word, I can urge you no farther. If you think it long" "Oh! No, I do not indeed. For my own pleasure, I could stay with you as long again." And it was directly settled that, till she had, her leaving them was not even to be thought of. In having this cause of uneasiness so pleasantly removed, the force of the other was likewise weakened. The kindness, the earnestness of Eleanor s manner in pressing her to stay, and Henry s gratified look on being told that her stay was determined, were such sweet proofs of her importance with them, as left her only just so much solicitude as the human mind can never do comfortably without. She did almost always believe that Henry loved her, and quite always that his father and sister loved and even wished her to belong to them; and believing so far, her doubts and anxieties were merely sportive irritations. Henry was not able to obey his father s injunction of remaining wholly at Northanger in attendance on the ladies, during his absence in London, the engagements of his curate at Woodston obliging him to leave them on Saturday for a couple of nights. His loss was not now what it had been while the general was at home; it lessened their gaiety, but did not ruin their comfort; and the two girls agreeing in occupation, and improving in intimacy, found themselves so well sufficient for the time to themselves, that it was eleven o clock, rather a late hour at the abbey, before they quitted the supper-room on the day of Henry s departure. They had just reached the head of the stairs when it seemed, as far as the thickness of the walls would allow them to judge, that a carriage was driving up to the	Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in writing to him and to me, Who ever am, etc. Such a strain of shallow artifice could not impose even upon Catherine. Its inconsistencies, contradictions, and falsehood struck her from the very first. She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of having ever loved her. Her professions of attachment were now as disgusting as her excuses were empty, and her demands impudent. "Write to James on her behalf! No, James should never hear Isabella s name mentioned by her again." On Henry s arrival from Woodston, she made known to him and Eleanor their brother s safety, congratulating them with sincerity on it, and reading aloud the most material passages of her letter with strong indignation. When she had finished it "So much for Isabella," she cried, "and for all our intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she could not have written so; but perhaps this has served to make her character better known to me than mine is to her. I see what she has been about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I do not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and I wish I had never known her." "It will soon be as if you never had," said Henry. "There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has had designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and then fly off himself?" "I have very little to say for Frederick s motives, such as I believe them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the chief difference is, that, having a stronger head, they have not yet injured himself. If the _effect_ of his behaviour does not justify him with you, we had better not seek after the cause." "Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?" "I am persuaded that he never did." "And only made believe to do so for mischief s sake?" Henry bowed his assent. "Well, then, I must say that I do not like him at all. Though it has turned out so well for us, I do not like him at all. As it happens, there is no great harm done, because I do not think Isabella has any heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?" "But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to lose consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that case, she would have met with very different treatment." "It is very right that you should stand by your brother."<\|quote\|>"And if you would stand by _yours_, you would not be much distressed by the disappointment of Miss Thorpe. But your mind is warped by an innate principle of general integrity, and therefore not accessible to the cool reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."</\|quote\|>Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She resolved on not answering Isabella s letter, and tried to think no more of it. CHAPTER 28 Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland s company, and anxiously recommending the study of her comfort and amusement to his children as their chief object in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the first experimental conviction that a loss may be sometimes a gain. The happiness with which their time now passed, every employment voluntary, every laugh indulged, every meal a scene of ease and good humour, walking where they liked and when they liked, their hours, pleasures, and fatigues at their own command, made her thoroughly sensible of the restraint which the general s presence had imposed, and most thankfully feel their present release from it. Such ease and such delights made her love the place and the people more and more every day; and had it not been for a dread of its soon becoming expedient to leave the one, and an apprehension of not being equally beloved by the other, she would at each moment of each day have been perfectly happy; but she was now in the fourth week of her visit; before the general came home, the fourth week would be turned, and perhaps it might seem an intrusion if she stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it occurred; and eager to get rid of such a weight on her mind, she very soon resolved to speak to Eleanor about it at once, propose	Northanger Abbey
"Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."	Don Lavington	hadn't had any head left."<\|quote\|>"Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."</\|quote\|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come,	he come back if you hadn't had any head left."<\|quote\|>"Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."</\|quote\|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would	or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left."<\|quote\|>"Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."</\|quote\|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?" "You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for	GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY. "Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell." "Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left."<\|quote\|>"Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."</\|quote\|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?" "You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't	THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY. "Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell." "Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left."<\|quote\|>"Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."</\|quote\|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?" "You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't get you back on again. Fortun' indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "And I arn't a bit, Jem Wimble, not a bit. Never you mind him, Master Don, you strike for freedom. Make your uncle give you your father's money, and then off you goes like a man to see life." "Now lookye here," cried the sturdy, broad-faced young fellow who had first spoken, as he picked up a wooden lever used for turning over the great sugar-hogsheads lying in the yard, and hoisting them into a trolly, or beneath the	THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY. "Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell." "Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left."<\|quote\|>"Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."</\|quote\|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?" "You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't get you back on again. Fortun' indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "And I arn't a bit, Jem Wimble, not a bit. Never you mind him, Master Don, you strike for freedom. Make your uncle give you your father's money, and then off you goes like a man to see life." "Now lookye here," cried the sturdy, broad-faced young fellow who had first spoken, as he picked up a wooden lever used for turning over the great sugar-hogsheads lying in the yard, and hoisting them into a trolly, or beneath the crane which raised them into the warehouse. "Lookye here, Mike Bannock, I never did knock a man down with this here wooden bar, but if you gets stirring Mas' Don again, has it you do, right across the back. Spang!" "Be quiet, Jem, and put the bar down," said LinDon Lavington, a dark, well set-up lad of seventeen, as he sat upon the head of a sugar-hogshead with his arms folded, slowly swinging his legs. "No, I sha'n't put the bar down, Mas' Don. Your uncle left me in charge of the yard, and--what yer sitting on the sugar-barrel for when there's a 'bacco hogshead close by? Now just you feel how sticky you are." Don got off the barrel, and made a face, as he proved with one hand the truth of the man's words, and then rubbed his treacly fingers against the warehouse wall. "Your mother'll make a row about that, just as my Sally does when I get molasses on my clothes." "You should teach her to lick it off, Jemmy Wimble," said the rough-looking, red-faced labourer, who had lowered down a sugar-hogshead so rapidly, that he had been within an inch of making it unnecessary to	THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY. "Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell." "Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left."<\|quote\|>"Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."</\|quote\|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?" "You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't get you back on again. Fortun' indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "And I arn't a bit, Jem Wimble, not a bit. Never you mind him, Master Don, you strike for freedom. Make your uncle give you your father's money, and then off you goes like a man to see life." "Now lookye here," cried the sturdy, broad-faced young fellow who had first spoken, as he picked up a wooden lever used for turning over the great sugar-hogsheads lying in the yard, and hoisting them into a trolly, or beneath the crane which raised them into the warehouse. "Lookye here, Mike Bannock, I never did knock a man down with this here wooden bar, but if you gets stirring Mas' Don again, has it you do, right across the back. Spang!" "Be quiet, Jem, and put the bar down," said LinDon Lavington, a dark, well set-up lad of seventeen, as he sat upon the head of a sugar-hogshead with his arms folded, slowly swinging his legs. "No, I sha'n't put the bar down, Mas' Don. Your uncle left me in charge of the yard, and--what yer sitting on the sugar-barrel for when there's a 'bacco hogshead close by? Now just you feel how sticky you are." Don got off the barrel, and made a face, as he proved with one hand the truth of the man's words, and then rubbed his treacly fingers against the warehouse wall. "Your mother'll make a row about that, just as my Sally does when I get molasses on my clothes." "You should teach her to lick it off, Jemmy Wimble," said the rough-looking, red-faced labourer, who had lowered down a sugar-hogshead so rapidly, that he had been within an inch of making it unnecessary to write Don Lavington's life, from the fact of there being no life to write. "You mind your own business, Mike," said Jem, indignantly. "That's what I'm a-doing of, and a-waiting for orders, Mr Jem Wimble. He's hen-pecked, Mas' Don, that what's the matter with him. Been married only three months, and he's hen-pecked. Haw-haw-haw! Poor old cock-bird! Hen-pecked! Haw-haw-haw!" Jem Wimble, general worker in the warehouse and yard of Josiah Christmas, West India merchant, of River Street, Bristol, gave Mike the labourer an angry look, as he turned as red as a blushing girl. "Lookye here," he cried angrily, as Don, who had reseated himself, this time on a hogshead crammed full of compressed tobacco-leaves from Baltimore, swung his legs, and looked on in a half-moody, half-amused way; "the best thing that could happen for Christmas' Ward and for Bristol City, would be for the press-gang to get hold o' you, and take you off to sea." "Haw-haw-haw!" laughed the swarthy, red-faced fellow. "Why don't you give 'em the word, and have me pressed?" "No coming back to be begged on then by Miss Kitty and Mas' Don, after being drunk for a week. You're a bad 'un, that's what you are, Mike Bannock, and I wish the master wouldn't have you here." "Not such a hard nut as you are, Jemmy," said the man with a chuckle. "Sailors won't take me--don't want cripples to go aloft. Lookye here, Mas' Don, there's a leg." As he spoke, the great idle-looking fellow limped slowly, with an exaggerated display of lameness, to and fro past the door of the office. "Get out, Mike," said Don, as the man stopped. "I believe that's nearly all sham." "That's a true word, Mas' Don," cried Jem. "He's only lame when he thinks about it. And now do please go on totting up, and let's get these casks shifted 'fore your uncle comes back." "Well, I'm waiting, Jem," cried the lad, opening a book he had under his arm, and in which a pencil was shut. "I could put down fifty, while you are moving one." "That's all right, sir; that's all right. I only want to keep things straight, and not have your uncle rowing you when he comes back. Seems to me as life's getting to be one jolly row. What with my Sally at home, and your uncle here, and you always down	THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY. "Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell." "Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left."<\|quote\|>"Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared."</\|quote\|>"Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?" "You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't get you back on again. Fortun' indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "And I arn't a bit, Jem Wimble, not a bit. Never you mind him, Master Don, you strike for freedom. Make your uncle give you your father's money, and then off you goes like a man to see life." "Now lookye here," cried the sturdy, broad-faced young fellow who had first spoken, as he picked up a wooden lever used for turning over the great sugar-hogsheads lying in the yard, and hoisting them into a trolly, or beneath the crane which raised them into the warehouse. "Lookye here, Mike Bannock, I never did knock a man down with this here wooden bar, but if you gets stirring Mas' Don again, has it you do, right across the back. Spang!" "Be quiet, Jem, and put the bar down," said LinDon Lavington, a dark, well set-up lad of seventeen, as he sat upon the head of a sugar-hogshead with his arms folded, slowly swinging his legs. "No, I sha'n't put the bar down, Mas' Don. Your uncle left me in charge of the yard, and--what yer sitting on the sugar-barrel for when there's a 'bacco hogshead close by? Now just you feel how sticky you are." Don got off the barrel, and made a face, as he proved with one hand the truth of the man's words, and then rubbed his treacly fingers against the warehouse wall. "Your mother'll make a row about that, just as my Sally does when I get molasses on my clothes." "You should teach her to lick it off, Jemmy Wimble," said the rough-looking, red-faced labourer, who had lowered down a sugar-hogshead so rapidly, that he had been within an inch of making it unnecessary to write Don Lavington's life, from the fact of there being no life to write. "You mind your own business, Mike," said Jem, indignantly. "That's what I'm a-doing of, and a-waiting for orders, Mr Jem Wimble. He's hen-pecked, Mas' Don, that what's the matter with him. Been married only three months, and he's hen-pecked. Haw-haw-haw! Poor old cock-bird! Hen-pecked! Haw-haw-haw!" Jem Wimble, general worker in the warehouse and yard of Josiah Christmas, West India merchant, of River Street, Bristol, gave Mike the labourer an angry look, as he turned as red as a blushing girl. "Lookye here," he cried angrily, as Don, who had reseated himself, this time on a hogshead crammed full of compressed tobacco-leaves from Baltimore, swung his legs, and looked on in a half-moody, half-amused way; "the best thing that could happen for Christmas' Ward and for Bristol City, would be for the press-gang to get hold o' you, and take	Don Lavington
said Eeyore.	No speaker	me----" "I'm not asking anybody,"<\|quote\|>said Eeyore.</\|quote\|>"I'm just telling everybody. We	said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody,"<\|quote\|>said Eeyore.</\|quote\|>"I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North	down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody,"<\|quote\|>said Eeyore.</\|quote\|>"I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher	said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody,"<\|quote\|>said Eeyore.</\|quote\|>"I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher Robin. "Come on!" called Pooh and Piglet "Come on!" called Owl. "We're starting," said Rabbit. "I must go." And he hurried off to the front of the Expotition with Christopher Robin. "All right," said Eeyore. "We're going. Only Don't Blame Me." So off they all went to discover the Pole.	it had an 'x'." "It isn't their necks I mind," said Piglet earnestly. "It's their teeth. But if Christopher Robin is coming I don't mind anything." In a little while they were all ready at the top of the Forest, and the Expotition started. First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore." "What I say," said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody,"<\|quote\|>said Eeyore.</\|quote\|>"I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher Robin. "Come on!" called Pooh and Piglet "Come on!" called Owl. "We're starting," said Rabbit. "I must go." And he hurried off to the front of the Expotition with Christopher Robin. "All right," said Eeyore. "We're going. Only Don't Blame Me." So off they all went to discover the Pole. And as they walked, they chattered to each other of this and that, all except Pooh, who was making up a song. "This is the first verse," he said to Piglet, when he was ready with it. "First verse of what?" "My song." "What song?" "This one." "Which one?" "Well, if you listen, Piglet, you'll hear it." "How do you know I'm not listening?" Pooh couldn't answer that one, so he began to sing. "They all went off to discover the Pole, Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all; It's a Thing you Discover, as I've been tole By Owl	got a message for you." "I'll give it to him." "We're all going on an Expotition with Christopher Robin!" "What is it when we're on it?" "A sort of boat, I think," said Pooh. "Oh! that sort." "Yes. And we're going to discover a Pole or something. Or was it a Mole? Anyhow we're going to discover it." "We are, are we?" said Rabbit. "Yes. And we've got to bring Pro--things to eat with us. In case we want to eat them. Now I'm going down to Piglet's. Tell Kanga, will you?" He left Rabbit and hurried down to Piglet's house. The Piglet was sitting on the ground at the door of his house blowing happily at a dandelion, and wondering whether it would be this year, next year, sometime or never. He had just discovered that it would be never, and was trying to remember what "_it_" was, and hoping it wasn't anything nice, when Pooh came up. "Oh! Piglet," said Pooh excitedly, "we're going on an Expotition, all of us, with things to eat. To discover something." "To discover what?" said Piglet anxiously. "Oh! just something." "Nothing fierce?" "Christopher Robin didn't say anything about fierce. He just said it had an 'x'." "It isn't their necks I mind," said Piglet earnestly. "It's their teeth. But if Christopher Robin is coming I don't mind anything." In a little while they were all ready at the top of the Forest, and the Expotition started. First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore." "What I say," said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody,"<\|quote\|>said Eeyore.</\|quote\|>"I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher Robin. "Come on!" called Pooh and Piglet "Come on!" called Owl. "We're starting," said Rabbit. "I must go." And he hurried off to the front of the Expotition with Christopher Robin. "All right," said Eeyore. "We're going. Only Don't Blame Me." So off they all went to discover the Pole. And as they walked, they chattered to each other of this and that, all except Pooh, who was making up a song. "This is the first verse," he said to Piglet, when he was ready with it. "First verse of what?" "My song." "What song?" "This one." "Which one?" "Well, if you listen, Piglet, you'll hear it." "How do you know I'm not listening?" Pooh couldn't answer that one, so he began to sing. "They all went off to discover the Pole, Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all; It's a Thing you Discover, as I've been tole By Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all. Eeyore, Christopher Robin and Pooh And Rabbit's relations all went too-- And where the Pole was none of them knew.... Sing Hey! for Owl and Rabbit and all!" "Hush!" said Christopher Robin turning round to Pooh, "we're just coming to a Dangerous Place." "Hush!" said Pooh turning round quickly to Piglet. "Hush!" said Piglet to Kanga. "Hush!" said Kanga to Owl, while Roo said "Hush!" several times to himself very quietly. "Hush!" said Owl to Eeyore. "_Hush!_" said Eeyore in a terrible voice to all Rabbit's friends-and-relations, and "Hush!" they said hastily to each other all down the line, until it got to the last one of all. And the last and smallest friend-and-relation was so upset to find that the whole Expotition was saying "Hush!" to _him_, that he buried himself head downwards in a crack in the ground, and stayed there for two days until the danger was over, and then went home in a great hurry, and lived quietly with his Aunt ever-afterwards. His name was Alexander Beetle. They had come to a stream which twisted and tumbled between high rocky banks, and Christopher Robin saw at once how dangerous it	with this song that he sang it all the way to the top of the Forest, "and if I go on singing it much longer," he thought, "it will be time for the little something, and then the last line won't be true." So he turned it into a hum instead. Christopher Robin was sitting outside his door, putting on his Big Boots. As soon as he saw the Big Boots, Pooh knew that an Adventure was going to happen, and he brushed the honey off his nose with the back of his paw, and spruced himself up as well as he could, so as to look Ready for Anything. "Good-morning, Christopher Robin," he called out. "Hallo, Pooh Bear. I can't get this boot on." "That's bad," said Pooh. "Do you think you could very kindly lean against me, 'cos I keep pulling so hard that I fall over backwards." Pooh sat down, dug his feet into the ground, and pushed hard against Christopher Robin's back, and Christopher Robin pushed hard against his, and pulled and pulled at his boot until he had got it on. "And that's that," said Pooh. "What do we do next?" "We are all going on an Expedition," said Christopher Robin, as he got up and brushed himself. "Thank you, Pooh." "Going on an Expotition?" said Pooh eagerly. "I don't think I've ever been on one of those. Where are we going to on this Expotition?" "Expedition, silly old Bear. It's got an 'x' in it." "Oh!" said Pooh. "I know." But he didn't really. "We're going to discover the North Pole." "Oh!" said Pooh again. "What _is_ the North Pole?" he asked. "It's just a thing you discover," said Christopher Robin carelessly, not being quite sure himself. "Oh! I see," said Pooh. "Are bears any good at discovering it?" "Of course they are. And Rabbit and Kanga and all of you. It's an Expedition. That's what an Expedition means. A long line of everybody. You'd better tell the others to get ready, while I see if my gun's all right. And we must all bring Provisions." "Bring what?" "Things to eat." "Oh!" said Pooh happily. "I thought you said Provisions. I'll go and tell them." And he stumped off. The first person he met was Rabbit. "Hallo, Rabbit," he said, "is that you?" "Let's pretend it isn't," said Rabbit, "and see what happens." "I've got a message for you." "I'll give it to him." "We're all going on an Expotition with Christopher Robin!" "What is it when we're on it?" "A sort of boat, I think," said Pooh. "Oh! that sort." "Yes. And we're going to discover a Pole or something. Or was it a Mole? Anyhow we're going to discover it." "We are, are we?" said Rabbit. "Yes. And we've got to bring Pro--things to eat with us. In case we want to eat them. Now I'm going down to Piglet's. Tell Kanga, will you?" He left Rabbit and hurried down to Piglet's house. The Piglet was sitting on the ground at the door of his house blowing happily at a dandelion, and wondering whether it would be this year, next year, sometime or never. He had just discovered that it would be never, and was trying to remember what "_it_" was, and hoping it wasn't anything nice, when Pooh came up. "Oh! Piglet," said Pooh excitedly, "we're going on an Expotition, all of us, with things to eat. To discover something." "To discover what?" said Piglet anxiously. "Oh! just something." "Nothing fierce?" "Christopher Robin didn't say anything about fierce. He just said it had an 'x'." "It isn't their necks I mind," said Piglet earnestly. "It's their teeth. But if Christopher Robin is coming I don't mind anything." In a little while they were all ready at the top of the Forest, and the Expotition started. First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore." "What I say," said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody,"<\|quote\|>said Eeyore.</\|quote\|>"I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher Robin. "Come on!" called Pooh and Piglet "Come on!" called Owl. "We're starting," said Rabbit. "I must go." And he hurried off to the front of the Expotition with Christopher Robin. "All right," said Eeyore. "We're going. Only Don't Blame Me." So off they all went to discover the Pole. And as they walked, they chattered to each other of this and that, all except Pooh, who was making up a song. "This is the first verse," he said to Piglet, when he was ready with it. "First verse of what?" "My song." "What song?" "This one." "Which one?" "Well, if you listen, Piglet, you'll hear it." "How do you know I'm not listening?" Pooh couldn't answer that one, so he began to sing. "They all went off to discover the Pole, Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all; It's a Thing you Discover, as I've been tole By Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all. Eeyore, Christopher Robin and Pooh And Rabbit's relations all went too-- And where the Pole was none of them knew.... Sing Hey! for Owl and Rabbit and all!" "Hush!" said Christopher Robin turning round to Pooh, "we're just coming to a Dangerous Place." "Hush!" said Pooh turning round quickly to Piglet. "Hush!" said Piglet to Kanga. "Hush!" said Kanga to Owl, while Roo said "Hush!" several times to himself very quietly. "Hush!" said Owl to Eeyore. "_Hush!_" said Eeyore in a terrible voice to all Rabbit's friends-and-relations, and "Hush!" they said hastily to each other all down the line, until it got to the last one of all. And the last and smallest friend-and-relation was so upset to find that the whole Expotition was saying "Hush!" to _him_, that he buried himself head downwards in a crack in the ground, and stayed there for two days until the danger was over, and then went home in a great hurry, and lived quietly with his Aunt ever-afterwards. His name was Alexander Beetle. They had come to a stream which twisted and tumbled between high rocky banks, and Christopher Robin saw at once how dangerous it was. "It's just the place," he explained, "for an Ambush." "What sort of bush?" whispered Pooh to Piglet. "A gorse-bush?" "My dear Pooh," said Owl in his superior way, "don't you know what an Ambush is?" "Owl," said Piglet, looking round at him severely, "Pooh's whisper was a perfectly private whisper, and there was no need----" "An Ambush," said Owl, "is a sort of Surprise." "So is a gorse-bush sometimes," said Pooh. "An Ambush, as I was about to explain to Pooh," said Piglet, "is a sort of Surprise." "If people jump out at you suddenly, that's an Ambush," said Owl. "It's an Ambush, Pooh, when people jump at you suddenly," explained Piglet. Pooh, who now knew what an Ambush was, said that a gorse-bush had sprung at him suddenly one day when he fell off a tree, and he had taken six days to get all the prickles out of himself. "We are not _talking_ about gorse-bushes," said Owl a little crossly. "I am," said Pooh. They were climbing very cautiously up the stream now, going from rock to rock, and after they had gone a little way they came to a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested. "I think," said Christopher Robin, "that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry." "Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and looked behind him. "Yes, I was. I thought so." "Thank you, Pooh. If you've quite finished with it." He moved across to Pooh's place, and began to eat. "It don't do them any Good, you know, sitting on them," he went on, as he looked up munching. "Takes all the Life out of them. Remember that	of those. Where are we going to on this Expotition?" "Expedition, silly old Bear. It's got an 'x' in it." "Oh!" said Pooh. "I know." But he didn't really. "We're going to discover the North Pole." "Oh!" said Pooh again. "What _is_ the North Pole?" he asked. "It's just a thing you discover," said Christopher Robin carelessly, not being quite sure himself. "Oh! I see," said Pooh. "Are bears any good at discovering it?" "Of course they are. And Rabbit and Kanga and all of you. It's an Expedition. That's what an Expedition means. A long line of everybody. You'd better tell the others to get ready, while I see if my gun's all right. And we must all bring Provisions." "Bring what?" "Things to eat." "Oh!" said Pooh happily. "I thought you said Provisions. I'll go and tell them." And he stumped off. The first person he met was Rabbit. "Hallo, Rabbit," he said, "is that you?" "Let's pretend it isn't," said Rabbit, "and see what happens." "I've got a message for you." "I'll give it to him." "We're all going on an Expotition with Christopher Robin!" "What is it when we're on it?" "A sort of boat, I think," said Pooh. "Oh! that sort." "Yes. And we're going to discover a Pole or something. Or was it a Mole? Anyhow we're going to discover it." "We are, are we?" said Rabbit. "Yes. And we've got to bring Pro--things to eat with us. In case we want to eat them. Now I'm going down to Piglet's. Tell Kanga, will you?" He left Rabbit and hurried down to Piglet's house. The Piglet was sitting on the ground at the door of his house blowing happily at a dandelion, and wondering whether it would be this year, next year, sometime or never. He had just discovered that it would be never, and was trying to remember what "_it_" was, and hoping it wasn't anything nice, when Pooh came up. "Oh! Piglet," said Pooh excitedly, "we're going on an Expotition, all of us, with things to eat. To discover something." "To discover what?" said Piglet anxiously. "Oh! just something." "Nothing fierce?" "Christopher Robin didn't say anything about fierce. He just said it had an 'x'." "It isn't their necks I mind," said Piglet earnestly. "It's their teeth. But if Christopher Robin is coming I don't mind anything." In a little while they were all ready at the top of the Forest, and the Expotition started. First came Christopher Robin and Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore." "What I say," said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody,"<\|quote\|>said Eeyore.</\|quote\|>"I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher Robin. "Come on!" called Pooh and Piglet "Come on!" called Owl. "We're starting," said Rabbit. "I must go." And he hurried off to the front of the Expotition with Christopher Robin. "All right," said Eeyore. "We're going. Only Don't Blame Me." So off they all went to discover the Pole. And as they walked, they chattered to each other of this and that, all except Pooh, who was making up a song. "This is the first verse," he said to Piglet, when he was ready with it. "First verse of what?" "My song." "What song?" "This one." "Which one?" "Well, if you listen, Piglet, you'll hear it." "How do you know I'm not listening?" Pooh couldn't answer that one, so he began to sing. "They all went off to discover the Pole, Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all; It's a Thing you Discover, as I've been tole By Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all. Eeyore, Christopher Robin and Pooh And Rabbit's relations all went too-- And where the Pole was none of them knew.... Sing Hey! for Owl and Rabbit and all!" "Hush!" said Christopher Robin turning round to Pooh, "we're just coming to a Dangerous Place." "Hush!" said Pooh turning round quickly to Piglet. "Hush!" said Piglet to Kanga. "Hush!" said Kanga to Owl, while Roo said "Hush!" several times to himself very quietly. "Hush!" said Owl to Eeyore. "_Hush!_" said Eeyore in a terrible voice to all Rabbit's friends-and-relations, and "Hush!" they said hastily to each other all down the line, until it got to the last one of all. And the last and smallest friend-and-relation was so upset to find that the whole Expotition was saying "Hush!" to _him_, that he buried himself head downwards in a crack in the ground, and stayed there for two days until the danger was over, and then went home in a great hurry, and lived quietly with his Aunt ever-afterwards. His name was Alexander Beetle. They had come to a stream which twisted and tumbled between high rocky banks, and Christopher Robin saw at once how dangerous it was. "It's just the place," he explained, "for an Ambush." "What sort of bush?" whispered Pooh to Piglet. "A gorse-bush?" "My dear Pooh," said Owl in his superior way, "don't you know what an Ambush is?" "Owl," said Piglet, looking round at him severely, "Pooh's whisper was a perfectly private whisper, and there was no need----" "An Ambush," said Owl, "is a	Winnie The Pooh
“Come to your own mother that loves you.”	Daisy	crooned, holding out her arms.<\|quote\|>“Come to your own mother that loves you.”</\|quote\|>The child, relinquished by the	the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms.<\|quote\|>“Come to your own mother that loves you.”</\|quote\|>The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room	low, vulgar girl!” “I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms.<\|quote\|>“Come to your own mother that loves you.”</\|quote\|>The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept	Daisy. As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth. “You know I love you,” she murmured. “You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan. Daisy looked around doubtfully. “You kiss Nick too.” “What a low, vulgar girl!” “I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms.<\|quote\|>“Come to your own mother that loves you.”</\|quote\|>The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before. “I got dressed before luncheon,” said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy. “That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white	at all … I’m under no obligations to you at all … and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I won’t stand that at all!” “Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically. “No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to know about it.” Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room. “Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir … Nick …” “Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy. As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth. “You know I love you,” she murmured. “You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan. Daisy looked around doubtfully. “You kiss Nick too.” “What a low, vulgar girl!” “I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms.<\|quote\|>“Come to your own mother that loves you.”</\|quote\|>The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before. “I got dressed before luncheon,” said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy. “That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You absolute little dream.” “Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.” “How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?” “Where’s Daddy?” “She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.” Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand. “Come, Pammy.” “Goodbye, sweetheart!” With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her nurse’s hand and was	touch this noon!” What he really said was: “Yes … Yes … I’ll see.” He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to take our stiff straw hats. “Madame expects you in the salon!” he cried, needlessly indicating the direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the common store of life. The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols weighing down their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans. “We can’t move,” they said together. Jordan’s fingers, powdered white over their tan, rested for a moment in mine. “And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?” I inquired. Simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, at the hall telephone. Gatsby stood in the centre of the crimson carpet and gazed around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air. “The rumour is,” whispered Jordan, “that that’s Tom’s girl on the telephone.” We were silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance: “Very well, then, I won’t sell you the car at all … I’m under no obligations to you at all … and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I won’t stand that at all!” “Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically. “No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to know about it.” Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room. “Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir … Nick …” “Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy. As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth. “You know I love you,” she murmured. “You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan. Daisy looked around doubtfully. “You kiss Nick too.” “What a low, vulgar girl!” “I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms.<\|quote\|>“Come to your own mother that loves you.”</\|quote\|>The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before. “I got dressed before luncheon,” said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy. “That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You absolute little dream.” “Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.” “How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?” “Where’s Daddy?” “She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.” Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand. “Come, Pammy.” “Goodbye, sweetheart!” With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice. Gatsby took up his drink. “They certainly look cool,” he said, with visible tension. We drank in long, greedy swallows. “I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” said Tom genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into the sun—or wait a minute—it’s just the opposite—the sun’s getting colder every year. “Come outside,” he suggested to Gatsby, “I’d like you to have a look at the place.” I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound, stagnant in the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. Gatsby’s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed across the bay. “I’m right across from you.” “So you are.” Our eyes lifted over the rose-beds and the hot lawn and the weedy refuse of the dog-days alongshore. Slowly the white wings of the boat moved against the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped ocean and the abounding blessed isles. “There’s sport for you,” said Tom, nodding. “I’d like to be out there with him for about an	people weren’t servants at all. Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. “Going away?” I inquired. “No, old sport.” “I hear you fired all your servants.” “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.” So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes. “They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.” “I see.” He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden. The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocketbook slapped to the floor. “Oh, my!” she gasped. I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that I had no designs upon it—but everyone near by, including the woman, suspected me just the same. “Hot!” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Some weather! … Hot! … Hot! … Hot! … Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it … ?” My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand. That anyone should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made damp the pyjama pocket over his heart! … Through the hall of the Buchanans’ house blew a faint wind, carrying the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we waited at the door. “The master’s body?” roared the butler into the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, madame, but we can’t furnish it—it’s far too hot to touch this noon!” What he really said was: “Yes … Yes … I’ll see.” He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to take our stiff straw hats. “Madame expects you in the salon!” he cried, needlessly indicating the direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the common store of life. The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols weighing down their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans. “We can’t move,” they said together. Jordan’s fingers, powdered white over their tan, rested for a moment in mine. “And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?” I inquired. Simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, at the hall telephone. Gatsby stood in the centre of the crimson carpet and gazed around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air. “The rumour is,” whispered Jordan, “that that’s Tom’s girl on the telephone.” We were silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance: “Very well, then, I won’t sell you the car at all … I’m under no obligations to you at all … and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I won’t stand that at all!” “Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically. “No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to know about it.” Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room. “Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir … Nick …” “Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy. As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth. “You know I love you,” she murmured. “You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan. Daisy looked around doubtfully. “You kiss Nick too.” “What a low, vulgar girl!” “I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms.<\|quote\|>“Come to your own mother that loves you.”</\|quote\|>The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before. “I got dressed before luncheon,” said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy. “That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You absolute little dream.” “Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.” “How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?” “Where’s Daddy?” “She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.” Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand. “Come, Pammy.” “Goodbye, sweetheart!” With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice. Gatsby took up his drink. “They certainly look cool,” he said, with visible tension. We drank in long, greedy swallows. “I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” said Tom genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into the sun—or wait a minute—it’s just the opposite—the sun’s getting colder every year. “Come outside,” he suggested to Gatsby, “I’d like you to have a look at the place.” I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound, stagnant in the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. Gatsby’s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed across the bay. “I’m right across from you.” “So you are.” Our eyes lifted over the rose-beds and the hot lawn and the weedy refuse of the dog-days alongshore. Slowly the white wings of the boat moved against the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped ocean and the abounding blessed isles. “There’s sport for you,” said Tom, nodding. “I’d like to be out there with him for about an hour.” We had luncheon in the dining-room, darkened too against the heat, and drank down nervous gaiety with the cold ale. “What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon?” cried Daisy, “and the day after that, and the next thirty years?” “Don’t be morbid,” Jordan said. “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.” “But it’s so hot,” insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, “and everything’s so confused. Let’s all go to town!” Her voice struggled on through the heat, beating against it, moulding its senselessness into forms. “I’ve heard of making a garage out of a stable,” Tom was saying to Gatsby, “but I’m the first man who ever made a stable out of a garage.” “Who wants to go to town?” demanded Daisy insistently. Gatsby’s eyes floated toward her. “Ah,” she cried, “you look so cool.” Their eyes met, and they stared together at each other, alone in space. With an effort she glanced down at the table. “You always look so cool,” she repeated. She had told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw. He was astounded. His mouth opened a little, and he looked at Gatsby, and then back at Daisy as if he had just recognized her as someone he knew a long time ago. “You resemble the advertisement of the man,” she went on innocently. “You know the advertisement of the man—” “All right,” broke in Tom quickly, “I’m perfectly willing to go to town. Come on—we’re all going to town.” He got up, his eyes still flashing between Gatsby and his wife. No one moved. “Come on!” His temper cracked a little. “What’s the matter, anyhow? If we’re going to town, let’s start.” His hand, trembling with his effort at self-control, bore to his lips the last of his glass of ale. Daisy’s voice got us to our feet and out on to the blazing gravel drive. “Are we just going to go?” she objected. “Like this? Aren’t we going to let anyone smoke a cigarette first?” “Everybody smoked all through lunch.” “Oh, let’s have fun,” she begged him. “It’s too hot to fuss.” He didn’t answer. “Have it your own way,” she said. “Come on, Jordan.” They went upstairs to get ready while we three men stood there shuffling the hot pebbles with our feet. A silver curve of the moon hovered already in the western	telephone.” We were silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance: “Very well, then, I won’t sell you the car at all … I’m under no obligations to you at all … and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I won’t stand that at all!” “Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically. “No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to know about it.” Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room. “Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir … Nick …” “Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy. As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth. “You know I love you,” she murmured. “You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan. Daisy looked around doubtfully. “You kiss Nick too.” “What a low, vulgar girl!” “I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms.<\|quote\|>“Come to your own mother that loves you.”</\|quote\|>The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before. “I got dressed before luncheon,” said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy. “That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You absolute little dream.” “Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.” “How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?” “Where’s Daddy?” “She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.” Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand. “Come, Pammy.” “Goodbye, sweetheart!” With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice. Gatsby took up his drink. “They certainly look cool,” he said, with visible tension. We drank in long, greedy swallows. “I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” said Tom genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into the sun—or wait a minute—it’s just the opposite—the sun’s getting colder every year. “Come outside,” he suggested to Gatsby, “I’d like you to have a look at the place.” I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound, stagnant in the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. Gatsby’s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed across the bay. “I’m right across from you.” “So you are.” Our eyes lifted over the rose-beds and the hot lawn and the weedy refuse of the dog-days alongshore. Slowly the white wings of the boat moved against the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped ocean and the abounding blessed isles. “There’s sport for you,” said Tom, nodding. “I’d like to be out there with him for about an hour.” We had luncheon in the dining-room, darkened too against the heat, and drank down nervous gaiety with the cold ale. “What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon?” cried Daisy, “and the day after that, and the next thirty years?” “Don’t be morbid,” Jordan said. “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.” “But it’s so hot,” insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, “and everything’s so confused. Let’s all go to town!” Her voice struggled on through the heat, beating against it, moulding its senselessness into forms. “I’ve heard of making a garage out of a stable,” Tom was saying to Gatsby, “but	The Great Gatsby
"To be sure."	Don Lavington	like it is at Bath?"<\|quote\|>"To be sure."</\|quote\|>"Well, that caps all. Some	water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?"<\|quote\|>"To be sure."</\|quote\|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other	of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?"<\|quote\|>"To be sure."</\|quote\|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking	seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?"<\|quote\|>"To be sure."</\|quote\|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little	course; but I say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?" "I suppose you look just about the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait," said Don. "We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?"<\|quote\|>"To be sure."</\|quote\|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it?	came stalking out of the shelter where he had been dressing--a very simple operation, for it had consisted in draping himself in a great unbleached cloth--and looking squat and comical as a man in his circumstances could look. Ngati was close at hand with his men all standing in a group, and at first sight it seemed as if they were laughing at the little, stoutly-built, pink-faced man, but, on the contrary, they were smiles of admiration. "I couldn't ha' believed it, Mas' Don," said Jem; "I feel as fresh as a daisy, and--well, I never did! Mas' Don, what a guy you do look!" Don, after a momentary thought that he looked something like one of the old Romans in a toga, just as he had seen them in an engraving, had been so taken up with the beauty of the ferny gully, with the sun gilding here and there the steamy vapour which rose from the hot springs, that he had thought no more of his personal appearance till Jem spoke. "Guy?" he said, laughing, as he ran his eye over Jem. "I say, did you ever hear the story of the pot and the kettle?" "Yes, of course; but I say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?" "I suppose you look just about the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait," said Don. "We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?"<\|quote\|>"To be sure."</\|quote\|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem." "Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!" cried Jem scornfully. "What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came running up to the _whare_. "Boats coming from the ship to search for you," he said quickly, and then turned to Ngati and spoke a few words with the result that the chief rushed at the escaped pair, and signed to them to rise. "Yes," said the Englishman, "you had better go with him and hide for a bit. We'll let you know when they are gone." "Tell them to give us our clothes," said Jem sourly. "Yes, of course. They would tell tales," said the Englishman; and he turned again to Ngati, who sent two men out of the _whare_ to return directly with the dried garments. Ngati signed to them to follow, and he led them, by a faintly marked track, in and out among the trees and	a struggle, a loud splash, and then silence, followed by Jem's voice. "Oh!" he ejaculated. "Then why didn't you say so? How was I to know you meant a hot bath? Well, it arn't bad.--Mas' Don!" "Yes." "What! Ha' you been there all the time?" "Yes." "What yer been doing of?" "Laughing." "Larfin'? Are they giving you a hot bath?" "Yes." "Arn't it good?" "Glorious!" "I thought they was going to scald me like a pig, so as to eat me afterwards. Did you hear me holler?" "Hear you? Yes.--How delicious and restful it feels." "Ah, it do, my lad; but don't you let any on it get into your mouth. I did, and arn't good. But I say; what's it mean? Seems so rum to me coming to meet us in a canoe and bringing us ashore, and giving us hot baths. I don't seem to understand it. Nobody does such things over at home." As they lay in the roughly-made stone slab baths, into which the volcanic water effervesced and gurgled, the followers of Ngati came and went busily, and a curious transformation came over the scene--the darkness seemed to undergo a change and become grey. Then as Don watched, he saw that above his head quite a cloud of steam was floating, through which a pale, sad light began to penetrate; and as he watched this, so pleasant and restful was the sensation that he felt as if he could sleep, till he took into consideration the fact that if he did, his body would become relaxed, and he would slip down with his head beneath the surface. As it grew lighter rapidly now, he could make out that the roughly thatched roof was merely stretched over a rough rocky nook in which the hot spring bubbled out of the mountain slope, and here a few rough slabs had been laid together, box-fashion, to retain the water and form the bath. Before he had more than realised the fact that Jem was in a shelter very similar to his own, the huge New Zealander was back with about a dozen of his men, and himself bearing a great native flax cloth marked with a broad pattern. Just as the sun had transformed everything without, and Don was gazing on a glorious prospect of lace-like tree-fern rising out of the steaming gully in which he stood, Jem Wimble came stalking out of the shelter where he had been dressing--a very simple operation, for it had consisted in draping himself in a great unbleached cloth--and looking squat and comical as a man in his circumstances could look. Ngati was close at hand with his men all standing in a group, and at first sight it seemed as if they were laughing at the little, stoutly-built, pink-faced man, but, on the contrary, they were smiles of admiration. "I couldn't ha' believed it, Mas' Don," said Jem; "I feel as fresh as a daisy, and--well, I never did! Mas' Don, what a guy you do look!" Don, after a momentary thought that he looked something like one of the old Romans in a toga, just as he had seen them in an engraving, had been so taken up with the beauty of the ferny gully, with the sun gilding here and there the steamy vapour which rose from the hot springs, that he had thought no more of his personal appearance till Jem spoke. "Guy?" he said, laughing, as he ran his eye over Jem. "I say, did you ever hear the story of the pot and the kettle?" "Yes, of course; but I say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?" "I suppose you look just about the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait," said Don. "We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?"<\|quote\|>"To be sure."</\|quote\|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem." "Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!" cried Jem scornfully. "What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came running up to the _whare_. "Boats coming from the ship to search for you," he said quickly, and then turned to Ngati and spoke a few words with the result that the chief rushed at the escaped pair, and signed to them to rise. "Yes," said the Englishman, "you had better go with him and hide for a bit. We'll let you know when they are gone." "Tell them to give us our clothes," said Jem sourly. "Yes, of course. They would tell tales," said the Englishman; and he turned again to Ngati, who sent two men out of the _whare_ to return directly with the dried garments. Ngati signed to them to follow, and he led them, by a faintly marked track, in and out among the trees and the cleared patches which formed the natives' gardens, and all the while carefully avoiding any openings through which the harbour could be seen. Every now and then he turned to speak volubly, but though he interpolated a few English words, his meaning would have been incomprehensible but for his gestures and the warnings nature kept giving of danger. For every here and there, as they wound in and out among the trees, they came upon soft, boggy places, where the ground was hot; and as the pressure of the foot sent hissing forth a jet of steam, it was evident that a step to right or left of the narrow track meant being plunged into a pool of heated mud of unknown depth. In other places the hot mud bubbled up in rounded pools, spitting, hissing, and bursting with faint cracks that were terribly suggestive of danger. Over these heated spots the fertility and growth of the plants was astounding. They seemed to be shooting up out of a natural hothouse, but where to attempt to pass them meant a terrible and instant death. "Look out, Mas' Don! This here's what I once heard a clown say, `It's dangerous to be safe.' I say, figgerhead, arn't there no other way?" "Ship! Men! Catchee, catchee," said Ngati, in a whisper. "Hear that, Mas' Don? Any one'd think we was babbies. Ketchy, ketchy, indeed! You ask him if there arn't no other way. I don't like walking in a place that's like so much hot soup." "Be quiet, and follow. Hist! Hark!" Don stopped short, for, from a distance, came a faint hail, followed by another nearer, which seemed to be in answer. "They're arter us, sir, and if we're to be ketched I don't mean to be ketched like this." "What are you going to do, Jem?" "Do?" said Jem, unrolling his bundled-up clothes, and preparing to sit down, "make myself look like an ornery Chrishtun." "Don't sit down there, Jem!" cried Don, as Ngati gave a warning cry at the same moment, and started back. But they were too late, for Jem had chosen a delicately green mossy and ferny patch, and plumped himself down, to utter a cry of horror, and snatch at the extended hands. For the green ferny patch was a thin covering over a noisome hole full of black boiling mud, into which the poor fellow	similar to his own, the huge New Zealander was back with about a dozen of his men, and himself bearing a great native flax cloth marked with a broad pattern. Just as the sun had transformed everything without, and Don was gazing on a glorious prospect of lace-like tree-fern rising out of the steaming gully in which he stood, Jem Wimble came stalking out of the shelter where he had been dressing--a very simple operation, for it had consisted in draping himself in a great unbleached cloth--and looking squat and comical as a man in his circumstances could look. Ngati was close at hand with his men all standing in a group, and at first sight it seemed as if they were laughing at the little, stoutly-built, pink-faced man, but, on the contrary, they were smiles of admiration. "I couldn't ha' believed it, Mas' Don," said Jem; "I feel as fresh as a daisy, and--well, I never did! Mas' Don, what a guy you do look!" Don, after a momentary thought that he looked something like one of the old Romans in a toga, just as he had seen them in an engraving, had been so taken up with the beauty of the ferny gully, with the sun gilding here and there the steamy vapour which rose from the hot springs, that he had thought no more of his personal appearance till Jem spoke. "Guy?" he said, laughing, as he ran his eye over Jem. "I say, did you ever hear the story of the pot and the kettle?" "Yes, of course; but I say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?" "I suppose you look just about the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait," said Don. "We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?"<\|quote\|>"To be sure."</\|quote\|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem." "Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!" cried Jem scornfully. "What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came running up to the _whare_. "Boats coming from the ship to search for you," he said quickly, and then turned to Ngati and spoke a few words with the result that the chief rushed at the escaped pair, and signed to them to rise. "Yes," said the Englishman, "you had better go with him and hide for a bit. We'll let you know when they are gone." "Tell them to give us our clothes," said Jem sourly. "Yes, of course. They would tell tales," said the Englishman; and he turned again to Ngati, who sent two men out of the _whare_ to return directly with the dried garments. Ngati signed to them to follow, and he led them, by a faintly marked track, in and out among the trees and the cleared patches which formed the natives' gardens, and all the while carefully avoiding any openings through which the harbour could be seen. Every now and then he turned to speak volubly, but though he interpolated a few English words, his meaning would have been incomprehensible but for his gestures and the warnings nature kept giving of danger. For every here and there, as they wound in and out among the trees, they came upon soft, boggy places, where the ground was hot; and as the pressure of the foot sent hissing forth a jet of steam, it was evident that a step to right or left of the narrow track meant being plunged into a pool of heated mud of unknown depth. In other places the hot mud bubbled up in rounded pools, spitting, hissing, and bursting with faint cracks that were terribly suggestive of danger. Over these heated spots the fertility and growth of the plants was	Don Lavington
They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.	No speaker	soon make you dry enough!"<\|quote\|>They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.</\|quote\|>"Ahem!" said the Mouse with	and listen to me! _I'll_ soon make you dry enough!"<\|quote\|>They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.</\|quote\|>"Ahem!" said the Mouse with an important air, "are you	it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, "Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! _I'll_ soon make you dry enough!"<\|quote\|>They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.</\|quote\|>"Ahem!" said the Mouse with an important air, "are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! 'William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late	familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, "I am older than you, and must know better;" and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, "Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! _I'll_ soon make you dry enough!"<\|quote\|>They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.</\|quote\|>"Ahem!" said the Mouse with an important air, "are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! 'William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--'" "Ugh!" said the Lory, with a shiver. "I beg your pardon!" said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: "Did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the Mouse. "--I	there were a Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore. CHAPTER III. A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank--the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable. The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, "I am older than you, and must know better;" and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, "Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! _I'll_ soon make you dry enough!"<\|quote\|>They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.</\|quote\|>"Ahem!" said the Mouse with an important air, "are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! 'William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--'" "Ugh!" said the Lory, with a shiver. "I beg your pardon!" said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: "Did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the Mouse. "--I proceed. 'Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--'" "Found _what_?" said the Duck. "Found _it_," the Mouse replied rather crossly: "of course you know what 'it' means." "I know what 'it' means well enough, when _I_ find a thing," said the Duck: "it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?" The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown.	such long curly brown hair! And it'll fetch things when you throw them, and it'll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts of things--I can't remember half of them--and it belongs to a farmer, you know, and he says it's so useful, it's worth a hundred pounds! He says it kills all the rats and--oh dear!" cried Alice in a sorrowful tone, "I'm afraid I've offended it again!" For the Mouse was swimming away from her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in the pool as it went. So she called softly after it, "Mouse dear! Do come back again, and we won't talk about cats or dogs either, if you don't like them!" When the Mouse heard this, it turned round and swam slowly back to her: its face was quite pale (with passion, Alice thought), and it said in a low trembling voice, "Let us get to the shore, and then I'll tell you my history, and you'll understand why it is I hate cats and dogs." It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore. CHAPTER III. A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank--the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable. The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, "I am older than you, and must know better;" and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, "Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! _I'll_ soon make you dry enough!"<\|quote\|>They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.</\|quote\|>"Ahem!" said the Mouse with an important air, "are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! 'William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--'" "Ugh!" said the Lory, with a shiver. "I beg your pardon!" said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: "Did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the Mouse. "--I proceed. 'Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--'" "Found _what_?" said the Duck. "Found _it_," the Mouse replied rather crossly: "of course you know what 'it' means." "I know what 'it' means well enough, when _I_ find a thing," said the Duck: "it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?" The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--' How are you getting on now, my dear?" it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!" said the Eaglet. "I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race." "What _is_ a Caucus-race?" said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. "Why," said the Dodo, "the best way to explain it is to do it." (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some	thought this must be the right way of speaking to a mouse: she had never done such a thing before, but she remembered having seen in her brother's Latin Grammar, "A mouse--of a mouse--to a mouse--a mouse--O mouse!") The Mouse looked at her rather inquisitively, and seemed to her to wink with one of its little eyes, but it said nothing. "Perhaps it doesn't understand English," thought Alice; "I daresay it's a French mouse, come over with William the Conqueror." (For, with all her knowledge of history, Alice had no very clear notion how long ago anything had happened.) So she began again: "O? est ma chatte?" which was the first sentence in her French lesson-book. The Mouse gave a sudden leap out of the water, and seemed to quiver all over with fright. "Oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Alice hastily, afraid that she had hurt the poor animal's feelings. "I quite forgot you didn't like cats." "Not like cats!" cried the Mouse, in a shrill, passionate voice. "Would _you_ like cats if you were me?" "Well, perhaps not," said Alice in a soothing tone: "don't be angry about it. And yet I wish I could show you our cat Dinah: I think you'd take a fancy to cats if you could only see her. She is such a dear quiet thing," Alice went on, half to herself, as she swam lazily about in the pool, "and she sits purring so nicely by the fire, licking her paws and washing her face--and she is such a nice soft thing to nurse--and she's such a capital one for catching mice--oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Alice again, for this time the Mouse was bristling all over, and she felt certain it must be really offended. "We won't talk about her any more if you'd rather not." "We indeed!" cried the Mouse, who was trembling down to the end of his tail. "As if _I_ would talk on such a subject! Our family always _hated_ cats: nasty, low, vulgar things! Don't let me hear the name again!" "I won't indeed!" said Alice, in a great hurry to change the subject of conversation. "Are you--are you fond--of--of dogs?" The Mouse did not answer, so Alice went on eagerly: "There is such a nice little dog near our house I should like to show you! A little bright-eyed terrier, you know, with oh, such long curly brown hair! And it'll fetch things when you throw them, and it'll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts of things--I can't remember half of them--and it belongs to a farmer, you know, and he says it's so useful, it's worth a hundred pounds! He says it kills all the rats and--oh dear!" cried Alice in a sorrowful tone, "I'm afraid I've offended it again!" For the Mouse was swimming away from her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in the pool as it went. So she called softly after it, "Mouse dear! Do come back again, and we won't talk about cats or dogs either, if you don't like them!" When the Mouse heard this, it turned round and swam slowly back to her: its face was quite pale (with passion, Alice thought), and it said in a low trembling voice, "Let us get to the shore, and then I'll tell you my history, and you'll understand why it is I hate cats and dogs." It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore. CHAPTER III. A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank--the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable. The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, "I am older than you, and must know better;" and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, "Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! _I'll_ soon make you dry enough!"<\|quote\|>They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.</\|quote\|>"Ahem!" said the Mouse with an important air, "are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! 'William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--'" "Ugh!" said the Lory, with a shiver. "I beg your pardon!" said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: "Did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the Mouse. "--I proceed. 'Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--'" "Found _what_?" said the Duck. "Found _it_," the Mouse replied rather crossly: "of course you know what 'it' means." "I know what 'it' means well enough, when _I_ find a thing," said the Duck: "it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?" The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--' How are you getting on now, my dear?" it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!" said the Eaglet. "I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race." "What _is_ a Caucus-race?" said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. "Why," said the Dodo, "the best way to explain it is to do it." (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.) First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (" "the exact shape doesn't matter," it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no "One, two, three, and away," but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out "The race is over!" and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, "But who has won?" This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, "_Everybody_ has won, and all must have prizes." "But who is to give the prizes?" quite a chorus of voices asked. "Why, _she_, of course," said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, "Prizes! Prizes!" Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece, all round. "But she must have a prize herself, you know," said the Mouse. "Of course," the Dodo replied very gravely. "What else have you got in your pocket?" he went on, turning to Alice. "Only a thimble," said Alice sadly. "Hand it over here," said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying "We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble;" and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and	such a subject! Our family always _hated_ cats: nasty, low, vulgar things! Don't let me hear the name again!" "I won't indeed!" said Alice, in a great hurry to change the subject of conversation. "Are you--are you fond--of--of dogs?" The Mouse did not answer, so Alice went on eagerly: "There is such a nice little dog near our house I should like to show you! A little bright-eyed terrier, you know, with oh, such long curly brown hair! And it'll fetch things when you throw them, and it'll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts of things--I can't remember half of them--and it belongs to a farmer, you know, and he says it's so useful, it's worth a hundred pounds! He says it kills all the rats and--oh dear!" cried Alice in a sorrowful tone, "I'm afraid I've offended it again!" For the Mouse was swimming away from her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in the pool as it went. So she called softly after it, "Mouse dear! Do come back again, and we won't talk about cats or dogs either, if you don't like them!" When the Mouse heard this, it turned round and swam slowly back to her: its face was quite pale (with passion, Alice thought), and it said in a low trembling voice, "Let us get to the shore, and then I'll tell you my history, and you'll understand why it is I hate cats and dogs." It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore. CHAPTER III. A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank--the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable. The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, "I am older than you, and must know better;" and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, "Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! _I'll_ soon make you dry enough!"<\|quote\|>They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.</\|quote\|>"Ahem!" said the Mouse with an important air, "are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! 'William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--'" "Ugh!" said the Lory, with a shiver. "I beg your pardon!" said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: "Did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the Mouse. "--I proceed. 'Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--'" "Found _what_?" said the Duck. "Found _it_," the Mouse replied rather crossly: "of course you know what 'it' means." "I know what 'it' means well enough, when _I_ find a thing," said the Duck: "it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?" The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--' How are you getting on now, my dear?" it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
"Now or never,"	Mr. Skaggs	to do with the secret.<\|quote\|>"Now or never,"</\|quote\|>he thought. So he said	Evidently the brother had something to do with the secret.<\|quote\|>"Now or never,"</\|quote\|>he thought. So he said boldly, "Yes, I have a	But Oakley himself proceeded to give him his first cue. "You--you--perhaps have a message from my brother--my brother who is in Paris. I have not heard from him for some time." Skaggs's mind worked quickly. He remembered the Colonel's story. Evidently the brother had something to do with the secret.<\|quote\|>"Now or never,"</\|quote\|>he thought. So he said boldly, "Yes, I have a message from your brother." The man sprung up, clutching again at his breast. "You have? you have? Give it to me. After four years he sends me a message! Give it to me!" The reporter looked steadily at the man.	twitched as he saw his host's hands seek the breast of his jacket every other moment. "It is there the secret is hidden," he said to himself, "and whatever it is, I must have it. But how--how? I can't knock the man down and rob him in his own house." But Oakley himself proceeded to give him his first cue. "You--you--perhaps have a message from my brother--my brother who is in Paris. I have not heard from him for some time." Skaggs's mind worked quickly. He remembered the Colonel's story. Evidently the brother had something to do with the secret.<\|quote\|>"Now or never,"</\|quote\|>he thought. So he said boldly, "Yes, I have a message from your brother." The man sprung up, clutching again at his breast. "You have? you have? Give it to me. After four years he sends me a message! Give it to me!" The reporter looked steadily at the man. He knew that he was in his power, that his very eagerness would prove traitor to his discretion. "Your brother bade me to say to you that you have a terrible secret, that you bear it in your breast--there--there. I am his messenger. He bids you to give it to	as he talked. "You 're from Paris, sir, from Paris?" he said. "Come in, come in." His motions were nervous and erratic. Skaggs followed him into the library, and the wife disappeared in another direction. It would have been hard to recognise in the Oakley of the present the man of a few years before. The strong frame had gone away to bone, and nothing of his old power sat on either brow or chin. He was as a man who trembled on the brink of insanity. His guilty secret had been too much for him, and Skaggs's own fingers twitched as he saw his host's hands seek the breast of his jacket every other moment. "It is there the secret is hidden," he said to himself, "and whatever it is, I must have it. But how--how? I can't knock the man down and rob him in his own house." But Oakley himself proceeded to give him his first cue. "You--you--perhaps have a message from my brother--my brother who is in Paris. I have not heard from him for some time." Skaggs's mind worked quickly. He remembered the Colonel's story. Evidently the brother had something to do with the secret.<\|quote\|>"Now or never,"</\|quote\|>he thought. So he said boldly, "Yes, I have a message from your brother." The man sprung up, clutching again at his breast. "You have? you have? Give it to me. After four years he sends me a message! Give it to me!" The reporter looked steadily at the man. He knew that he was in his power, that his very eagerness would prove traitor to his discretion. "Your brother bade me to say to you that you have a terrible secret, that you bear it in your breast--there--there. I am his messenger. He bids you to give it to me." Oakley had shrunken back as if he had been struck. "No, no!" he gasped, "no, no! I have no secret." The reporter moved nearer him. The old man shrunk against the wall, his lips working convulsively and his hand tearing at his breast as Skaggs drew nearer. He attempted to shriek, but his voice was husky and broke off in a gasping whisper. "Give it to me, as your brother commands." "No, no, no! It is not his secret; it is mine. I must carry it here always, do you hear? I must carry it till I die. Go	cannot see him. Mr. Oakley is not well and does not see visitors." "But I must see him, madam; I am here upon business of importance." "You can tell me just as well as him. I am his wife and transact all of his business." "I can tell no one but the master of the house himself." "You cannot see him. It is against his orders." "Very well," replied Skaggs, descending one step; "it is his loss, not mine. I have tried to do my duty and failed. Simply tell him that I came from Paris." "Paris?" cried a querulous voice behind the woman's back. "Leslie, why do you keep the gentleman at the door? Let him come in at once." Mrs. Oakley stepped from the door and Skaggs went in. Had he seen Oakley before he would have been shocked at the change in his appearance; but as it was, the nervous, white-haired man who stood shiftily before him told him nothing of an eating secret long carried. The man's face was gray and haggard, and deep lines were cut under his staring, fish-like eyes. His hair tumbled in white masses over his pallid forehead, and his lips twitched as he talked. "You 're from Paris, sir, from Paris?" he said. "Come in, come in." His motions were nervous and erratic. Skaggs followed him into the library, and the wife disappeared in another direction. It would have been hard to recognise in the Oakley of the present the man of a few years before. The strong frame had gone away to bone, and nothing of his old power sat on either brow or chin. He was as a man who trembled on the brink of insanity. His guilty secret had been too much for him, and Skaggs's own fingers twitched as he saw his host's hands seek the breast of his jacket every other moment. "It is there the secret is hidden," he said to himself, "and whatever it is, I must have it. But how--how? I can't knock the man down and rob him in his own house." But Oakley himself proceeded to give him his first cue. "You--you--perhaps have a message from my brother--my brother who is in Paris. I have not heard from him for some time." Skaggs's mind worked quickly. He remembered the Colonel's story. Evidently the brother had something to do with the secret.<\|quote\|>"Now or never,"</\|quote\|>he thought. So he said boldly, "Yes, I have a message from your brother." The man sprung up, clutching again at his breast. "You have? you have? Give it to me. After four years he sends me a message! Give it to me!" The reporter looked steadily at the man. He knew that he was in his power, that his very eagerness would prove traitor to his discretion. "Your brother bade me to say to you that you have a terrible secret, that you bear it in your breast--there--there. I am his messenger. He bids you to give it to me." Oakley had shrunken back as if he had been struck. "No, no!" he gasped, "no, no! I have no secret." The reporter moved nearer him. The old man shrunk against the wall, his lips working convulsively and his hand tearing at his breast as Skaggs drew nearer. He attempted to shriek, but his voice was husky and broke off in a gasping whisper. "Give it to me, as your brother commands." "No, no, no! It is not his secret; it is mine. I must carry it here always, do you hear? I must carry it till I die. Go away! Go away!" Skaggs seized him. Oakley struggled weakly, but he had no strength. The reporter's hand sought the secret pocket. He felt a paper beneath his fingers. Oakley gasped hoarsely as he drew it forth. Then raising his voice gave one agonised cry, and sank to the floor frothing at the mouth. At the cry rapid footsteps were heard in the hallway, and Mrs. Oakley threw open the door. "What is the matter?" she cried. "My message has somewhat upset your husband," was the cool answer. "But his breast is open. Your hand has been in his bosom. You have taken something from him. Give it to me, or I shall call for help." Skaggs had not reckoned on this, but his wits came to the rescue. "You dare not call for help," he said, "or the world will know!" She wrung her hands helplessly, crying, "Oh, give it to me, give it to me. We 've never done you any harm." "But you 've harmed some one else; that is enough." He moved towards the door, but she sprang in front of him with the fierceness of a tigress protecting her young. She attacked him with teeth and	with eagerness. The Colonel dropped his voice lower. "We can only speculate," he said; "but, as I have said, I have my theory. Oakley was a just man, and in punishing his old servant for the supposed robbery it is plain that he acted from principle. But he is also a proud man and would hate to confess that he had been in the wrong. So I believed that the cause of his first shock was the finding of the money that he supposed gone. Unwilling to admit this error, he lets the misapprehension go on, and it is the money which he carries in his secret pocket, with a morbid fear of its discovery, that has made him dismiss his servants, leave his business, and refuse to see his friends." "A very natural conclusion, Colonel, and I must say that I believe you. It is strange that others have not seen as you have seen and brought the matter to light." "Well, you see, Mr. Skaggs, none are so dull as the people who think they think. I can safely say that there is not another man in this town who has lighted upon the real solution of this matter, though it has been openly talked of for so long. But as for bringing it to light, no one would think of doing that. It would be sure to hurt Oakley's feelings, and he is of one of our best families." "Ah, yes, perfectly right." Skaggs had got all that he wanted; much more, in fact, than he had expected. The Colonel held him for a while yet to enlarge upon the views that he had expressed. When the reporter finally left him, it was with a cheery "Good-night, Colonel. If I were a criminal, I should be afraid of that analytical mind of yours!" He went upstairs chuckling. "The old fool!" he cried as he flung himself into a chair. "I 've got it! I 've got it! Maurice Oakley must see me, and then what?" He sat down to think out what he should do to-morrow. Again, with his fine disregard of ways and means, he determined to trust to luck, and as he expressed it, "brace old Oakley." Accordingly he went about nine o'clock the next morning to Oakley's house. A gray-haired, sad-eyed woman inquired his errand. "I want to see Mr. Oakley," he said. "You cannot see him. Mr. Oakley is not well and does not see visitors." "But I must see him, madam; I am here upon business of importance." "You can tell me just as well as him. I am his wife and transact all of his business." "I can tell no one but the master of the house himself." "You cannot see him. It is against his orders." "Very well," replied Skaggs, descending one step; "it is his loss, not mine. I have tried to do my duty and failed. Simply tell him that I came from Paris." "Paris?" cried a querulous voice behind the woman's back. "Leslie, why do you keep the gentleman at the door? Let him come in at once." Mrs. Oakley stepped from the door and Skaggs went in. Had he seen Oakley before he would have been shocked at the change in his appearance; but as it was, the nervous, white-haired man who stood shiftily before him told him nothing of an eating secret long carried. The man's face was gray and haggard, and deep lines were cut under his staring, fish-like eyes. His hair tumbled in white masses over his pallid forehead, and his lips twitched as he talked. "You 're from Paris, sir, from Paris?" he said. "Come in, come in." His motions were nervous and erratic. Skaggs followed him into the library, and the wife disappeared in another direction. It would have been hard to recognise in the Oakley of the present the man of a few years before. The strong frame had gone away to bone, and nothing of his old power sat on either brow or chin. He was as a man who trembled on the brink of insanity. His guilty secret had been too much for him, and Skaggs's own fingers twitched as he saw his host's hands seek the breast of his jacket every other moment. "It is there the secret is hidden," he said to himself, "and whatever it is, I must have it. But how--how? I can't knock the man down and rob him in his own house." But Oakley himself proceeded to give him his first cue. "You--you--perhaps have a message from my brother--my brother who is in Paris. I have not heard from him for some time." Skaggs's mind worked quickly. He remembered the Colonel's story. Evidently the brother had something to do with the secret.<\|quote\|>"Now or never,"</\|quote\|>he thought. So he said boldly, "Yes, I have a message from your brother." The man sprung up, clutching again at his breast. "You have? you have? Give it to me. After four years he sends me a message! Give it to me!" The reporter looked steadily at the man. He knew that he was in his power, that his very eagerness would prove traitor to his discretion. "Your brother bade me to say to you that you have a terrible secret, that you bear it in your breast--there--there. I am his messenger. He bids you to give it to me." Oakley had shrunken back as if he had been struck. "No, no!" he gasped, "no, no! I have no secret." The reporter moved nearer him. The old man shrunk against the wall, his lips working convulsively and his hand tearing at his breast as Skaggs drew nearer. He attempted to shriek, but his voice was husky and broke off in a gasping whisper. "Give it to me, as your brother commands." "No, no, no! It is not his secret; it is mine. I must carry it here always, do you hear? I must carry it till I die. Go away! Go away!" Skaggs seized him. Oakley struggled weakly, but he had no strength. The reporter's hand sought the secret pocket. He felt a paper beneath his fingers. Oakley gasped hoarsely as he drew it forth. Then raising his voice gave one agonised cry, and sank to the floor frothing at the mouth. At the cry rapid footsteps were heard in the hallway, and Mrs. Oakley threw open the door. "What is the matter?" she cried. "My message has somewhat upset your husband," was the cool answer. "But his breast is open. Your hand has been in his bosom. You have taken something from him. Give it to me, or I shall call for help." Skaggs had not reckoned on this, but his wits came to the rescue. "You dare not call for help," he said, "or the world will know!" She wrung her hands helplessly, crying, "Oh, give it to me, give it to me. We 've never done you any harm." "But you 've harmed some one else; that is enough." He moved towards the door, but she sprang in front of him with the fierceness of a tigress protecting her young. She attacked him with teeth and nails. She was pallid with fury, and it was all he could do to protect himself and yet not injure her. Finally, when her anger had taken her strength, he succeeded in getting out. He flew down the hall-way and out of the front door, the woman's screams following him. He did not pause to read the precious letter until he was safe in his room at the Continental Hotel. Then he sprang to his feet, crying, "Thank God! thank God! I was right, and the _Universe_ shall have a sensation. The brother is the thief, and Berry Hamilton is an innocent man. Hurrah! Now, who is it that has come on a wild-goose chase? Who is it that ought to handle his idea carefully? Heigho, Saunders my man, the drinks 'll be on you, and old Skaggsy will have done some good in the world." XVII A YELLOW JOURNAL Mr. Skaggs had no qualms of conscience about the manner in which he had come by the damaging evidence against Maurice Oakley. It was enough for him that he had it. A corporation, he argued, had no soul, and therefore no conscience. How much less, then, should so small a part of a great corporation as himself be expected to have them? He had his story. It was vivid, interesting, dramatic. It meant the favour of his editor, a big thing for the _Universe_, and a fatter lining for his own pocket. He sat down to put his discovery on paper before he attempted anything else, although the impulse to celebrate was very strong within him. He told his story well, with an eye to every one of its salient points. He sent an alleged picture of Berry Hamilton as he had appeared at the time of his arrest. He sent a picture of the Oakley home and of the cottage where the servant and his family had been so happy. There was a strong pen-picture of the man, Oakley, grown haggard and morose from carrying his guilty secret, of his confusion when confronted with the supposed knowledge of it. The old Southern city was described, and the opinions of its residents in regard to the case given. It was there--clear, interesting, and strong. One could see it all as if every phase of it were being enacted before one's eyes. Skaggs surpassed himself. When the editor first got hold	what?" He sat down to think out what he should do to-morrow. Again, with his fine disregard of ways and means, he determined to trust to luck, and as he expressed it, "brace old Oakley." Accordingly he went about nine o'clock the next morning to Oakley's house. A gray-haired, sad-eyed woman inquired his errand. "I want to see Mr. Oakley," he said. "You cannot see him. Mr. Oakley is not well and does not see visitors." "But I must see him, madam; I am here upon business of importance." "You can tell me just as well as him. I am his wife and transact all of his business." "I can tell no one but the master of the house himself." "You cannot see him. It is against his orders." "Very well," replied Skaggs, descending one step; "it is his loss, not mine. I have tried to do my duty and failed. Simply tell him that I came from Paris." "Paris?" cried a querulous voice behind the woman's back. "Leslie, why do you keep the gentleman at the door? Let him come in at once." Mrs. Oakley stepped from the door and Skaggs went in. Had he seen Oakley before he would have been shocked at the change in his appearance; but as it was, the nervous, white-haired man who stood shiftily before him told him nothing of an eating secret long carried. The man's face was gray and haggard, and deep lines were cut under his staring, fish-like eyes. His hair tumbled in white masses over his pallid forehead, and his lips twitched as he talked. "You 're from Paris, sir, from Paris?" he said. "Come in, come in." His motions were nervous and erratic. Skaggs followed him into the library, and the wife disappeared in another direction. It would have been hard to recognise in the Oakley of the present the man of a few years before. The strong frame had gone away to bone, and nothing of his old power sat on either brow or chin. He was as a man who trembled on the brink of insanity. His guilty secret had been too much for him, and Skaggs's own fingers twitched as he saw his host's hands seek the breast of his jacket every other moment. "It is there the secret is hidden," he said to himself, "and whatever it is, I must have it. But how--how? I can't knock the man down and rob him in his own house." But Oakley himself proceeded to give him his first cue. "You--you--perhaps have a message from my brother--my brother who is in Paris. I have not heard from him for some time." Skaggs's mind worked quickly. He remembered the Colonel's story. Evidently the brother had something to do with the secret.<\|quote\|>"Now or never,"</\|quote\|>he thought. So he said boldly, "Yes, I have a message from your brother." The man sprung up, clutching again at his breast. "You have? you have? Give it to me. After four years he sends me a message! Give it to me!" The reporter looked steadily at the man. He knew that he was in his power, that his very eagerness would prove traitor to his discretion. "Your brother bade me to say to you that you have a terrible secret, that you bear it in your breast--there--there. I am his messenger. He bids you to give it to me." Oakley had shrunken back as if he had been struck. "No, no!" he gasped, "no, no! I have no secret." The reporter moved nearer him. The old man shrunk against the wall, his lips working convulsively and his hand tearing at his breast as Skaggs drew nearer. He attempted to shriek, but his voice was husky and broke off in a gasping whisper. "Give it to me, as your brother commands." "No, no, no! It is not his secret; it is mine. I must carry it here always, do you hear? I must carry it till I die. Go away! Go away!" Skaggs seized him. Oakley struggled weakly, but he had no strength. The reporter's hand sought the secret pocket. He felt a paper beneath his fingers. Oakley gasped hoarsely as he drew it forth. Then raising his voice gave one agonised cry, and sank to the floor frothing at the mouth. At the cry rapid footsteps were heard in the hallway, and Mrs. Oakley threw open the door. "What is the matter?" she cried. "My message has somewhat upset your husband," was the cool answer. "But his breast is open. Your hand has been in his bosom. You have taken something from him. Give it to me, or I shall call for help." Skaggs had not reckoned on this, but his wits came to the rescue. "You dare not call for help," he said, "or the world will know!" She wrung her hands helplessly, crying, "Oh, give it to me, give it to me. We 've never done you any harm." "But you 've harmed some one else; that is enough." He moved towards the door, but she sprang in front of him with the fierceness of a tigress protecting her young. She attacked him with teeth and nails.	The Sport Of The Gods
"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"	Winterbourne	she nodded at her attendant.<\|quote\|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</\|quote\|>said Winterbourne. "Of course I	too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<\|quote\|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</\|quote\|>said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed	dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<\|quote\|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</\|quote\|>said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care.	that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<\|quote\|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</\|quote\|>said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several	going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<\|quote\|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</\|quote\|>said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would	missed her, and now it was too late. She was "carried away" by Mr. Giovanelli. A few days after his brief interview with her mother, he encountered her in that beautiful abode of flowering desolation known as the Palace of the Caesars. The early Roman spring had filled the air with bloom and perfume, and the rugged surface of the Palatine was muffled with tender verdure. Daisy was strolling along the top of one of those great mounds of ruin that are embanked with mossy marble and paved with monumental inscriptions. It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, and feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also that Daisy had never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation of his whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<\|quote\|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</\|quote\|>said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!" The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and	Winterbourne observed. "Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed; "she goes on as if she was. But I ve made Mr. Giovanelli promise to tell me, if SHE doesn t. I should want to write to Mr. Miller about it--shouldn t you?" Winterbourne replied that he certainly should; and the state of mind of Daisy s mamma struck him as so unprecedented in the annals of parental vigilance that he gave up as utterly irrelevant the attempt to place her upon her guard. After this Daisy was never at home, and Winterbourne ceased to meet her at the houses of their common acquaintances, because, as he perceived, these shrewd people had quite made up their minds that she was going too far. They ceased to invite her; and they intimated that they desired to express to observant Europeans the great truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady, her behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her, and sometimes it annoyed him to suspect that she did not feel at all. He said to himself that she was too light and childish, too uncultivated and unreasoning, too provincial, to have reflected upon her ostracism, or even to have perceived it. Then at other moments he believed that she carried about in her elegant and irresponsible little organism a defiant, passionate, perfectly observant consciousness of the impression she produced. He asked himself whether Daisy s defiance came from the consciousness of innocence, or from her being, essentially, a young person of the reckless class. It must be admitted that holding one s self to a belief in Daisy s "innocence" came to seem to Winterbourne more and more a matter of fine-spun gallantry. As I have already had occasion to relate, he was angry at finding himself reduced to chopping logic about this young lady; he was vexed at his want of instinctive certitude as to how far her eccentricities were generic, national, and how far they were personal. From either view of them he had somehow missed her, and now it was too late. She was "carried away" by Mr. Giovanelli. A few days after his brief interview with her mother, he encountered her in that beautiful abode of flowering desolation known as the Palace of the Caesars. The early Roman spring had filled the air with bloom and perfume, and the rugged surface of the Palatine was muffled with tender verdure. Daisy was strolling along the top of one of those great mounds of ruin that are embanked with mossy marble and paved with monumental inscriptions. It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, and feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also that Daisy had never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation of his whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<\|quote\|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</\|quote\|>said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!" The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron s famous lines, out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her. Presently the sound of the woman s voice came to him distinctly in the warm night air. "Well, he looks at us as one of the old lions or tigers may have looked at the Christian martyrs!" These were the words he heard, in the familiar accent of Miss Daisy Miller. "Let us hope he is not very hungry," responded the ingenious Giovanelli. "He will have to take me first; you will serve for dessert!" Winterbourne stopped, with a sort of horror, and, it must be added, with a sort of relief. It was as if a sudden illumination had been flashed upon the ambiguity of Daisy s behavior, and the	a defiant, passionate, perfectly observant consciousness of the impression she produced. He asked himself whether Daisy s defiance came from the consciousness of innocence, or from her being, essentially, a young person of the reckless class. It must be admitted that holding one s self to a belief in Daisy s "innocence" came to seem to Winterbourne more and more a matter of fine-spun gallantry. As I have already had occasion to relate, he was angry at finding himself reduced to chopping logic about this young lady; he was vexed at his want of instinctive certitude as to how far her eccentricities were generic, national, and how far they were personal. From either view of them he had somehow missed her, and now it was too late. She was "carried away" by Mr. Giovanelli. A few days after his brief interview with her mother, he encountered her in that beautiful abode of flowering desolation known as the Palace of the Caesars. The early Roman spring had filled the air with bloom and perfume, and the rugged surface of the Palatine was muffled with tender verdure. Daisy was strolling along the top of one of those great mounds of ruin that are embanked with mossy marble and paved with monumental inscriptions. It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, and feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also that Daisy had never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation of his whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<\|quote\|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</\|quote\|>said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too,	Daisy Miller
“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”	Frank Hawden	said, turning away in disgust.<\|quote\|>“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”</\|quote\|>“Do with what?” “My love.”	no more such trash,” I said, turning away in disgust.<\|quote\|>“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”</\|quote\|>“Do with what?” “My love.” “Love!” I retorted scornfully. “There	were left alone, “I want to apologize to you. I had no right to plague you, but it all comes of the way I love you. A fellow gets jealous at the least little thing, you know.” “Bore me with no more such trash,” I said, turning away in disgust.<\|quote\|>“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”</\|quote\|>“Do with what?” “My love.” “Love!” I retorted scornfully. “There is no such thing.” “But there is, and I have found it.” “Well, you stick to it—that’s my advice to you. It will be a treasure. If you send it to my father he will get it bottled up and	sing to you,” I said brusquely, and made my exit. “Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,” called aunt Helen. “See what he wants and let him get away to his work, or your grannie will be vexed to see him loitering about all the morning.” “Miss Sybylla,” he began, when we were left alone, “I want to apologize to you. I had no right to plague you, but it all comes of the way I love you. A fellow gets jealous at the least little thing, you know.” “Bore me with no more such trash,” I said, turning away in disgust.<\|quote\|>“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”</\|quote\|>“Do with what?” “My love.” “Love!” I retorted scornfully. “There is no such thing.” “But there is, and I have found it.” “Well, you stick to it—that’s my advice to you. It will be a treasure. If you send it to my father he will get it bottled up and put it in the Goulburn museum. He has sent several things there already.” “Don’t make such a game of a poor devil. You know I can’t do that.” “Bag it up, then; put a big stone to make it sink, and pitch it in the river.” “You’ll rue this,” he	plumped down on the piano-stool and dashed into Kowalski’s galop, from that into “Gaité de Coeur” until I made the piano dance and tremble like a thing possessed. My annoyance faded, and I slowly played that saddest of waltzes, “Weber’s Last” . I became aware of a presence in the room, and, facing about, confronted Everard Grey. “How long have you been here?” I demanded sharply. “Since you began to play. Where on earth did you learn to play? Your execution is splendid. Do sing ‘Three Fishers’, please.” “Excuse me; I haven’t time now. Besides I am not competent to sing to you,” I said brusquely, and made my exit. “Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,” called aunt Helen. “See what he wants and let him get away to his work, or your grannie will be vexed to see him loitering about all the morning.” “Miss Sybylla,” he began, when we were left alone, “I want to apologize to you. I had no right to plague you, but it all comes of the way I love you. A fellow gets jealous at the least little thing, you know.” “Bore me with no more such trash,” I said, turning away in disgust.<\|quote\|>“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”</\|quote\|>“Do with what?” “My love.” “Love!” I retorted scornfully. “There is no such thing.” “But there is, and I have found it.” “Well, you stick to it—that’s my advice to you. It will be a treasure. If you send it to my father he will get it bottled up and put it in the Goulburn museum. He has sent several things there already.” “Don’t make such a game of a poor devil. You know I can’t do that.” “Bag it up, then; put a big stone to make it sink, and pitch it in the river.” “You’ll rue this,” he said savagely. “I may or may not,” I sang over my shoulder as I departed. CHAPTER TWELVE One Grand Passion I had not the opportunity of any more private interviews with Everard Grey till one morning near his departure, when we happened to be alone on the veranda. “Well, Miss Sybylla,” he began, “when I arrived I thought you and I would have been great friends; but we have not progressed at all. How do you account for that?” As he spoke he laid his slender shapely hand kindly upon my head. He was very handsome and winning, and moved	on the old tree there. I’m not a booby that will fall in love with every gussie I see. Bah, there’s no fear of that! I hate and detest men!” “I suppose you are rehearsing some more airs to show off with tonight,” sneered a voice behind me. “No, I’m realisticing; and how _dare_ you thrust your obnoxious presence before me when I wish to be alone! Haven’t I often shown—” “While a girl is disengaged, any man who is her equal has the right to pay his addresses to her if he is in earnest,” interrupted Mr Hawden. It was he who stood before me. “I am well aware of that,” I replied. “But it is a woman’s privilege to repel those attentions if distasteful to her. You seem disinclined to accord me that privilege.” Having delivered this retort, I returned to the house, leaving him standing there looking the fool he was. I do not believe in spurning the love of a blackfellow if he behaves in a manly way; but Frank Hawden was such a drivelling mawkish style of sweetheart that I had no patience with him. Aunt Helen and Everard had vacated the drawing-room, so I plumped down on the piano-stool and dashed into Kowalski’s galop, from that into “Gaité de Coeur” until I made the piano dance and tremble like a thing possessed. My annoyance faded, and I slowly played that saddest of waltzes, “Weber’s Last” . I became aware of a presence in the room, and, facing about, confronted Everard Grey. “How long have you been here?” I demanded sharply. “Since you began to play. Where on earth did you learn to play? Your execution is splendid. Do sing ‘Three Fishers’, please.” “Excuse me; I haven’t time now. Besides I am not competent to sing to you,” I said brusquely, and made my exit. “Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,” called aunt Helen. “See what he wants and let him get away to his work, or your grannie will be vexed to see him loitering about all the morning.” “Miss Sybylla,” he began, when we were left alone, “I want to apologize to you. I had no right to plague you, but it all comes of the way I love you. A fellow gets jealous at the least little thing, you know.” “Bore me with no more such trash,” I said, turning away in disgust.<\|quote\|>“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”</\|quote\|>“Do with what?” “My love.” “Love!” I retorted scornfully. “There is no such thing.” “But there is, and I have found it.” “Well, you stick to it—that’s my advice to you. It will be a treasure. If you send it to my father he will get it bottled up and put it in the Goulburn museum. He has sent several things there already.” “Don’t make such a game of a poor devil. You know I can’t do that.” “Bag it up, then; put a big stone to make it sink, and pitch it in the river.” “You’ll rue this,” he said savagely. “I may or may not,” I sang over my shoulder as I departed. CHAPTER TWELVE One Grand Passion I had not the opportunity of any more private interviews with Everard Grey till one morning near his departure, when we happened to be alone on the veranda. “Well, Miss Sybylla,” he began, “when I arrived I thought you and I would have been great friends; but we have not progressed at all. How do you account for that?” As he spoke he laid his slender shapely hand kindly upon my head. He was very handsome and winning, and moved in literary, musical, and artistic society—a man from my world, a world away. Oh, what pleasure I might have derived from companionship with him! I bit my lip to keep back the tears. Why did not social arrangements allow a man and a maid to be chums—chums as two men or two maids may be to each other, enjoying each other without thought beyond pure platonic friendship? But no; it could not be. I understood the conceit of men. Should I be very affable, I feared Everard Grey would imagine he had made a conquest of me. On the other hand, were I glum he would think the same, and that I was trying to hide my feelings behind a mask of brusquerie. I therefore steered in a bee-line between the two manners, and remarked with the greatest of indifference: “I was not aware that you expected us to be such cronies—in fact, I have never given the matter a thought.” He turned away in a piqued style. Such a beau of beaux, no doubt he was annoyed that an insignificant little country bumpkin should not be flattered by his patronage, or probably he thought me rude or ill-humoured. Two	boy, you must be dreaming! You have only seen her for an hour or two. I don’t believe in these sudden attachments.” Perhaps she here thought of one (her own) as sudden, which had not ended happily. “Everard, don’t do anything rashly. You know you are very fickle and considered a lady-killer—be merciful to my poor little Sybylla, I pray. It is just one of your passing fancies. Don’t wile her passionate young heart away and then leave her to pine and die.” “I don’t think she is that sort,” he replied laughingly. “No, she would not die, but would grow into a cynic and sceptic, which is the worst of fates. Let her alone. Flirt as much as you will with society belles who understand the game, but leave my country maiden alone. I hope to mould her into a splendid character yet.” “But, Helen, supposing I am in earnest at last, you don’t think I’d make her a bad old hubby, do you?” “She is not the girl for you. You are not the man who could ever control her. What I say may not be complimentary but it is true. Besides, she is not seventeen yet, and I do not approve of romantic young girls throwing themselves into matrimony. Let them develop their womanhood first.” “Then I expect I had better hide my attractions under a bushel during the remainder of my stay at Caddagat?” “Yes. Be as nice to the child as you like, but mind, none of those little ladies’-man attentions with which it is so easy to steal—” I waited to hear no more, but, brimming over with a mixture of emotions, tore through the garden and into the old orchard. Bees were busy, and countless bright-coloured butterflies flitted hither and thither, sipping from hundreds of trees, white or pink with bloom—their beauty was lost upon me. I stood ankle-deep in violets, where they had run wild under a gnarled old apple-tree, and gave way to my wounded vanity. “Little country maiden, indeed! There’s no need for him to bag his attractions up. If he exerted himself to the utmost of his ability, he could not make me love him. I’m not a child. I saw through him in the first hour. There’s not enough in him to win my love. I’ll show him I think no more of him than of the caterpillars on the old tree there. I’m not a booby that will fall in love with every gussie I see. Bah, there’s no fear of that! I hate and detest men!” “I suppose you are rehearsing some more airs to show off with tonight,” sneered a voice behind me. “No, I’m realisticing; and how _dare_ you thrust your obnoxious presence before me when I wish to be alone! Haven’t I often shown—” “While a girl is disengaged, any man who is her equal has the right to pay his addresses to her if he is in earnest,” interrupted Mr Hawden. It was he who stood before me. “I am well aware of that,” I replied. “But it is a woman’s privilege to repel those attentions if distasteful to her. You seem disinclined to accord me that privilege.” Having delivered this retort, I returned to the house, leaving him standing there looking the fool he was. I do not believe in spurning the love of a blackfellow if he behaves in a manly way; but Frank Hawden was such a drivelling mawkish style of sweetheart that I had no patience with him. Aunt Helen and Everard had vacated the drawing-room, so I plumped down on the piano-stool and dashed into Kowalski’s galop, from that into “Gaité de Coeur” until I made the piano dance and tremble like a thing possessed. My annoyance faded, and I slowly played that saddest of waltzes, “Weber’s Last” . I became aware of a presence in the room, and, facing about, confronted Everard Grey. “How long have you been here?” I demanded sharply. “Since you began to play. Where on earth did you learn to play? Your execution is splendid. Do sing ‘Three Fishers’, please.” “Excuse me; I haven’t time now. Besides I am not competent to sing to you,” I said brusquely, and made my exit. “Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,” called aunt Helen. “See what he wants and let him get away to his work, or your grannie will be vexed to see him loitering about all the morning.” “Miss Sybylla,” he began, when we were left alone, “I want to apologize to you. I had no right to plague you, but it all comes of the way I love you. A fellow gets jealous at the least little thing, you know.” “Bore me with no more such trash,” I said, turning away in disgust.<\|quote\|>“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”</\|quote\|>“Do with what?” “My love.” “Love!” I retorted scornfully. “There is no such thing.” “But there is, and I have found it.” “Well, you stick to it—that’s my advice to you. It will be a treasure. If you send it to my father he will get it bottled up and put it in the Goulburn museum. He has sent several things there already.” “Don’t make such a game of a poor devil. You know I can’t do that.” “Bag it up, then; put a big stone to make it sink, and pitch it in the river.” “You’ll rue this,” he said savagely. “I may or may not,” I sang over my shoulder as I departed. CHAPTER TWELVE One Grand Passion I had not the opportunity of any more private interviews with Everard Grey till one morning near his departure, when we happened to be alone on the veranda. “Well, Miss Sybylla,” he began, “when I arrived I thought you and I would have been great friends; but we have not progressed at all. How do you account for that?” As he spoke he laid his slender shapely hand kindly upon my head. He was very handsome and winning, and moved in literary, musical, and artistic society—a man from my world, a world away. Oh, what pleasure I might have derived from companionship with him! I bit my lip to keep back the tears. Why did not social arrangements allow a man and a maid to be chums—chums as two men or two maids may be to each other, enjoying each other without thought beyond pure platonic friendship? But no; it could not be. I understood the conceit of men. Should I be very affable, I feared Everard Grey would imagine he had made a conquest of me. On the other hand, were I glum he would think the same, and that I was trying to hide my feelings behind a mask of brusquerie. I therefore steered in a bee-line between the two manners, and remarked with the greatest of indifference: “I was not aware that you expected us to be such cronies—in fact, I have never given the matter a thought.” He turned away in a piqued style. Such a beau of beaux, no doubt he was annoyed that an insignificant little country bumpkin should not be flattered by his patronage, or probably he thought me rude or ill-humoured. Two mornings later uncle Jay-Jay took him to Gool-Gool _en route_ for Sydney. When departing he bade me a kindly good-bye, made me promise to write to him, and announced his intention of obtaining the opinion of some good masters are my dramatic talent and voice, when I came to Sydney as promised by my grandmother. I stood on the garden fence waving my handkerchief until the buggy passed out of sight among the messmate-trees about half a mile from the house. “Well I hope, as that dandified ape has gone—and good riddance to him—that you will pay more heed to my attentions now,” said Mr Hawden’s voice, as I was in the act of descending from the fence. “What do you mean by your attentions?” I demanded. “What do I mean! That is something like coming to business. I’ll soon explain. You know what my intentions are very well. When I am twenty-four, I will come into my property in England. It is considerable, and at the end of that time I want to marry you and take you home. By Jove! I would just like to take you home. You’d surprise some English girls I know.” “There would be more than one person surprised if I married you,” I thought to myself, and laughed till I ached with the motion. “You infernal little vixen! What are you laughing at? You’ve got no more sense than a bat if such a solemn thing only provokes your mirth.” “Solemn—why, it’s a screaming farce!” I laughed more and more. “What’s a farce?” he demanded fiercely. “The bare idea of you proposing to me.” “Why? Have I not as much right to propose as any other man?” “Man!” I laughed. “That’s where the absurdity arises. My child, if you were a man, certainly you could propose, but do you think I’d look at a boy, a child! If ever I perpetrate matrimony the participant in my degradation will be a fully developed man—not a hobbledehoy who falls in love, as he terms it, on an average about twice a week. Love! Ho!” I moved in the direction of the house. He barred my path. “You are not going to escape me like that, my fine lady. I will make you listen to me this time or you will hear more about it,” and he seized me angrily by the wrist. I cannot bear	in the first hour. There’s not enough in him to win my love. I’ll show him I think no more of him than of the caterpillars on the old tree there. I’m not a booby that will fall in love with every gussie I see. Bah, there’s no fear of that! I hate and detest men!” “I suppose you are rehearsing some more airs to show off with tonight,” sneered a voice behind me. “No, I’m realisticing; and how _dare_ you thrust your obnoxious presence before me when I wish to be alone! Haven’t I often shown—” “While a girl is disengaged, any man who is her equal has the right to pay his addresses to her if he is in earnest,” interrupted Mr Hawden. It was he who stood before me. “I am well aware of that,” I replied. “But it is a woman’s privilege to repel those attentions if distasteful to her. You seem disinclined to accord me that privilege.” Having delivered this retort, I returned to the house, leaving him standing there looking the fool he was. I do not believe in spurning the love of a blackfellow if he behaves in a manly way; but Frank Hawden was such a drivelling mawkish style of sweetheart that I had no patience with him. Aunt Helen and Everard had vacated the drawing-room, so I plumped down on the piano-stool and dashed into Kowalski’s galop, from that into “Gaité de Coeur” until I made the piano dance and tremble like a thing possessed. My annoyance faded, and I slowly played that saddest of waltzes, “Weber’s Last” . I became aware of a presence in the room, and, facing about, confronted Everard Grey. “How long have you been here?” I demanded sharply. “Since you began to play. Where on earth did you learn to play? Your execution is splendid. Do sing ‘Three Fishers’, please.” “Excuse me; I haven’t time now. Besides I am not competent to sing to you,” I said brusquely, and made my exit. “Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,” called aunt Helen. “See what he wants and let him get away to his work, or your grannie will be vexed to see him loitering about all the morning.” “Miss Sybylla,” he began, when we were left alone, “I want to apologize to you. I had no right to plague you, but it all comes of the way I love you. A fellow gets jealous at the least little thing, you know.” “Bore me with no more such trash,” I said, turning away in disgust.<\|quote\|>“But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?”</\|quote\|>“Do with what?” “My love.” “Love!” I retorted scornfully. “There is no such thing.” “But there is, and I have found it.” “Well, you stick to it—that’s my advice to you. It will be a treasure. If you send it to my father he will get it bottled up and put it in the Goulburn museum. He has sent several things there already.” “Don’t make such a game of a poor devil. You know I can’t do that.” “Bag it up, then; put a big stone to make it sink, and pitch it in the river.” “You’ll rue this,” he said savagely. “I may or may not,” I sang over my shoulder as I departed. CHAPTER TWELVE One Grand Passion I had not the opportunity of any more private interviews with Everard Grey till one morning near his departure, when we happened to be alone on the veranda. “Well, Miss Sybylla,” he began, “when I arrived I thought you and I would have been great friends; but we have not progressed at all. How do you account for that?” As he spoke he laid his slender shapely hand kindly upon my head. He was very handsome and winning, and moved in literary, musical, and artistic society—a man from my world, a world away. Oh, what pleasure I might have derived from companionship with him! I bit my lip to keep back the tears. Why did not social arrangements allow a man and a maid to be chums—chums as two men or two maids may be to each other, enjoying each other without thought beyond pure platonic friendship? But no; it could not be. I understood the conceit of men. Should I be very affable, I feared Everard Grey would imagine he had made a conquest of	My Brilliant Career
All the older men are linked up with their previous life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate it. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and some, perhaps, a girl--that is not much, for at our age the influence of parents is at its weakest and girls have not yet got a hold over us. Besides this there was little else--some enthusiasm, a few hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains. Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not often sad. * * Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich's boots, he is really quite as sympathetic as another who could not bear to think of such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather go barefoot over barbed wire than scheme how to get hold of them. But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich's circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich will die; it is immaterial who gets them. Why, then, should Müller not succeed to them? he has more right than a hospital orderly. When Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already on the watch. We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important for us. And good boots are scarce. * * Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to enlist, we were a class of twenty young men, many of whom proudly shaved for the first time before going to the barracks. We had no definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and occupation were as yet of too unpractical a character to furnish any scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave to life, and to the war also, an ideal and almost romantic character. We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At first astonished, then embittered, and finally indifferent, we recognized that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush, not intelligence but the system, not freedom but drill. We became soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm, but they have done everything to knock that out of us. After three weeks it was no longer incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe. With our young, awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servant--salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a thousand pettifogging details. We had fancied our task would be different, only to find we were to be trained for heroism as though we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to it. We learned in fact that some part of these things was necessary, but the rest merely show. Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions. * * By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst Frisian fishermen, peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went to No. 9 platoon under Corporal Himmelstoss. He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the camp, and was proud of it. He was a small undersized fellow with a foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years service and was in civil life a postman. He had a special dislike for Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus, and me, because he sensed a quiet defiance. I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he had some fault to find and pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty hours--with intervals of course--until they became as soft as butter and not even Himmelstoss could find anything more to do to them; under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals' Mess with a tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the barrack-square of snow with a hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant accidentally appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But the only result of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For six weeks consecutively I did guard every Sunday and was hut-orderly for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to practise on a soft, wet, newly ploughed field the	No speaker	Kantorek calls the "Iron Youth."<\|quote\|>All the older men are linked up with their previous life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate it. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and some, perhaps, a girl--that is not much, for at our age the influence of parents is at its weakest and girls have not yet got a hold over us. Besides this there was little else--some enthusiasm, a few hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains. Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not often sad. * * Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich's boots, he is really quite as sympathetic as another who could not bear to think of such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather go barefoot over barbed wire than scheme how to get hold of them. But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich's circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich will die; it is immaterial who gets them. Why, then, should Müller not succeed to them? he has more right than a hospital orderly. When Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already on the watch. We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important for us. And good boots are scarce. * * Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to enlist, we were a class of twenty young men, many of whom proudly shaved for the first time before going to the barracks. We had no definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and occupation were as yet of too unpractical a character to furnish any scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave to life, and to the war also, an ideal and almost romantic character. We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At first astonished, then embittered, and finally indifferent, we recognized that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush, not intelligence but the system, not freedom but drill. We became soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm, but they have done everything to knock that out of us. After three weeks it was no longer incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe. With our young, awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servant--salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a thousand pettifogging details. We had fancied our task would be different, only to find we were to be trained for heroism as though we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to it. We learned in fact that some part of these things was necessary, but the rest merely show. Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions. * * By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst Frisian fishermen, peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went to No. 9 platoon under Corporal Himmelstoss. He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the camp, and was proud of it. He was a small undersized fellow with a foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years service and was in civil life a postman. He had a special dislike for Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus, and me, because he sensed a quiet defiance. I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he had some fault to find and pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty hours--with intervals of course--until they became as soft as butter and not even Himmelstoss could find anything more to do to them; under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals' Mess with a tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the barrack-square of snow with a hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant accidentally appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But the only result of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For six weeks consecutively I did guard every Sunday and was hut-orderly for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to practise on a soft, wet, newly ploughed field the</\|quote\|>"Prepare to advance, advance!" and	for all of us whom Kantorek calls the "Iron Youth."<\|quote\|>All the older men are linked up with their previous life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate it. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and some, perhaps, a girl--that is not much, for at our age the influence of parents is at its weakest and girls have not yet got a hold over us. Besides this there was little else--some enthusiasm, a few hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains. Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not often sad. * * Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich's boots, he is really quite as sympathetic as another who could not bear to think of such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather go barefoot over barbed wire than scheme how to get hold of them. But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich's circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich will die; it is immaterial who gets them. Why, then, should Müller not succeed to them? he has more right than a hospital orderly. When Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already on the watch. We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important for us. And good boots are scarce. * * Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to enlist, we were a class of twenty young men, many of whom proudly shaved for the first time before going to the barracks. We had no definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and occupation were as yet of too unpractical a character to furnish any scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave to life, and to the war also, an ideal and almost romantic character. We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At first astonished, then embittered, and finally indifferent, we recognized that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush, not intelligence but the system, not freedom but drill. We became soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm, but they have done everything to knock that out of us. After three weeks it was no longer incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe. With our young, awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servant--salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a thousand pettifogging details. We had fancied our task would be different, only to find we were to be trained for heroism as though we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to it. We learned in fact that some part of these things was necessary, but the rest merely show. Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions. * * By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst Frisian fishermen, peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went to No. 9 platoon under Corporal Himmelstoss. He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the camp, and was proud of it. He was a small undersized fellow with a foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years service and was in civil life a postman. He had a special dislike for Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus, and me, because he sensed a quiet defiance. I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he had some fault to find and pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty hours--with intervals of course--until they became as soft as butter and not even Himmelstoss could find anything more to do to them; under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals' Mess with a tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the barrack-square of snow with a hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant accidentally appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But the only result of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For six weeks consecutively I did guard every Sunday and was hut-orderly for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to practise on a soft, wet, newly ploughed field the</\|quote\|>"Prepare to advance, advance!" and the "Lie down!" until I	and that without our lifting a hand. We often try to look back on it and to find an explanation, but never quite succeed. For us young men of twenty everything is extraordinarily vague, for Kropp, Müller, Leer, and me, for all of us whom Kantorek calls the "Iron Youth."<\|quote\|>All the older men are linked up with their previous life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate it. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and some, perhaps, a girl--that is not much, for at our age the influence of parents is at its weakest and girls have not yet got a hold over us. Besides this there was little else--some enthusiasm, a few hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains. Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not often sad. * * Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich's boots, he is really quite as sympathetic as another who could not bear to think of such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather go barefoot over barbed wire than scheme how to get hold of them. But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich's circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich will die; it is immaterial who gets them. Why, then, should Müller not succeed to them? he has more right than a hospital orderly. When Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already on the watch. We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important for us. And good boots are scarce. * * Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to enlist, we were a class of twenty young men, many of whom proudly shaved for the first time before going to the barracks. We had no definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and occupation were as yet of too unpractical a character to furnish any scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave to life, and to the war also, an ideal and almost romantic character. We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At first astonished, then embittered, and finally indifferent, we recognized that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush, not intelligence but the system, not freedom but drill. We became soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm, but they have done everything to knock that out of us. After three weeks it was no longer incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe. With our young, awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servant--salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a thousand pettifogging details. We had fancied our task would be different, only to find we were to be trained for heroism as though we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to it. We learned in fact that some part of these things was necessary, but the rest merely show. Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions. * * By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst Frisian fishermen, peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went to No. 9 platoon under Corporal Himmelstoss. He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the camp, and was proud of it. He was a small undersized fellow with a foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years service and was in civil life a postman. He had a special dislike for Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus, and me, because he sensed a quiet defiance. I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he had some fault to find and pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty hours--with intervals of course--until they became as soft as butter and not even Himmelstoss could find anything more to do to them; under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals' Mess with a tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the barrack-square of snow with a hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant accidentally appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But the only result of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For six weeks consecutively I did guard every Sunday and was hut-orderly for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to practise on a soft, wet, newly ploughed field the</\|quote\|>"Prepare to advance, advance!" and the "Lie down!" until I was one lump of mud and finally collapsed. Four hours later I had to report to Himmelstoss with my clothes scrubbed clean, my hands chafed and bleeding. Together with Kropp, Westhus, and Tjaden I have stood at attention in a	of a play called "Saul" and a bundle of poems. Many an evening I have worked over them--we all did something of the kind--but that has become so unreal to me that I cannot comprehend it any more. Our early life is cut off from the moment we came here, and that without our lifting a hand. We often try to look back on it and to find an explanation, but never quite succeed. For us young men of twenty everything is extraordinarily vague, for Kropp, Müller, Leer, and me, for all of us whom Kantorek calls the "Iron Youth."<\|quote\|>All the older men are linked up with their previous life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate it. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and some, perhaps, a girl--that is not much, for at our age the influence of parents is at its weakest and girls have not yet got a hold over us. Besides this there was little else--some enthusiasm, a few hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains. Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not often sad. * * Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich's boots, he is really quite as sympathetic as another who could not bear to think of such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather go barefoot over barbed wire than scheme how to get hold of them. But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich's circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich will die; it is immaterial who gets them. Why, then, should Müller not succeed to them? he has more right than a hospital orderly. When Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already on the watch. We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important for us. And good boots are scarce. * * Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to enlist, we were a class of twenty young men, many of whom proudly shaved for the first time before going to the barracks. We had no definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and occupation were as yet of too unpractical a character to furnish any scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave to life, and to the war also, an ideal and almost romantic character. We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At first astonished, then embittered, and finally indifferent, we recognized that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush, not intelligence but the system, not freedom but drill. We became soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm, but they have done everything to knock that out of us. After three weeks it was no longer incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe. With our young, awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servant--salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a thousand pettifogging details. We had fancied our task would be different, only to find we were to be trained for heroism as though we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to it. We learned in fact that some part of these things was necessary, but the rest merely show. Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions. * * By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst Frisian fishermen, peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went to No. 9 platoon under Corporal Himmelstoss. He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the camp, and was proud of it. He was a small undersized fellow with a foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years service and was in civil life a postman. He had a special dislike for Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus, and me, because he sensed a quiet defiance. I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he had some fault to find and pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty hours--with intervals of course--until they became as soft as butter and not even Himmelstoss could find anything more to do to them; under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals' Mess with a tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the barrack-square of snow with a hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant accidentally appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But the only result of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For six weeks consecutively I did guard every Sunday and was hut-orderly for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to practise on a soft, wet, newly ploughed field the</\|quote\|>"Prepare to advance, advance!" and the "Lie down!" until I was one lump of mud and finally collapsed. Four hours later I had to report to Himmelstoss with my clothes scrubbed clean, my hands chafed and bleeding. Together with Kropp, Westhus, and Tjaden I have stood at attention in a hard frost without gloves for a quarter of an hour at a stretch, while Himmelstoss watched for the slightest movement of our bare fingers on the steel barrel of the rifle. I have run eight times from the top floor of the barracks down to the courtyard in my shirt	calmed himself; we understand: he sees red, out here every man gets like that sometime. "What has Kantorek written to you?" Müller asks him. He laughs. "We are the Iron Youth." We all three smile bitterly. Kropp rails: he is glad that he can speak. Yes, that's the way they think, these hundred thousand Kantoreks! Iron Youth. Youth! We are none of us more than twenty years old. But young? Youth? That is long ago. We are old folk. CHAPTER II It is strange to think that at home in the drawer of my writing table there lies the beginning of a play called "Saul" and a bundle of poems. Many an evening I have worked over them--we all did something of the kind--but that has become so unreal to me that I cannot comprehend it any more. Our early life is cut off from the moment we came here, and that without our lifting a hand. We often try to look back on it and to find an explanation, but never quite succeed. For us young men of twenty everything is extraordinarily vague, for Kropp, Müller, Leer, and me, for all of us whom Kantorek calls the "Iron Youth."<\|quote\|>All the older men are linked up with their previous life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate it. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and some, perhaps, a girl--that is not much, for at our age the influence of parents is at its weakest and girls have not yet got a hold over us. Besides this there was little else--some enthusiasm, a few hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains. Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not often sad. * * Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich's boots, he is really quite as sympathetic as another who could not bear to think of such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather go barefoot over barbed wire than scheme how to get hold of them. But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich's circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich will die; it is immaterial who gets them. Why, then, should Müller not succeed to them? he has more right than a hospital orderly. When Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already on the watch. We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important for us. And good boots are scarce. * * Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to enlist, we were a class of twenty young men, many of whom proudly shaved for the first time before going to the barracks. We had no definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and occupation were as yet of too unpractical a character to furnish any scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave to life, and to the war also, an ideal and almost romantic character. We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At first astonished, then embittered, and finally indifferent, we recognized that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush, not intelligence but the system, not freedom but drill. We became soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm, but they have done everything to knock that out of us. After three weeks it was no longer incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe. With our young, awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servant--salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a thousand pettifogging details. We had fancied our task would be different, only to find we were to be trained for heroism as though we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to it. We learned in fact that some part of these things was necessary, but the rest merely show. Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions. * * By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst Frisian fishermen, peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went to No. 9 platoon under Corporal Himmelstoss. He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the camp, and was proud of it. He was a small undersized fellow with a foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years service and was in civil life a postman. He had a special dislike for Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus, and me, because he sensed a quiet defiance. I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he had some fault to find and pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty hours--with intervals of course--until they became as soft as butter and not even Himmelstoss could find anything more to do to them; under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals' Mess with a tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the barrack-square of snow with a hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant accidentally appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But the only result of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For six weeks consecutively I did guard every Sunday and was hut-orderly for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to practise on a soft, wet, newly ploughed field the</\|quote\|>"Prepare to advance, advance!" and the "Lie down!" until I was one lump of mud and finally collapsed. Four hours later I had to report to Himmelstoss with my clothes scrubbed clean, my hands chafed and bleeding. Together with Kropp, Westhus, and Tjaden I have stood at attention in a hard frost without gloves for a quarter of an hour at a stretch, while Himmelstoss watched for the slightest movement of our bare fingers on the steel barrel of the rifle. I have run eight times from the top floor of the barracks down to the courtyard in my shirt at two o'clock in the morning because my drawers projected three inches beyond the edge of the stool on which one had to stack all one's things. Alongside me ran the corporal, Himmelstoss, and trod on my bare toes. At bayonet-practice I had constantly to fight with Himmelstoss, I with a heavy iron weapon whilst he had a handy wooden one with which he easily struck my arms till they were black and blue. Once, indeed, I became so infuriated that I ran at him blindly and gave him a mighty jab in the stomach and knocked him down. When	Kropp viciously. I hastily intervene and give him a cigarette. He takes it. "Are you usually allowed to give it, then?" I ask him. He is annoyed. "If you don't think so, then why do you ask?" I press a couple more cigarettes into his hand. "Do us the favour----" "Well, all right," he says. Kropp goes in with him. He doesn't trust him and wants to see. We wait outside. Müller returns to the subject of the boots. "They would fit me perfectly. In these boots I get blister after blister. Do you think he will last till to-morrow after drill? If he passes out in the night, we know where the boots----" Kropp returns. "Do you think----?" he asks. "Done for," says Müller emphatically. We go back to the huts. I think of the letter that I must write to-morrow to Kemmerich's mother. I am freezing. I could do with a tot of rum. Müller pulls up some grass and chews it. Suddenly little Kropp throws his cigarette away, stamps on it savagely, and looking round him with a broken and distracted face, stammers: "Damned shit, the damned shit!" We walk on for a long time. Kropp has calmed himself; we understand: he sees red, out here every man gets like that sometime. "What has Kantorek written to you?" Müller asks him. He laughs. "We are the Iron Youth." We all three smile bitterly. Kropp rails: he is glad that he can speak. Yes, that's the way they think, these hundred thousand Kantoreks! Iron Youth. Youth! We are none of us more than twenty years old. But young? Youth? That is long ago. We are old folk. CHAPTER II It is strange to think that at home in the drawer of my writing table there lies the beginning of a play called "Saul" and a bundle of poems. Many an evening I have worked over them--we all did something of the kind--but that has become so unreal to me that I cannot comprehend it any more. Our early life is cut off from the moment we came here, and that without our lifting a hand. We often try to look back on it and to find an explanation, but never quite succeed. For us young men of twenty everything is extraordinarily vague, for Kropp, Müller, Leer, and me, for all of us whom Kantorek calls the "Iron Youth."<\|quote\|>All the older men are linked up with their previous life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate it. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and some, perhaps, a girl--that is not much, for at our age the influence of parents is at its weakest and girls have not yet got a hold over us. Besides this there was little else--some enthusiasm, a few hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains. Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not often sad. * * Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich's boots, he is really quite as sympathetic as another who could not bear to think of such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather go barefoot over barbed wire than scheme how to get hold of them. But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich's circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich will die; it is immaterial who gets them. Why, then, should Müller not succeed to them? he has more right than a hospital orderly. When Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already on the watch. We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important for us. And good boots are scarce. * * Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to enlist, we were a class of twenty young men, many of whom proudly shaved for the first time before going to the barracks. We had no definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and occupation were as yet of too unpractical a character to furnish any scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave to life, and to the war also, an ideal and almost romantic character. We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At first astonished, then embittered, and finally indifferent, we recognized that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush, not intelligence but the system, not freedom but drill. We became soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm, but they have done everything to knock that out of us. After three weeks it was no longer incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe. With our young, awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servant--salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a thousand pettifogging details. We had fancied our task would be different, only to find we were to be trained for heroism as though we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to it. We learned in fact that some part of these things was necessary, but the rest merely show. Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions. * * By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst Frisian fishermen, peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went to No. 9 platoon under Corporal Himmelstoss. He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the camp, and was proud of it. He was a small undersized fellow with a foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years service and was in civil life a postman. He had a special dislike for Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus, and me, because he sensed a quiet defiance. I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he had some fault to find and pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty hours--with intervals of course--until they became as soft as butter and not even Himmelstoss could find anything more to do to them; under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals' Mess with a tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the barrack-square of snow with a hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant accidentally appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But the only result of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For six weeks consecutively I did guard every Sunday and was hut-orderly for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to practise on a soft, wet, newly ploughed field the</\|quote\|>"Prepare to advance, advance!" and the "Lie down!" until I was one lump of mud and finally collapsed. Four hours later I had to report to Himmelstoss with my clothes scrubbed clean, my hands chafed and bleeding. Together with Kropp, Westhus, and Tjaden I have stood at attention in a hard frost without gloves for a quarter of an hour at a stretch, while Himmelstoss watched for the slightest movement of our bare fingers on the steel barrel of the rifle. I have run eight times from the top floor of the barracks down to the courtyard in my shirt at two o'clock in the morning because my drawers projected three inches beyond the edge of the stool on which one had to stack all one's things. Alongside me ran the corporal, Himmelstoss, and trod on my bare toes. At bayonet-practice I had constantly to fight with Himmelstoss, I with a heavy iron weapon whilst he had a handy wooden one with which he easily struck my arms till they were black and blue. Once, indeed, I became so infuriated that I ran at him blindly and gave him a mighty jab in the stomach and knocked him down. When he reported me the company commander laughed at him and told him he ought to keep his eyes open; he understood Himmelstoss, and apparently was not displeased at his discomfiture. I became a past master on the parallel bars and strove to surpass my instructor at physical jerks;--we have trembled at the mere sound of his voice, but this runaway post-horse never got the better of us. One Sunday as Kropp and I were lugging a latrine-bucket on a pole across the barrack-yard, Himmelstoss came by, all polished up and spry for going out. He planted himself in front of us and asked how we liked the job. In spite of ourselves we tripped and emptied the bucket over his legs. He raved, but the limit had been reached. "That means clink," he yelled. But Kropp had had enough. "There'll be an inquiry first," he said, "and then we'll unload." "Mind how you speak to a non-commissioned officer!" bawled Himmelstoss. "Have you lost your senses? You wait till you're spoken to. What will you do, anyway?" "Show you up, Corporal," said Kropp, his thumbs in line with the seams of his trousers. Himmelstoss saw what we meant and went off	says Kropp. "You would have had to wait at least three or four months for your leave." Kemmerich nods. I cannot bear to look at his hands, they are like wax. Under the nails is the dirt of the trenches, it shows through blue-black like poison. It strikes me that these nails will continue to grow like long fantastic cellar-plants long after Kemmerich breathes no more. I see the picture before me. They twist themselves into corkscrews and grow and grow, and with them the hair on the decayed skull, just like grass in a good soil, just like grass, how can it be possible---- Müller leans over. "We have brought your things, Franz." Kemmerich signs with his hand. "Put them under the bed." Müller does so. Kemmerich starts on again about the watch. How can one calm him without making him suspicious? Müller reappears with a pair of airman's boots. They are fine English boots of soft, yellow leather which reach to the knee and lace all the way--they are things to be coveted. Müller is delighted at the sight of them. He matches their soles against his own clumsy boots and says: "Will you be taking them with you then, Franz?" We all three have the same thought; even if he should get better, he would be able to use only one--they are no use to him. But as things are now it is a pity that they should stay here; the orderlies will of course grab them as soon as he is dead. "Won't you leave them with us?" Müller repeats. Kemmerich doesn't want to. They are his most prized possessions. "Well, we could exchange," suggests Müller again. "Out here one can make some use of them." Still Kemmerich is not to be moved. I tread on Müller's foot; reluctantly he puts the fine boots back again under the bed. We talk a little more and then take our leave. "Cheerio, Franz." I promise him to come back in the morning. Müller talks of doing so too. He is thinking of the lace-up boots and means to be on the spot. Kemmerich groans. He is feverish. We get hold of an orderly outside and ask him to give Kemmerich a dose of morphia. He refuses. "If we were to give morphia to everyone we would have to have tubs full----" "You only attend to officers properly," says Kropp viciously. I hastily intervene and give him a cigarette. He takes it. "Are you usually allowed to give it, then?" I ask him. He is annoyed. "If you don't think so, then why do you ask?" I press a couple more cigarettes into his hand. "Do us the favour----" "Well, all right," he says. Kropp goes in with him. He doesn't trust him and wants to see. We wait outside. Müller returns to the subject of the boots. "They would fit me perfectly. In these boots I get blister after blister. Do you think he will last till to-morrow after drill? If he passes out in the night, we know where the boots----" Kropp returns. "Do you think----?" he asks. "Done for," says Müller emphatically. We go back to the huts. I think of the letter that I must write to-morrow to Kemmerich's mother. I am freezing. I could do with a tot of rum. Müller pulls up some grass and chews it. Suddenly little Kropp throws his cigarette away, stamps on it savagely, and looking round him with a broken and distracted face, stammers: "Damned shit, the damned shit!" We walk on for a long time. Kropp has calmed himself; we understand: he sees red, out here every man gets like that sometime. "What has Kantorek written to you?" Müller asks him. He laughs. "We are the Iron Youth." We all three smile bitterly. Kropp rails: he is glad that he can speak. Yes, that's the way they think, these hundred thousand Kantoreks! Iron Youth. Youth! We are none of us more than twenty years old. But young? Youth? That is long ago. We are old folk. CHAPTER II It is strange to think that at home in the drawer of my writing table there lies the beginning of a play called "Saul" and a bundle of poems. Many an evening I have worked over them--we all did something of the kind--but that has become so unreal to me that I cannot comprehend it any more. Our early life is cut off from the moment we came here, and that without our lifting a hand. We often try to look back on it and to find an explanation, but never quite succeed. For us young men of twenty everything is extraordinarily vague, for Kropp, Müller, Leer, and me, for all of us whom Kantorek calls the "Iron Youth."<\|quote\|>All the older men are linked up with their previous life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate it. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and some, perhaps, a girl--that is not much, for at our age the influence of parents is at its weakest and girls have not yet got a hold over us. Besides this there was little else--some enthusiasm, a few hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains. Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not often sad. * * Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich's boots, he is really quite as sympathetic as another who could not bear to think of such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather go barefoot over barbed wire than scheme how to get hold of them. But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich's circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich will die; it is immaterial who gets them. Why, then, should Müller not succeed to them? he has more right than a hospital orderly. When Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already on the watch. We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important for us. And good boots are scarce. * * Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to enlist, we were a class of twenty young men, many of whom proudly shaved for the first time before going to the barracks. We had no definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and occupation were as yet of too unpractical a character to furnish any scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave to life, and to the war also, an ideal and almost romantic character. We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At first astonished, then embittered, and finally indifferent, we recognized that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush, not intelligence but the system, not freedom but drill. We became soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm, but they have done everything to knock that out of us. After three weeks it was no longer incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe. With our young, awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servant--salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a thousand pettifogging details. We had fancied our task would be different, only to find we were to be trained for heroism as though we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to it. We learned in fact that some part of these things was necessary, but the rest merely show. Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions. * * By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst Frisian fishermen, peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went to No. 9 platoon under Corporal Himmelstoss. He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the camp, and was proud of it. He was a small undersized fellow with a foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years service and was in civil life a postman. He had a special dislike for Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus, and me, because he sensed a quiet defiance. I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he had some fault to find and pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty hours--with intervals of course--until they became as soft as butter and not even Himmelstoss could find anything more to do to them; under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals' Mess with a tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the barrack-square of snow with a hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant accidentally appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But the only result of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For six weeks consecutively I did guard every Sunday and was hut-orderly for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to practise on a soft, wet, newly ploughed field the</\|quote\|>"Prepare to advance, advance!" and the "Lie down!" until I was one lump of mud and finally collapsed. Four hours later I had to report to Himmelstoss with my clothes scrubbed clean, my hands chafed and bleeding. Together with Kropp, Westhus, and Tjaden I have stood at attention in a hard frost without gloves for a quarter of an hour at a stretch, while Himmelstoss watched for the slightest movement of our bare fingers on the steel barrel of the rifle. I have run eight times from the top floor of the barracks down to the courtyard in my shirt at two o'clock in the morning because my drawers projected three inches beyond the edge of the stool on which one had to stack all one's things. Alongside me ran the corporal, Himmelstoss, and trod on my bare toes. At bayonet-practice I had constantly to fight with Himmelstoss, I with a heavy iron weapon whilst he had a handy wooden one with which he easily struck my arms till they were black and blue. Once, indeed, I became so infuriated that I ran at him blindly and gave him a mighty jab in the stomach and knocked him down. When he reported me the company commander laughed at him and told him he ought to keep his eyes open; he understood Himmelstoss, and apparently was not displeased at his discomfiture. I became a past master on the parallel bars and strove to surpass my instructor at physical jerks;--we have trembled at the mere sound of his voice, but this runaway post-horse never got the better of us. One Sunday as Kropp and I were lugging a latrine-bucket on a pole across the barrack-yard, Himmelstoss came by, all polished up and spry for going out. He planted himself in front of us and asked how we liked the job. In spite of ourselves we tripped and emptied the bucket over his legs. He raved, but the limit had been reached. "That means clink," he yelled. But Kropp had had enough. "There'll be an inquiry first," he said, "and then we'll unload." "Mind how you speak to a non-commissioned officer!" bawled Himmelstoss. "Have you lost your senses? You wait till you're spoken to. What will you do, anyway?" "Show you up, Corporal," said Kropp, his thumbs in line with the seams of his trousers. Himmelstoss saw what we meant and went off without saying a word. But before he disappeared he growled: "You'll drink this!" --but it was the end of his authority. He tried it on once more in the ploughed field with his "Prepare to advance, advance" and "Lie down." We obeyed each order, since an order's an order and has to be obeyed. But we did it so slowly that Himmelstoss became desperate. Carefully we went down on our knees, then on our hands, and so on; in the meantime, quite infuriated, he had given another command. But before we had even begun to sweat he was hoarse. After that he left us in peace. He did indeed always refer to us as swine, but there was, nevertheless, a certain respect in his tone. There were many other staff corporals, the majority of whom were more decent. But above all each of them wanted to keep his good job there at home as long as possible, and that he could do only by being strict with the recruits. Practically every conceivable polishing job in the entire camp fell to us and we often howled with rage. Many of us became ill through it; Wolf actually died of inflammation of the lung. But we would have felt ridiculous had we hauled down our colours. We became hard, suspicious, pitiless, vicious, tough--and that was good; for these attributes had been entirely lacking in us. Had we gone into the trenches without this period of training most of us would certainly have gone mad. Only thus were we prepared for what awaited us. We did not break down, but endured; our twenty years, which made many another thing so grievous, helped us in this. But by far the most important was that it awakened in us a strong, practical sense of _esprit de corps_, which in the field developed into the finest thing that arose out of the war--comradeship. * * I sit by Kemmerich's bed. He is sinking steadily. Around us is a great commotion. A hospital train has arrived and the wounded fit to be moved are being selected. The doctor passes by Kemmerich's bed without once looking at him. "Next time, Franz," I say. He raises himself on the pillow with his elbows. "They have amputated my leg." He knows it too then. I nod and answer: "You must be thankful you've come off with that." He is silent.	says Kropp viciously. I hastily intervene and give him a cigarette. He takes it. "Are you usually allowed to give it, then?" I ask him. He is annoyed. "If you don't think so, then why do you ask?" I press a couple more cigarettes into his hand. "Do us the favour----" "Well, all right," he says. Kropp goes in with him. He doesn't trust him and wants to see. We wait outside. Müller returns to the subject of the boots. "They would fit me perfectly. In these boots I get blister after blister. Do you think he will last till to-morrow after drill? If he passes out in the night, we know where the boots----" Kropp returns. "Do you think----?" he asks. "Done for," says Müller emphatically. We go back to the huts. I think of the letter that I must write to-morrow to Kemmerich's mother. I am freezing. I could do with a tot of rum. Müller pulls up some grass and chews it. Suddenly little Kropp throws his cigarette away, stamps on it savagely, and looking round him with a broken and distracted face, stammers: "Damned shit, the damned shit!" We walk on for a long time. Kropp has calmed himself; we understand: he sees red, out here every man gets like that sometime. "What has Kantorek written to you?" Müller asks him. He laughs. "We are the Iron Youth." We all three smile bitterly. Kropp rails: he is glad that he can speak. Yes, that's the way they think, these hundred thousand Kantoreks! Iron Youth. Youth! We are none of us more than twenty years old. But young? Youth? That is long ago. We are old folk. CHAPTER II It is strange to think that at home in the drawer of my writing table there lies the beginning of a play called "Saul" and a bundle of poems. Many an evening I have worked over them--we all did something of the kind--but that has become so unreal to me that I cannot comprehend it any more. Our early life is cut off from the moment we came here, and that without our lifting a hand. We often try to look back on it and to find an explanation, but never quite succeed. For us young men of twenty everything is extraordinarily vague, for Kropp, Müller, Leer, and me, for all of us whom Kantorek calls the "Iron Youth."<\|quote\|>All the older men are linked up with their previous life. They have wives, children, occupations, and interests, they have a background which is so strong that the war cannot obliterate it. We young men of twenty, however, have only our parents, and some, perhaps, a girl--that is not much, for at our age the influence of parents is at its weakest and girls have not yet got a hold over us. Besides this there was little else--some enthusiasm, a few hobbies, and our school. Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains. Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not often sad. * * Though Müller would be delighted to have Kemmerich's boots, he is really quite as sympathetic as another who could not bear to think of such a thing for grief. He merely sees things clearly. Were Kemmerich able to make any use of the boots, then Müller would rather go barefoot over barbed wire than scheme how to get hold of them. But as it is the boots are quite inappropriate to Kemmerich's circumstances, whereas Müller can make good use of them. Kemmerich will die; it is immaterial who gets them. Why, then, should Müller not succeed to them? he has more right than a hospital orderly. When Kemmerich is dead it will be too late. Therefore Müller is already on the watch. We have lost all sense of other considerations, because they are artificial. Only the facts are real and important for us. And good boots are scarce. * * Once it was different. When we went to the district-commandant to enlist, we were a class of twenty young men, many of whom proudly shaved for the first time before going to the barracks. We had no definite plans for our future. Our thoughts of a career and occupation were as yet of too unpractical a character to furnish any scheme of life. We were still crammed full of vague ideas which gave to life, and to the war also, an ideal and almost romantic character. We were trained in the army for ten weeks and in this time more profoundly influenced than by ten years at school. We learned that a bright button is weightier than four volumes of Schopenhauer. At first astonished, then embittered, and finally indifferent, we recognized that what matters is not the mind but the boot brush, not intelligence but the system, not freedom but drill. We became soldiers with eagerness and enthusiasm, but they have done everything to knock that out of us. After three weeks it was no longer incomprehensible to us that a braided postman should have more authority over us than had formerly our parents, our teachers, and the whole gamut of culture from Plato to Goethe. With our young, awakened eyes we saw that the classical conception of the Fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servant--salutes, springing to attention, parade-marches, presenting arms, right wheel, left wheel, clicking the heels, insults, and a thousand pettifogging details. We had fancied our task would be different, only to find we were to be trained for heroism as though we were circus-ponies. But we soon accustomed ourselves to it. We learned in fact that some part of these things was necessary, but the rest merely show. Soldiers have a fine nose for such distinctions. * * By threes and fours our class was scattered over the platoons amongst Frisian fishermen, peasants, and labourers with whom we soon made friends. Kropp, Müller, Kemmerich, and I went to No. 9 platoon under Corporal Himmelstoss. He had the reputation of being the strictest disciplinarian in the camp, and was proud of it. He was a small undersized fellow with a foxy, waxed moustache, who had seen twelve years service and was in civil life a postman. He had a special dislike for Kropp, Tjaden, Westhus, and me, because he sensed a quiet defiance. I have remade his bed fourteen times in one morning. Each time he had some fault to find and pulled it to pieces. I have kneaded a pair of prehistoric boots that were as hard as iron for twenty hours--with intervals of course--until they became as soft as butter and not even Himmelstoss could find anything more to do to them; under his orders I have scrubbed out the Corporals' Mess with a tooth-brush. Kropp and I were given the job of clearing the barrack-square of snow with a hand-broom and a dust-pan, and we would have gone on till we were frozen had not a lieutenant accidentally appeared who sent us off, and hauled Himmelstoss over the coals. But the only result of this was to make Himmelstoss hate us more. For six weeks consecutively I did guard every Sunday and was hut-orderly for the same length of time. With full pack and rifle I have had to practise on a soft, wet, newly ploughed field the</\|quote\|>"Prepare to advance, advance!" and the "Lie down!" until I was one lump of mud and finally collapsed. Four hours later I had to report to Himmelstoss with my clothes scrubbed clean, my hands chafed and bleeding. Together with Kropp, Westhus, and Tjaden I have stood at attention in a hard frost without gloves for a quarter of an hour at a stretch, while Himmelstoss watched for the slightest movement of our bare fingers on the steel barrel of the rifle. I have run eight times from the top floor of the barracks down to the courtyard in my shirt at two o'clock in the morning because my drawers projected three inches beyond the edge of the stool on which one had to stack all one's things. Alongside me ran the corporal, Himmelstoss, and trod on my bare toes. At bayonet-practice I had constantly to fight with Himmelstoss, I with a heavy iron weapon whilst he had a handy wooden one with which he easily struck my arms till they were black and blue. Once, indeed, I became so infuriated that I ran at him blindly and gave him a mighty jab in the stomach and knocked him down. When he reported me the company commander laughed at him and told him he ought to keep his eyes open; he understood Himmelstoss, and apparently was not displeased at his discomfiture. I became a past master on the parallel bars and strove to surpass my instructor at physical jerks;--we have trembled at the mere sound of his voice, but this runaway post-horse never got the better of us. One Sunday as Kropp and I were lugging a latrine-bucket on a pole across the barrack-yard, Himmelstoss came by, all polished up and spry for going out. He planted himself in front of us and asked how we liked the job. In spite of ourselves we tripped and emptied the bucket over his legs. He raved, but the limit had been reached. "That means clink," he yelled. But Kropp had had enough. "There'll be an inquiry first," he said, "and then we'll unload." "Mind how you speak to a non-commissioned officer!" bawled Himmelstoss. "Have you lost your senses? You wait till	All Quiet on the Western Front
said Jem, with a groan.	No speaker	"Are we nearly there, sir?"<\|quote\|>said Jem, with a groan.</\|quote\|>"Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber.	be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?"<\|quote\|>said Jem, with a groan.</\|quote\|>"Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where	about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?"<\|quote\|>said Jem, with a groan.</\|quote\|>"Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here." "We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up." "But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself	women? Come, rouse a bit." "No, thankye, sir," said Jem, in a miserable tone. "Bit? I haven't bit anything since I've been aboard." "Then rouse up, and bite something now," cried the boatswain. "Come, my lad," he continued, turning to Don, "you've got too much stuff in you to lie about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?"<\|quote\|>said Jem, with a groan.</\|quote\|>"Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here." "We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up." "But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself you may get a run ashore at the Cape or at Singapore; but most likely you won't leave the ship till we get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?" "Yes, China. What of that?" "China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round to Plymouth or	ill. Well, all I can say is that it serves the captain and the lieutenant and all the rest of 'em jolly well right for press-ganging me." "What do you mean?" said Don, dolefully. "Why, that they took all that trouble to bring me aboard to make a sailor of me, and they'll never do it. I'm fit to go into a hospital, and that's about all I'm fit for. Sailor? Why, I can't even stand upright on the precious deck." "Well, my lads," said a hearty voice just then; "how long are you going to play at being old women? Come, rouse a bit." "No, thankye, sir," said Jem, in a miserable tone. "Bit? I haven't bit anything since I've been aboard." "Then rouse up, and bite something now," cried the boatswain. "Come, my lad," he continued, turning to Don, "you've got too much stuff in you to lie about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?"<\|quote\|>said Jem, with a groan.</\|quote\|>"Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here." "We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up." "But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself you may get a run ashore at the Cape or at Singapore; but most likely you won't leave the ship till we get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?" "Yes, China. What of that?" "China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round to Plymouth or Portsmouth, or some place like that. China?" "We're going straight away or China, my lad, to be on that station for some time." "And when are we coming back, sir?" "In about three years." "Mas' Don," said Jem, dolefully; "let's get up on deck, sir, and jump overboard, so as to make an end of it." "You'd better not," said the boatswain, laughing at Jem's miserable face. "You're in the king's service now, and you've got to work. There, rouse up, and act like a man." "But can't we send a letter home, sir?" asked Don. "Oh, yes, if you	side of the vessel, for everything around seemed to be swimming, and a peculiarly faint sensation had attacked him, such as he had never experienced before. "There, send 'em all below," said the officer, who seemed half angry, half-amused. "Pretty way this is, of manning His Majesty's ships. There, down with you. Get 'em all below." Don did not know how he got below. He had some recollection of knocking the skin off his elbows, and being half dragged into a corner of the lower deck, where, for three days, he lay in the most abjectly miserable state, listening to the sighs and groans of his equally unfortunate companions, and the remarks of Jem, who kept up in his waking moments a running commentary on the miseries of going to sea. "It's wuss than anything I ever felt or saw," he muttered. "I've been ill, and I've been in hospital, but this here's about the most terrible. I say, Mas' Don, how do you feel now?" "As if I'd give anything to have the ship stopped, for us to be set ashore." "No, no, you can't feel like that, Mas' Don, because that's exactly how I feel. I am so ill. Well, all I can say is that it serves the captain and the lieutenant and all the rest of 'em jolly well right for press-ganging me." "What do you mean?" said Don, dolefully. "Why, that they took all that trouble to bring me aboard to make a sailor of me, and they'll never do it. I'm fit to go into a hospital, and that's about all I'm fit for. Sailor? Why, I can't even stand upright on the precious deck." "Well, my lads," said a hearty voice just then; "how long are you going to play at being old women? Come, rouse a bit." "No, thankye, sir," said Jem, in a miserable tone. "Bit? I haven't bit anything since I've been aboard." "Then rouse up, and bite something now," cried the boatswain. "Come, my lad," he continued, turning to Don, "you've got too much stuff in you to lie about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?"<\|quote\|>said Jem, with a groan.</\|quote\|>"Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here." "We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up." "But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself you may get a run ashore at the Cape or at Singapore; but most likely you won't leave the ship till we get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?" "Yes, China. What of that?" "China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round to Plymouth or Portsmouth, or some place like that. China?" "We're going straight away or China, my lad, to be on that station for some time." "And when are we coming back, sir?" "In about three years." "Mas' Don," said Jem, dolefully; "let's get up on deck, sir, and jump overboard, so as to make an end of it." "You'd better not," said the boatswain, laughing at Jem's miserable face. "You're in the king's service now, and you've got to work. There, rouse up, and act like a man." "But can't we send a letter home, sir?" asked Don. "Oh, yes, if you like, at the first port we touch at, or by any ship we speak. But come, my lad, you've been sea-sick for days; don't begin to be home sick. You've been pressed as many a better fellow has been before you. The king wants men, and he must have them. Now, young as you are, show that you can act like a man." Don gave him an agonised look, but the bluff boatswain did not see it. "Here, you fellows," he cried to the rest of the sick men; "we've given you time enough now. You must get up and shake all this off. You'll all be on deck in a quarter of an hour, so look sharp." "This here's a nice game, Mas' Don. Do you know how I feel?" "No, Jem; but I know how I feel." "How's that, sir?" "That if I had been asked to serve the king I might have joined a ship; but I've been dragged here in a cruel way, and the very first time I can get ashore, I mean to stay." "Well, I felt something like that, Mas' Don; but they'd call it desertion." "Let them call it what they like,	west. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. JEM IS HUNGRY. The first time the pressed men were mustered Don was well prepared. "You leave it to me, Jem," he whispered. "I'll wait till our turn comes, and then I shall speak out to the officer and tell him how we've been treated." "You'd better make haste, then, Mas' Don, for if the thing keeps on moving like this, I sha'n't be able to stand and hear what you have to say." For a good breeze was blowing from the south coast, sufficient to make the waves curl over, and the sloop behave in rather a lively way; the more so that she had a good deal of canvas spread, and heeled over and dipped her nose sufficiently to admit a great wave from time to time to well splash the forward part of the deck. Don made no reply, for he felt white, but he attributed it to the mental excitement from which he suffered. There were thirty pressed men on deck, for the most part old sailors from the mercantile marine, and these men were drafted off into various watches, the trouble to the officers being that of arranging the fate of the landsmen, who looked wretched in the extreme. "'Pon my word, Jones," said a smart-looking, middle-aged man in uniform, whom Don took to be the first lieutenant, "about as sorry a lot of Bristol sweepings as ever I saw." "Not bad men, sir," said the petty officer addressed. "Wait till they've shaken down into their places." "Now's your time, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Now or never." Don was on the alert, but just as the officer neared them the vessel gave a sudden pitch, and of the men standing in a row the minute before, not one remained upon his feet. For it seemed as if the deck had suddenly dropped down; and as Don and Jem rolled over into the lee scuppers, they were pretty well doused by the water that came splashing over the bows, and when, amidst a shout of laughter from the sailors, the order was given for them to get up and form in line again, Jem clung tightly to Don, and said, dolefully,-- "It's of no use, Mas' Don; I can't. It's like trying to stand on running barrels; and--oh, dear me!--I do feel so precious bad." Don made no reply, but caught at the side of the vessel, for everything around seemed to be swimming, and a peculiarly faint sensation had attacked him, such as he had never experienced before. "There, send 'em all below," said the officer, who seemed half angry, half-amused. "Pretty way this is, of manning His Majesty's ships. There, down with you. Get 'em all below." Don did not know how he got below. He had some recollection of knocking the skin off his elbows, and being half dragged into a corner of the lower deck, where, for three days, he lay in the most abjectly miserable state, listening to the sighs and groans of his equally unfortunate companions, and the remarks of Jem, who kept up in his waking moments a running commentary on the miseries of going to sea. "It's wuss than anything I ever felt or saw," he muttered. "I've been ill, and I've been in hospital, but this here's about the most terrible. I say, Mas' Don, how do you feel now?" "As if I'd give anything to have the ship stopped, for us to be set ashore." "No, no, you can't feel like that, Mas' Don, because that's exactly how I feel. I am so ill. Well, all I can say is that it serves the captain and the lieutenant and all the rest of 'em jolly well right for press-ganging me." "What do you mean?" said Don, dolefully. "Why, that they took all that trouble to bring me aboard to make a sailor of me, and they'll never do it. I'm fit to go into a hospital, and that's about all I'm fit for. Sailor? Why, I can't even stand upright on the precious deck." "Well, my lads," said a hearty voice just then; "how long are you going to play at being old women? Come, rouse a bit." "No, thankye, sir," said Jem, in a miserable tone. "Bit? I haven't bit anything since I've been aboard." "Then rouse up, and bite something now," cried the boatswain. "Come, my lad," he continued, turning to Don, "you've got too much stuff in you to lie about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?"<\|quote\|>said Jem, with a groan.</\|quote\|>"Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here." "We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up." "But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself you may get a run ashore at the Cape or at Singapore; but most likely you won't leave the ship till we get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?" "Yes, China. What of that?" "China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round to Plymouth or Portsmouth, or some place like that. China?" "We're going straight away or China, my lad, to be on that station for some time." "And when are we coming back, sir?" "In about three years." "Mas' Don," said Jem, dolefully; "let's get up on deck, sir, and jump overboard, so as to make an end of it." "You'd better not," said the boatswain, laughing at Jem's miserable face. "You're in the king's service now, and you've got to work. There, rouse up, and act like a man." "But can't we send a letter home, sir?" asked Don. "Oh, yes, if you like, at the first port we touch at, or by any ship we speak. But come, my lad, you've been sea-sick for days; don't begin to be home sick. You've been pressed as many a better fellow has been before you. The king wants men, and he must have them. Now, young as you are, show that you can act like a man." Don gave him an agonised look, but the bluff boatswain did not see it. "Here, you fellows," he cried to the rest of the sick men; "we've given you time enough now. You must get up and shake all this off. You'll all be on deck in a quarter of an hour, so look sharp." "This here's a nice game, Mas' Don. Do you know how I feel?" "No, Jem; but I know how I feel." "How's that, sir?" "That if I had been asked to serve the king I might have joined a ship; but I've been dragged here in a cruel way, and the very first time I can get ashore, I mean to stay." "Well, I felt something like that, Mas' Don; but they'd call it desertion." "Let them call it what they like, Jem. They treated us like dogs, and I will not stand it. I shall leave the ship first chance. You can do as you like, but that's what I mean to do." "Oh, I shall do as you do, Mas' Don. I was never meant for a sailor, and I shall get away as soon as I can." "Shall you?" said a voice that seemed familiar; and they both turned in the direction from which it came, to see a dark figure rise from beside the bulk head, where it had lain unnoticed by the invalids, though if they had noted its presence, they would have taken it for one of their fellow-sufferers. "What's it got to do with you?" said Jem, shortly, as he scowled at the man, who now came forward sufficiently near the dim light for them to recognise the grim, sinister-looking sailor, who had played so unpleasant a part at the _rendez-vous_ where they were taken after being seized. "What's it got to do with me? Everything. So you're goin' to desert, both of you, are you? Do you know what that means?" "No; nor don't want," growled Jem. "Then I'll tell you. Flogging, for sartain, and p'r'aps stringing up at the yard-arm, as an example to others." "Ho!" said Jem; "do it? Well, you look the sort o' man as is best suited for that; and just you look here. Nex' time I ketches you spying and listening to what I say, I shall give you a worse dressing down than I give you last time, so be off." "Mutinous, threatening, and talking about deserting," said the sinister-looking sailor, with a harsh laugh, which sounded as if he had a young watchman's rattle somewhere in his chest. "Nice thing to report. I think this will do." He went off rubbing his hands softly, and mounted the ladder, Jem watching him till his legs had disappeared, when he turned sharply to Don. "Him and me's going to have a regular set-to some day, Mas' Don. He makes me feel warm, and somehow that bit of a row has done me no end o' good. Here, come on deck, and let's see if he's telling tales. Come on, lad. P'r'aps I've got a word or two to say as well." Don had not realised it before, but as he followed Jem, he suddenly woke to the fact	most abjectly miserable state, listening to the sighs and groans of his equally unfortunate companions, and the remarks of Jem, who kept up in his waking moments a running commentary on the miseries of going to sea. "It's wuss than anything I ever felt or saw," he muttered. "I've been ill, and I've been in hospital, but this here's about the most terrible. I say, Mas' Don, how do you feel now?" "As if I'd give anything to have the ship stopped, for us to be set ashore." "No, no, you can't feel like that, Mas' Don, because that's exactly how I feel. I am so ill. Well, all I can say is that it serves the captain and the lieutenant and all the rest of 'em jolly well right for press-ganging me." "What do you mean?" said Don, dolefully. "Why, that they took all that trouble to bring me aboard to make a sailor of me, and they'll never do it. I'm fit to go into a hospital, and that's about all I'm fit for. Sailor? Why, I can't even stand upright on the precious deck." "Well, my lads," said a hearty voice just then; "how long are you going to play at being old women? Come, rouse a bit." "No, thankye, sir," said Jem, in a miserable tone. "Bit? I haven't bit anything since I've been aboard." "Then rouse up, and bite something now," cried the boatswain. "Come, my lad," he continued, turning to Don, "you've got too much stuff in you to lie about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air." "I feel so weak, sir; I don't think I could stand." "Oh, yes, you can," said the boatswain. "That's better. If you give way to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?"<\|quote\|>said Jem, with a groan.</\|quote\|>"Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?" "Where we're going to," groaned Jem. "Nearly there? No. Why?" "Because I want to go ashore again. I'm no use here." "We'll soon make you of some use. There, get up." "But aren't we soon going ashore?" "If you behave yourself you may get a run ashore at the Cape or at Singapore; but most likely you won't leave the ship till we get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?" "Yes, China. What of that?" "China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round to Plymouth or Portsmouth, or some place like that. China?" "We're going straight away or China, my lad, to be on that station for some time." "And when are we coming back, sir?" "In about three years." "Mas' Don," said Jem, dolefully; "let's get up on deck, sir, and jump overboard, so as to make an end of it." "You'd better not," said the boatswain, laughing at Jem's miserable face. "You're in the king's service now, and you've got to work. There, rouse up, and act like a man." "But can't we send a letter home, sir?" asked Don. "Oh, yes, if you like, at the first port we touch at, or by any ship we speak. But come, my lad, you've been sea-sick for days; don't begin to be home sick. You've been pressed as many a better fellow has been before you. The king wants men, and he must have them. Now, young as you are, show that you can act like a man." Don gave him an agonised look, but the bluff boatswain did not see it. "Here, you fellows," he cried to the rest of the sick men; "we've given you time enough now. You must get up and shake all this off. You'll all be on deck in a quarter of an hour, so look sharp." "This here's a nice game, Mas' Don. Do you know how I feel?" "No, Jem; but I know how I feel." "How's that, sir?" "That if I	Don Lavington
"tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?"	Kosrouchan	him away. "Daughter," said he,<\|quote\|>"tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?"</\|quote\|>"Sir," replied the princess, "this	fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he,<\|quote\|>"tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?"</\|quote\|>"Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name	the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he,<\|quote\|>"tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?"</\|quote\|>"Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden	on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he,<\|quote\|>"tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?"</\|quote\|>"Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat,	play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess, "where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he,<\|quote\|>"tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?"</\|quote\|>"Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat, I will do myself the honour of relating it to you." "My daughter," replied the emperor, "my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Talking Bird." When the emperor came to the Golden Water, his eyes were fixed so steadfastly upon the fountain, that he could not take them off. At last, addressing himself to the princess, he said: "As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no	from the great world. It is not to be compared with the magnificent palaces of emperors." "I cannot perfectly agree with you in opinion," said the emperor very obligingly, "for its first appearance makes me suspect you; however, I will not pass my judgment upon it till I have seen it all; therefore be pleased to conduct me through the apartments." The princess led the emperor through all the rooms except the hall; and, after he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess, "where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he,<\|quote\|>"tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?"</\|quote\|>"Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat, I will do myself the honour of relating it to you." "My daughter," replied the emperor, "my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Talking Bird." When the emperor came to the Golden Water, his eyes were fixed so steadfastly upon the fountain, that he could not take them off. At last, addressing himself to the princess, he said: "As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no spring or communication, I conclude that it is foreign, as well as the Singing Tree." "Sir," replied the princess, "it is as your majesty conjectures; and to let you know that this water has no communication with any spring, I must inform you that the basin is one entire stone, so that the water cannot come in at the sides or underneath. But what your majesty will think most wonderful is that all this water proceeded but from one small flagon, emptied into this basin, which increased to the quantity you see, by a property peculiar to itself, and formed this fountain." "Well," said the emperor, going from the fountain, "this is enough for one time. I promise myself the pleasure to come and visit it often; but now let us go and see the Talking Bird." As he went toward the hall, the emperor perceived a prodigious number of singing birds in the trees around, filling the air with their songs and warblings, and asked why there were so many there and none on the other trees in the garden. "The reason, sir," answered the princess, "is because they come from all parts to accompany the song of the	which nobody else must have anything to do with besides yourself. This dish must be of cucumbers stuffed with these pearls;" and at the same time she opened him the box, and showed him the jewels. The chief cook, who had never heard of such a dish, started back, and showed his thoughts by his looks; which the princess penetrating, said: "I see you take me to be mad to order such a dish, which one may say with certainty was never made. I know this as well as you; but I am not mad, and give you these orders with the most perfect recollection. You must invent and do the best you can, and bring me back what pearls are left." The cook could make no reply, but took the box and retired; and afterward the princess gave directions to all the domestics to have everything in order, both in the house and gardens, to receive the emperor. Next day the two princes went to the place appointed, and as soon as the emperor of Persia arrived the chase began and lasted till the heat of the sun obliged him to leave off. While Prince Bahman stayed to conduct the emperor to their house, Prince Perviz rode before to show the way, and when he came in sight of the house, spurred his horse, to inform the princess that the emperor was approaching; but she had been told by some servants whom she had placed to give notice, and the prince found her waiting ready to receive him. When the emperor had entered the court-yard and alighted at the portico, the princess came and threw herself at his feet, and the two princes informed him she was their sister, and besought him to accept her respects. The emperor stooped to raise her, and after he had gazed some time on her beauty, struck with her fine person and dignified air, he said: "The brothers are worthy of the sister, and she worthy of them; since, if I may judge of her understanding by her person, I am not amazed that the brothers would do nothing without their sister's consent; but," added he, "I hope to be better acquainted with you, my daughter, after I have seen the house." "Sir," said the princess, "it is only a plain country residence, fit for such people as we are, who live retired from the great world. It is not to be compared with the magnificent palaces of emperors." "I cannot perfectly agree with you in opinion," said the emperor very obligingly, "for its first appearance makes me suspect you; however, I will not pass my judgment upon it till I have seen it all; therefore be pleased to conduct me through the apartments." The princess led the emperor through all the rooms except the hall; and, after he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess, "where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he,<\|quote\|>"tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?"</\|quote\|>"Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat, I will do myself the honour of relating it to you." "My daughter," replied the emperor, "my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Talking Bird." When the emperor came to the Golden Water, his eyes were fixed so steadfastly upon the fountain, that he could not take them off. At last, addressing himself to the princess, he said: "As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no spring or communication, I conclude that it is foreign, as well as the Singing Tree." "Sir," replied the princess, "it is as your majesty conjectures; and to let you know that this water has no communication with any spring, I must inform you that the basin is one entire stone, so that the water cannot come in at the sides or underneath. But what your majesty will think most wonderful is that all this water proceeded but from one small flagon, emptied into this basin, which increased to the quantity you see, by a property peculiar to itself, and formed this fountain." "Well," said the emperor, going from the fountain, "this is enough for one time. I promise myself the pleasure to come and visit it often; but now let us go and see the Talking Bird." As he went toward the hall, the emperor perceived a prodigious number of singing birds in the trees around, filling the air with their songs and warblings, and asked why there were so many there and none on the other trees in the garden. "The reason, sir," answered the princess, "is because they come from all parts to accompany the song of the Talking Bird, which your majesty may see in a cage in one of the windows of the hall we are approaching; and if you attend, you will perceive that his notes are sweeter than those of any of the other birds, even the nightingale's." The emperor went into the hall; and as the Bird continued singing, the princess raised her voice, and said, "My slave, here is the emperor, pay your compliments to him." The Bird left off singing that instant, when all the other birds ceased also, and said: "The emperor is welcome; God prosper him and prolong his life!" As the entertainment was served on the sofa near the window where the Bird was placed, the sultan replied, as he was taking his seat: "Bird, I thank you, and am overjoyed to find in you the sultan and king of birds." As soon as the emperor saw the dish of cucumbers set before him, thinking they were prepared in the best manner, he reached out his hand and took one; but when he cut it, was in extreme surprise to find it stuffed with pearls. "What novelty is this?" said he; "and with what design were these cucumbers stuffed thus with pearls, since pearls are not to be eaten?" He looked at his hosts to ask them the meaning when the Bird interrupting him, said: "Can your majesty be in such great astonishment at cucumbers stuffed with pearls, which you see with your own eyes, and yet so easily believe that the queen, your wife, gave birth to a dog, a cat, and a piece of wood?" "I believed those things," replied the emperor, "because the attendants assured me of the facts." "Those attendants, sir," replied the Bird, "were the queen's two sisters, who, envious of her happiness in being preferred by your majesty before them, to satisfy their envy and revenge, have abused your majesty's credulity. If you interrogate them, they will confess their crime. The two brothers and the sister whom you see before you are your own children, whom they exposed, and who were taken in by the intendant of your gardens, who provided nurses for them, and took care of their education." This speech presently cleared up the emperor's understanding. "Bird," cried he, "I believe the truth which you discover to me. The inclination which drew me to them told me plainly they must	object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess, "where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more." "Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he,<\|quote\|>"tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?"</\|quote\|>"Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat, I will do myself the honour of relating it to you." "My daughter," replied the emperor, "my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Talking Bird." When the emperor came to the Golden Water, his eyes were fixed so steadfastly upon the fountain, that he could not take them off. At last, addressing himself to the princess, he said: "As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no spring or communication, I conclude that it is foreign, as well as the Singing Tree." "Sir," replied the princess, "it is as your majesty conjectures; and to let you know that this water has no communication with any spring, I must inform you that the basin is one entire stone, so that the water cannot come in at the sides or underneath. But what your majesty will think most wonderful is that all this water proceeded but from one small flagon, emptied into this basin, which increased to the quantity you see, by a property	Arabian Nights (1)
“Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.”	Theign	said. “At least _he_ did.”<\|quote\|>“Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.”</\|quote\|>“Oh, he speaks very well--and	talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.”<\|quote\|>“Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.”</\|quote\|>“Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It	been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.”<\|quote\|>“Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.”</\|quote\|>“Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?”	tantôt!_” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.”<\|quote\|>“Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.”</\|quote\|>“Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the	this immense debt to him!” “Oh, I shall pay Mr. Crimble!” said her father, who had turned round. The whole question appeared to have provoked in Lord John a rise of spirits and a flush of humour. “Don’t you let him stick it on.” His host, however, bethinking himself, checked him. “Go _you_ to Mr. Bender straight!” Lord John saw the point. “Yes--till he leaves. But I shall find you here, shan’t I?” he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented. “I’ll wait for you.” “Then _à tantôt!_” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.”<\|quote\|>“Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.”</\|quote\|>“Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the character under discussion could after all be summed up without searching analysis. “I consider nevertheless that there’s plenty in him.” It was a moderate claim, to which Lady Grace might assent. “He strikes me as naturally quick and--well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.” “Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.” For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too	swagger.” “A Mantovano?” Lady Grace echoed. “Why, how tremendously jolly!” Her father was struck. “Do you know the artist--of whom I had never heard?” “Yes, something of the little that _is_ known.” And she rejoiced as her knowledge came to her. “He’s a tremendous swell, because, great as he was, there are but seven proved examples----” “With this of yours,” Lord John broke in, “there are eight.” “Then why haven’t I known about him?” Lord Theign put it as if so many other people were guilty for this. His daughter was the first to plead for the vague body. “Why, I suppose in order that you should have exactly this pleasure, father.” “Oh, pleasures not desired are like acquaintances not sought--they rather bore one!” Lord Theign sighed. With which he moved away from her. Her eyes followed him an instant--then she smiled at their guest. “Is he bored at having the higher prize--if you’re sure it _is_ the higher?” “Mr. Crimble is sure--because if he isn’t,” Lord John added, “he’s a wretch.” “Well,” she returned, “as he’s certainly not a wretch it must be true. And fancy,” she exclaimed further, though as more particularly for herself, “our having suddenly incurred this immense debt to him!” “Oh, I shall pay Mr. Crimble!” said her father, who had turned round. The whole question appeared to have provoked in Lord John a rise of spirits and a flush of humour. “Don’t you let him stick it on.” His host, however, bethinking himself, checked him. “Go _you_ to Mr. Bender straight!” Lord John saw the point. “Yes--till he leaves. But I shall find you here, shan’t I?” he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented. “I’ll wait for you.” “Then _à tantôt!_” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.”<\|quote\|>“Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.”</\|quote\|>“Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the character under discussion could after all be summed up without searching analysis. “I consider nevertheless that there’s plenty in him.” It was a moderate claim, to which Lady Grace might assent. “He strikes me as naturally quick and--well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.” “Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.” For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it? “Do you desire it very particularly?” was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should like it exceedingly--if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced--of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.” “Then would you mind my waiting a little?” she asked. “I mean to be absolutely sure of myself.” After which, on his delaying to agree, she added frankly, as to help her case: “Upon my word, father, I should like to do what would please you.” But it determined in him a sharper impatience. “Ah, what would please _me!_ Don’t put it off on ‘me’! Judge absolutely for yourself” --he slightly took himself up-- “in the light of my having consented to do for him what I always _hate_ to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve deviated now you can judge. But to do so all round, of course, take--in reason!--your time.” “May I ask then,” she said,	don’t they?--to point that moral. Why look anywhere else for a sum of money that--smaller or greater--you can find with perfect ease in that extraordinarily bulging pocket?” Lord Theign, slowly pacing the hall again, threw up his hands. “Ah, with ‘perfect ease’ can scarcely be said!” “Why not?--when he absolutely thrusts his dirty dollars down your throat.” “Oh, I’m not talking of ease to _him_,” Lord Theign returned-- “I’m talking of ease to myself. I shall have to make a sacrifice.” “Why not then--for so great a convenience--gallantly make it?” “Ah, my dear chap, if you want me to sell my Sir Joshua----!” But the horror in the words said enough, and Lord John felt its chill. “I don’t make a point of that--God forbid! But there are other things to which the objection wouldn’t apply.” “You see how it applies--in the case of the Moret-to--for _him_. A mere Moretto,” said Lord Theign, “is too cheap--for a Yankee ‘on the spend.’” “Then the Mantovano wouldn’t be.” “It remains to be proved that it _is_ a Mantovano.” “Well,” said Lord John, “go into it.” “Hanged if I won’t!” his friend broke out after a moment. “It _would_ suit me. I mean” --the explanation came after a brief intensity of thought-- “the possible size of his cheque would.” “Oh,” said Lord John gaily, “I guess there’s no limit to the possible size of his cheque!” “Yes, it would suit me, it would suit me!” the elder man, standing there, audibly mused. But his air changed and a lighter question came up to him as he saw his daughter reappear at the door from the terrace. “Well, the infant horde?” he immediately put to her. Lady Grace came in, dutifully accounting for them. “They’ve marched off--in a huge procession.” “Thank goodness! And our friends?” “All playing tennis,” she said-- “save those who are sitting it out.” To which she added, as to explain her return: “Mr. Crimble has gone?” Lord John took upon him to say. “He’s in the library, to which you addressed him--making discoveries.” “Not then, I hope,” she smiled, “to our disadvantage!” “To your very great honour and glory.” Lord John clearly valued the effect he might produce. “Your Moretto of Brescia--do you know what it really and spendidly is?” And then as the girl, in her surprise, but wondered: “A Mantovano, neither more nor less. Ever so much more swagger.” “A Mantovano?” Lady Grace echoed. “Why, how tremendously jolly!” Her father was struck. “Do you know the artist--of whom I had never heard?” “Yes, something of the little that _is_ known.” And she rejoiced as her knowledge came to her. “He’s a tremendous swell, because, great as he was, there are but seven proved examples----” “With this of yours,” Lord John broke in, “there are eight.” “Then why haven’t I known about him?” Lord Theign put it as if so many other people were guilty for this. His daughter was the first to plead for the vague body. “Why, I suppose in order that you should have exactly this pleasure, father.” “Oh, pleasures not desired are like acquaintances not sought--they rather bore one!” Lord Theign sighed. With which he moved away from her. Her eyes followed him an instant--then she smiled at their guest. “Is he bored at having the higher prize--if you’re sure it _is_ the higher?” “Mr. Crimble is sure--because if he isn’t,” Lord John added, “he’s a wretch.” “Well,” she returned, “as he’s certainly not a wretch it must be true. And fancy,” she exclaimed further, though as more particularly for herself, “our having suddenly incurred this immense debt to him!” “Oh, I shall pay Mr. Crimble!” said her father, who had turned round. The whole question appeared to have provoked in Lord John a rise of spirits and a flush of humour. “Don’t you let him stick it on.” His host, however, bethinking himself, checked him. “Go _you_ to Mr. Bender straight!” Lord John saw the point. “Yes--till he leaves. But I shall find you here, shan’t I?” he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented. “I’ll wait for you.” “Then _à tantôt!_” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.”<\|quote\|>“Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.”</\|quote\|>“Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the character under discussion could after all be summed up without searching analysis. “I consider nevertheless that there’s plenty in him.” It was a moderate claim, to which Lady Grace might assent. “He strikes me as naturally quick and--well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.” “Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.” For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it? “Do you desire it very particularly?” was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should like it exceedingly--if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced--of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.” “Then would you mind my waiting a little?” she asked. “I mean to be absolutely sure of myself.” After which, on his delaying to agree, she added frankly, as to help her case: “Upon my word, father, I should like to do what would please you.” But it determined in him a sharper impatience. “Ah, what would please _me!_ Don’t put it off on ‘me’! Judge absolutely for yourself” --he slightly took himself up-- “in the light of my having consented to do for him what I always _hate_ to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve deviated now you can judge. But to do so all round, of course, take--in reason!--your time.” “May I ask then,” she said, “for still a little more?” He looked for this, verily, as if it was not in reason. “You know,” he then returned, “what he’ll feel that a sign of.” “Well, I’ll tell him what I mean.” “Then I’ll send him to you.” He glanced at his watch and was going, but after a “Thanks, father,” she had stopped him. “There’s one thing more.” An embarrassment showed in her manner, but at the cost of some effect of earnest abruptness she surmounted it. “What does your American--Mr. Bender--want?” Lord Theign plainly felt the challenge. “‘My’ American? He’s none of mine!” “Well then Lord John’s.” “He’s none of his either--more, I mean, than any one else’s. He’s every one’s American, literally--to all appearance; and I’ve not to tell _you_, surely, with the freedom of your own visitors, how people stalk in and out here.” “No, father--certainly,” she said. “You’re splendidly generous.” His eyes seemed rather sharply to ask her then how he could improve on that; but he added as if it were enough: “What the man must by this time want more than anything else is his car.” “Not then anything of ours?” she still insisted. “Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with a frown. “Are you afraid he has an eye to something of _yours?_” “Why, if we’ve a new treasure--which we certainly have if we possess a Mantovano--haven’t we all, even I, an immense interest in it?” And before he could answer, “Is _that_ exposed?” she asked. Lord Theign, a little unready, cast about at his storied halls; any illusion to the “exposure” of the objects they so solidly sheltered was obviously unpleasant to him. But then it was as if he found at a stroke both his own reassurance and his daughter’s. “How can there be a question of it when he only wants Sir Joshuas?” “He wants ours?” the girl gasped. “At absolutely any price.” “But you’re not,” she cried, “discussing it?” He hesitated as between chiding and contenting her--then he handsomely chose. “My dear child, for what do you take me?” With which he impatiently started, through the long and stately perspective, for the saloon. She sank into a chair when he had gone; she sat there some moments in a visible tension of thought, her hands clasped in her lap and her dropped eyes fixed and unperceiving; but she sprang up as Hugh Crimble, in search of	audibly mused. But his air changed and a lighter question came up to him as he saw his daughter reappear at the door from the terrace. “Well, the infant horde?” he immediately put to her. Lady Grace came in, dutifully accounting for them. “They’ve marched off--in a huge procession.” “Thank goodness! And our friends?” “All playing tennis,” she said-- “save those who are sitting it out.” To which she added, as to explain her return: “Mr. Crimble has gone?” Lord John took upon him to say. “He’s in the library, to which you addressed him--making discoveries.” “Not then, I hope,” she smiled, “to our disadvantage!” “To your very great honour and glory.” Lord John clearly valued the effect he might produce. “Your Moretto of Brescia--do you know what it really and spendidly is?” And then as the girl, in her surprise, but wondered: “A Mantovano, neither more nor less. Ever so much more swagger.” “A Mantovano?” Lady Grace echoed. “Why, how tremendously jolly!” Her father was struck. “Do you know the artist--of whom I had never heard?” “Yes, something of the little that _is_ known.” And she rejoiced as her knowledge came to her. “He’s a tremendous swell, because, great as he was, there are but seven proved examples----” “With this of yours,” Lord John broke in, “there are eight.” “Then why haven’t I known about him?” Lord Theign put it as if so many other people were guilty for this. His daughter was the first to plead for the vague body. “Why, I suppose in order that you should have exactly this pleasure, father.” “Oh, pleasures not desired are like acquaintances not sought--they rather bore one!” Lord Theign sighed. With which he moved away from her. Her eyes followed him an instant--then she smiled at their guest. “Is he bored at having the higher prize--if you’re sure it _is_ the higher?” “Mr. Crimble is sure--because if he isn’t,” Lord John added, “he’s a wretch.” “Well,” she returned, “as he’s certainly not a wretch it must be true. And fancy,” she exclaimed further, though as more particularly for herself, “our having suddenly incurred this immense debt to him!” “Oh, I shall pay Mr. Crimble!” said her father, who had turned round. The whole question appeared to have provoked in Lord John a rise of spirits and a flush of humour. “Don’t you let him stick it on.” His host, however, bethinking himself, checked him. “Go _you_ to Mr. Bender straight!” Lord John saw the point. “Yes--till he leaves. But I shall find you here, shan’t I?” he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace. She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented. “I’ll wait for you.” “Then _à tantôt!_” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite--to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own. IX Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.”<\|quote\|>“Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.”</\|quote\|>“Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the character under discussion could after all be summed up without searching analysis. “I consider nevertheless that there’s plenty in him.” It was a moderate claim, to which Lady Grace might assent. “He strikes me as naturally quick and--well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.” “Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.” For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it? “Do you desire it very particularly?” was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should like it exceedingly--if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced--of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.” “Then would you mind my waiting a little?” she asked. “I mean to be absolutely sure of myself.” After which, on his delaying to agree, she added frankly, as to help her case: “Upon my word, father, I should like to do what would please you.” But it determined in him a sharper impatience. “Ah, what would please _me!_ Don’t put it off on ‘me’! Judge absolutely for yourself” --he slightly took himself up-- “in the light of my having consented to do for him what I always _hate_ to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve	The Outcry
said the young hostess, rising with decision.	No speaker	a crown?" "I'll get it,"<\|quote\|>said the young hostess, rising with decision.</\|quote\|>"Cecil, give me that sovereign.	give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it,"<\|quote\|>said the young hostess, rising with decision.</\|quote\|>"Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that	I don't see and I never shall see why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver." "I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it,"<\|quote\|>said the young hostess, rising with decision.</\|quote\|>"Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out	said solemnly. "Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see." "But I don't see--" They tried to stifle her with cake. "No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver." "I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it,"<\|quote\|>said the young hostess, rising with decision.</\|quote\|>"Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?" "No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--a sovereign's worth of silver." She escaped into the kitchen.	avoid this deplorable gambling." Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle. "But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid." "Because of the fifteen shillings and the five," they said solemnly. "Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see." "But I don't see--" They tried to stifle her with cake. "No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver." "I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it,"<\|quote\|>said the young hostess, rising with decision.</\|quote\|>"Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?" "No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--a sovereign's worth of silver." She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul. "No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she returned. "I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now." Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed. "How dreadful!" she murmured, "how	any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: "But who am I to give the sovereign to?" "Let's leave it all till mother comes back," suggested Lucy. "No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts." Here Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance, and turned round. But this did not do, either. "Please--please--I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost." "Freddy owes me fifteen shillings," interposed Cecil. "So it will work out right if you give the pound to me." "Fifteen shillings," said Miss Bartlett dubiously. "How is that, Mr. Vyse?" "Because, don't you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling." Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle. "But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid." "Because of the fifteen shillings and the five," they said solemnly. "Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see." "But I don't see--" They tried to stifle her with cake. "No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver." "I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it,"<\|quote\|>said the young hostess, rising with decision.</\|quote\|>"Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?" "No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--a sovereign's worth of silver." She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul. "No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she returned. "I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now." Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed. "How dreadful!" she murmured, "how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source." "Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?" Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth." Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?" "We must think of every possibility." "Oh, it's all right." "Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know." "I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it." "To contradict it?" "No, to laugh at it." But she knew in her heart that she could not trust him, for he desired her untouched. "Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different." "Now, Charlotte!" She struck at her playfully. "You kind, anxious thing.	place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome "nerves" or any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed? But the external situation--she will face that bravely. The meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy, and George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy, and was glad that he did not seem shy either. "A nice fellow," said Mr. Beebe afterwards "He will work off his crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life gracefully." Lucy said, "He seems in better spirits. He laughs more." "Yes," replied the clergyman. "He is waking up." That was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences fell, and she entertained an image that had physical beauty. In spite of the clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival. She was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs. Honeychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o'clock, and these, with little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper lawn for tea. "I shall never forgive myself," said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain. "I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate." "Our visitors never do such dreadful things," said Lucy, while her brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: "Just what I've been trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour." "I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor," said Miss Bartlett, and looked at her frayed glove. "All right, if you'd really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to the driver." Miss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: "But who am I to give the sovereign to?" "Let's leave it all till mother comes back," suggested Lucy. "No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts." Here Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance, and turned round. But this did not do, either. "Please--please--I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost." "Freddy owes me fifteen shillings," interposed Cecil. "So it will work out right if you give the pound to me." "Fifteen shillings," said Miss Bartlett dubiously. "How is that, Mr. Vyse?" "Because, don't you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling." Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle. "But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid." "Because of the fifteen shillings and the five," they said solemnly. "Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see." "But I don't see--" They tried to stifle her with cake. "No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver." "I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it,"<\|quote\|>said the young hostess, rising with decision.</\|quote\|>"Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?" "No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--a sovereign's worth of silver." She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul. "No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she returned. "I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now." Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed. "How dreadful!" she murmured, "how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source." "Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?" Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth." Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?" "We must think of every possibility." "Oh, it's all right." "Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know." "I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it." "To contradict it?" "No, to laugh at it." But she knew in her heart that she could not trust him, for he desired her untouched. "Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different." "Now, Charlotte!" She struck at her playfully. "You kind, anxious thing. What WOULD you have me do? First you say 'Don't tell'; and then you say, 'Tell'. Which is it to be? Quick!" Miss Bartlett sighed "I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You will never forgive me." "Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don't." For the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with a teaspoon. "Dear, one moment--we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young one yet?" "Yes, I have." "What happened?" "We met at the Rectory." "What line is he taking up?" "No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won't be any nuisance, Charlotte." "Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion." Lucy paused. "Cecil said one day--and I thought it so profound--that there are two kinds of cads--the conscious and the subconscious." She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil's profundity. Through the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith's library. Her mother must have returned from the station. "Once a cad, always a cad," droned Miss Bartlett. "What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don't think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does; it makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn't admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him, and has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn't always look as if he's going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager's office at one of the big railways--not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but	and then said: "But who am I to give the sovereign to?" "Let's leave it all till mother comes back," suggested Lucy. "No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts." Here Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance, and turned round. But this did not do, either. "Please--please--I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost." "Freddy owes me fifteen shillings," interposed Cecil. "So it will work out right if you give the pound to me." "Fifteen shillings," said Miss Bartlett dubiously. "How is that, Mr. Vyse?" "Because, don't you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling." Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle. "But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid." "Because of the fifteen shillings and the five," they said solemnly. "Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see." "But I don't see--" They tried to stifle her with cake. "No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver." "I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it,"<\|quote\|>said the young hostess, rising with decision.</\|quote\|>"Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?" "No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--a sovereign's worth of silver." She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul. "No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she returned. "I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now." Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed. "How dreadful!" she murmured, "how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source." "Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?" Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth." Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?" "We must think of every possibility." "Oh, it's all right." "Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know." "I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it." "To contradict it?" "No, to	A Room With A View
"--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper,	No speaker	Robin is looking for now"<\|quote\|>"--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper,</\|quote\|>"Try under the table" "--"	idea of getting what Christopher Robin is looking for now"<\|quote\|>"--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper,</\|quote\|>"Try under the table" "--" "that I did what I	My remarks do not, of course, apply to Piglet and Roo, because they are too small. Any of you would have done the same. But it just happened to be Me. It was not, I need hardly say, with an idea of getting what Christopher Robin is looking for now"<\|quote\|>"--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper,</\|quote\|>"Try under the table" "--" "that I did what I did--but because I feel that we should all do what we can to help. I feel that we should all----" "H--hup!" said Roo accidentally. "Roo, dear!" said Kanga reproachfully. "Was it me?" asked Roo, a little surprised. "What's Eeyore talking	speak. "Friends," he said, "including oddments, it is a great pleasure, or perhaps I had better say it has been a pleasure so far, to see you at my party. What I did was nothing. Any of you--except Rabbit and Owl and Kanga--would have done the same. Oh, and Pooh. My remarks do not, of course, apply to Piglet and Roo, because they are too small. Any of you would have done the same. But it just happened to be Me. It was not, I need hardly say, with an idea of getting what Christopher Robin is looking for now"<\|quote\|>"--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper,</\|quote\|>"Try under the table" "--" "that I did what I did--but because I feel that we should all do what we can to help. I feel that we should all----" "H--hup!" said Roo accidentally. "Roo, dear!" said Kanga reproachfully. "Was it me?" asked Roo, a little surprised. "What's Eeyore talking about?" Piglet whispered to Pooh. "I don't know," said Pooh rather dolefully. "I thought this was _your_ party." "I thought it was _once_. But I suppose it isn't." "I'd sooner it was yours than Eeyore's," said Piglet. "So would I," said Pooh. "H--hup!" said Roo again. "AS--I--WAS--SAYING," said Eeyore loudly	the table with his spoon, and everybody stopped talking and was very silent, except Roo who was just finishing a loud attack of hiccups and trying to look as if it was one of Rabbit's relations. "This party," said Christopher Robin, "is a party because of what someone did, and we all know who it was, and it's his party, because of what he did, and I've got a present for him and here it is." Then he felt about a little and whispered, "Where is it?" While he was looking, Eeyore coughed in an impressive way and began to speak. "Friends," he said, "including oddments, it is a great pleasure, or perhaps I had better say it has been a pleasure so far, to see you at my party. What I did was nothing. Any of you--except Rabbit and Owl and Kanga--would have done the same. Oh, and Pooh. My remarks do not, of course, apply to Piglet and Roo, because they are too small. Any of you would have done the same. But it just happened to be Me. It was not, I need hardly say, with an idea of getting what Christopher Robin is looking for now"<\|quote\|>"--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper,</\|quote\|>"Try under the table" "--" "that I did what I did--but because I feel that we should all do what we can to help. I feel that we should all----" "H--hup!" said Roo accidentally. "Roo, dear!" said Kanga reproachfully. "Was it me?" asked Roo, a little surprised. "What's Eeyore talking about?" Piglet whispered to Pooh. "I don't know," said Pooh rather dolefully. "I thought this was _your_ party." "I thought it was _once_. But I suppose it isn't." "I'd sooner it was yours than Eeyore's," said Piglet. "So would I," said Pooh. "H--hup!" said Roo again. "AS--I--WAS--SAYING," said Eeyore loudly and sternly, "as I was saying when I was interrupted by various Loud Sounds, I feel that----" "Here it is!" cried Christopher Robin excitedly. "Pass it down to silly old Pooh. It's for Pooh." "For Pooh?" said Eeyore. "Of course it is. The best bear in all the world." "I might have known," said Eeyore. "After all, one can't complain. I have my friends. Somebody spoke to me only yesterday. And was it last week or the week before that Rabbit bumped into me and said 'Bother!' The Social Round. Always something going on." Nobody was listening, for they were	asked them the time. It was the first party to which Roo had ever been, and he was very excited. As soon as ever they had sat down he began to talk. "Hallo, Pooh!" he squeaked. "Hallo, Roo!" said Pooh. Roo jumped up and down in his seat for a little while and then began again. "Hallo, Piglet!" he squeaked. Piglet waved a paw at him, being too busy to say anything. "Hallo, Eeyore!" said Roo. Eeyore nodded gloomily at him. "It will rain soon, you see if it doesn't," he said. Roo looked to see if it didn't, and it didn't, so he said "Hallo, Owl!" "--and Owl said "Hallo, my little fellow," in a kindly way, and went on telling Christopher Robin about an accident which had nearly happened to a friend of his whom Christopher Robin didn't know, and Kanga said to Roo, "Drink up your milk first, dear, and talk afterwards." So Roo, who was drinking his milk, tried to say that he could do both at once ... and had to be patted on the back and dried for quite a long time afterwards. When they had all nearly eaten enough, Christopher Robin banged on the table with his spoon, and everybody stopped talking and was very silent, except Roo who was just finishing a loud attack of hiccups and trying to look as if it was one of Rabbit's relations. "This party," said Christopher Robin, "is a party because of what someone did, and we all know who it was, and it's his party, because of what he did, and I've got a present for him and here it is." Then he felt about a little and whispered, "Where is it?" While he was looking, Eeyore coughed in an impressive way and began to speak. "Friends," he said, "including oddments, it is a great pleasure, or perhaps I had better say it has been a pleasure so far, to see you at my party. What I did was nothing. Any of you--except Rabbit and Owl and Kanga--would have done the same. Oh, and Pooh. My remarks do not, of course, apply to Piglet and Roo, because they are too small. Any of you would have done the same. But it just happened to be Me. It was not, I need hardly say, with an idea of getting what Christopher Robin is looking for now"<\|quote\|>"--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper,</\|quote\|>"Try under the table" "--" "that I did what I did--but because I feel that we should all do what we can to help. I feel that we should all----" "H--hup!" said Roo accidentally. "Roo, dear!" said Kanga reproachfully. "Was it me?" asked Roo, a little surprised. "What's Eeyore talking about?" Piglet whispered to Pooh. "I don't know," said Pooh rather dolefully. "I thought this was _your_ party." "I thought it was _once_. But I suppose it isn't." "I'd sooner it was yours than Eeyore's," said Piglet. "So would I," said Pooh. "H--hup!" said Roo again. "AS--I--WAS--SAYING," said Eeyore loudly and sternly, "as I was saying when I was interrupted by various Loud Sounds, I feel that----" "Here it is!" cried Christopher Robin excitedly. "Pass it down to silly old Pooh. It's for Pooh." "For Pooh?" said Eeyore. "Of course it is. The best bear in all the world." "I might have known," said Eeyore. "After all, one can't complain. I have my friends. Somebody spoke to me only yesterday. And was it last week or the week before that Rabbit bumped into me and said 'Bother!' The Social Round. Always something going on." Nobody was listening, for they were all saying "Open it, Pooh," "What is it, Pooh?" "I know what it is," "No, you don't" and other helpful remarks of this sort. And of course Pooh was opening it as quickly as ever he could, but without cutting the string, because you never know when a bit of string might be Useful. At last it was undone. When Pooh saw what it was, he nearly fell down, he was so pleased. It was a Special Pencil Case. There were pencils in it marked "B" for Bear, and pencils marked "HB" for Helping Bear, and pencils marked "BB" for Brave Bear. There was a knife for sharpening the pencils, and india-rubber for rubbing out anything which you had spelt wrong, and a ruler for ruling lines for the words to walk on, and inches marked on the ruler in case you wanted to know how many inches anything was, and Blue Pencils and Red Pencils and Green Pencils for saying special things in blue and red and green. And all these lovely things were in little pockets of their own in a Special Case which shut with a click when you clicked it. And they were all for Pooh.	knew; He saved his friend from a wetting! 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- He couldn't swim, But he rescued him! (_He rescued who?_) Oh, listen, do! I am talking of Pooh-- (_Of who?_) Of Pooh! (_I'm sorry I keep forgetting_). Well, Pooh was a Bear of Enormous Brain (_Just say it again!_) Of enormous brain-- (_Of enormous what?_) Well, he ate a lot, And I don't know if he could swim or not, But he managed to float On a sort of boat (_On a sort of what?_) Well, a sort of pot-- So now let's give him three hearty cheers (_So now let's give him three hearty whiches?_) And hope he'll be with us for years and years, And grow in health and wisdom and riches! 3 Cheers for Pooh! (_For who?_) For Pooh-- 3 Cheers for Bear! (_For where?_) For Bear-- 3 Cheers for the wonderful Winnie-the-Pooh! (_Just tell me, somebody_--WHAT DID HE DO?) While this was going on inside him, Owl was talking to Eeyore. "Eeyore," said Owl, "Christopher Robin is giving a party." "Very interesting," said Eeyore. "I suppose they will be sending me down the odd bits which got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don't mention it." "There is an Invitation for you." "What's that like?" "An Invitation!" "Yes, I heard you. Who dropped it?" "This isn't anything to eat, it's asking you to the party. To-morrow." Eeyore shook his head slowly. "You mean Piglet. The little fellow with the excited ears. That's Piglet. I'll tell him." "No, no!" said Owl, getting quite fussy. "It's you!" "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. Christopher Robin said 'All of them! Tell all of them.'" "All of them, except Eeyore?" "All of them," said Owl sulkily. "Ah!" said Eeyore. "A mistake, no doubt, but still, I shall come. Only don't blame _me_ if it rains." But it didn't rain. Christopher Robin had made a long table out of some long pieces of wood, and they all sat round it. Christopher Robin sat at one end, and Pooh sat at the other, and between them on one side were Owl and Eeyore and Piglet, and between them on the other side were Rabbit, and Roo and Kanga. And all Rabbit's friends and relations spread themselves about on the grass, and waited hopefully in case anybody spoke to them, or dropped anything, or asked them the time. It was the first party to which Roo had ever been, and he was very excited. As soon as ever they had sat down he began to talk. "Hallo, Pooh!" he squeaked. "Hallo, Roo!" said Pooh. Roo jumped up and down in his seat for a little while and then began again. "Hallo, Piglet!" he squeaked. Piglet waved a paw at him, being too busy to say anything. "Hallo, Eeyore!" said Roo. Eeyore nodded gloomily at him. "It will rain soon, you see if it doesn't," he said. Roo looked to see if it didn't, and it didn't, so he said "Hallo, Owl!" "--and Owl said "Hallo, my little fellow," in a kindly way, and went on telling Christopher Robin about an accident which had nearly happened to a friend of his whom Christopher Robin didn't know, and Kanga said to Roo, "Drink up your milk first, dear, and talk afterwards." So Roo, who was drinking his milk, tried to say that he could do both at once ... and had to be patted on the back and dried for quite a long time afterwards. When they had all nearly eaten enough, Christopher Robin banged on the table with his spoon, and everybody stopped talking and was very silent, except Roo who was just finishing a loud attack of hiccups and trying to look as if it was one of Rabbit's relations. "This party," said Christopher Robin, "is a party because of what someone did, and we all know who it was, and it's his party, because of what he did, and I've got a present for him and here it is." Then he felt about a little and whispered, "Where is it?" While he was looking, Eeyore coughed in an impressive way and began to speak. "Friends," he said, "including oddments, it is a great pleasure, or perhaps I had better say it has been a pleasure so far, to see you at my party. What I did was nothing. Any of you--except Rabbit and Owl and Kanga--would have done the same. Oh, and Pooh. My remarks do not, of course, apply to Piglet and Roo, because they are too small. Any of you would have done the same. But it just happened to be Me. It was not, I need hardly say, with an idea of getting what Christopher Robin is looking for now"<\|quote\|>"--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper,</\|quote\|>"Try under the table" "--" "that I did what I did--but because I feel that we should all do what we can to help. I feel that we should all----" "H--hup!" said Roo accidentally. "Roo, dear!" said Kanga reproachfully. "Was it me?" asked Roo, a little surprised. "What's Eeyore talking about?" Piglet whispered to Pooh. "I don't know," said Pooh rather dolefully. "I thought this was _your_ party." "I thought it was _once_. But I suppose it isn't." "I'd sooner it was yours than Eeyore's," said Piglet. "So would I," said Pooh. "H--hup!" said Roo again. "AS--I--WAS--SAYING," said Eeyore loudly and sternly, "as I was saying when I was interrupted by various Loud Sounds, I feel that----" "Here it is!" cried Christopher Robin excitedly. "Pass it down to silly old Pooh. It's for Pooh." "For Pooh?" said Eeyore. "Of course it is. The best bear in all the world." "I might have known," said Eeyore. "After all, one can't complain. I have my friends. Somebody spoke to me only yesterday. And was it last week or the week before that Rabbit bumped into me and said 'Bother!' The Social Round. Always something going on." Nobody was listening, for they were all saying "Open it, Pooh," "What is it, Pooh?" "I know what it is," "No, you don't" and other helpful remarks of this sort. And of course Pooh was opening it as quickly as ever he could, but without cutting the string, because you never know when a bit of string might be Useful. At last it was undone. When Pooh saw what it was, he nearly fell down, he was so pleased. It was a Special Pencil Case. There were pencils in it marked "B" for Bear, and pencils marked "HB" for Helping Bear, and pencils marked "BB" for Brave Bear. There was a knife for sharpening the pencils, and india-rubber for rubbing out anything which you had spelt wrong, and a ruler for ruling lines for the words to walk on, and inches marked on the ruler in case you wanted to know how many inches anything was, and Blue Pencils and Red Pencils and Green Pencils for saying special things in blue and red and green. And all these lovely things were in little pockets of their own in a Special Case which shut with a click when you clicked it. And they were all for Pooh. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Oh, Pooh!" said everybody else except Eeyore. "Thank-you," growled Pooh. But Eeyore was saying to himself, "This writing business. Pencils and what-not. Over-rated, if you ask me. Silly stuff. Nothing in it." Later on, when they had all said "Good-bye" and "Thank-you" to Christopher Robin, Pooh and Piglet walked home thoughtfully together in the golden evening, and for a long time they were silent. "When you wake up in the morning, Pooh," said Piglet at last, "what's the first thing you say to yourself?" "What's for breakfast?" said Pooh. "What do _you_ say, Piglet?" "I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting _to-day_?" said Piglet. Pooh nodded thoughtfully. "It's the same thing," he said. * * * * * "And what did happen?" asked Christopher Robin. "When?" "Next morning." "I don't know." "Could you think and tell me and Pooh some time?" "If you wanted it very much." "Pooh does," said Christopher Robin. He gave a deep sigh, picked his bear up by the leg and walked off to the door, trailing Winnie-the-Pooh behind him. At the door he turned and said "Coming to see me have my bath?" "I might," I said. "Was Pooh's pencil case any better than mine?" "It was just the same," I said. He nodded and went out ... and in a moment I heard Winnie-the-Pooh--_bump, bump, bump_--going up the stairs behind him.	isn't anything to eat, it's asking you to the party. To-morrow." Eeyore shook his head slowly. "You mean Piglet. The little fellow with the excited ears. That's Piglet. I'll tell him." "No, no!" said Owl, getting quite fussy. "It's you!" "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. Christopher Robin said 'All of them! Tell all of them.'" "All of them, except Eeyore?" "All of them," said Owl sulkily. "Ah!" said Eeyore. "A mistake, no doubt, but still, I shall come. Only don't blame _me_ if it rains." But it didn't rain. Christopher Robin had made a long table out of some long pieces of wood, and they all sat round it. Christopher Robin sat at one end, and Pooh sat at the other, and between them on one side were Owl and Eeyore and Piglet, and between them on the other side were Rabbit, and Roo and Kanga. And all Rabbit's friends and relations spread themselves about on the grass, and waited hopefully in case anybody spoke to them, or dropped anything, or asked them the time. It was the first party to which Roo had ever been, and he was very excited. As soon as ever they had sat down he began to talk. "Hallo, Pooh!" he squeaked. "Hallo, Roo!" said Pooh. Roo jumped up and down in his seat for a little while and then began again. "Hallo, Piglet!" he squeaked. Piglet waved a paw at him, being too busy to say anything. "Hallo, Eeyore!" said Roo. Eeyore nodded gloomily at him. "It will rain soon, you see if it doesn't," he said. Roo looked to see if it didn't, and it didn't, so he said "Hallo, Owl!" "--and Owl said "Hallo, my little fellow," in a kindly way, and went on telling Christopher Robin about an accident which had nearly happened to a friend of his whom Christopher Robin didn't know, and Kanga said to Roo, "Drink up your milk first, dear, and talk afterwards." So Roo, who was drinking his milk, tried to say that he could do both at once ... and had to be patted on the back and dried for quite a long time afterwards. When they had all nearly eaten enough, Christopher Robin banged on the table with his spoon, and everybody stopped talking and was very silent, except Roo who was just finishing a loud attack of hiccups and trying to look as if it was one of Rabbit's relations. "This party," said Christopher Robin, "is a party because of what someone did, and we all know who it was, and it's his party, because of what he did, and I've got a present for him and here it is." Then he felt about a little and whispered, "Where is it?" While he was looking, Eeyore coughed in an impressive way and began to speak. "Friends," he said, "including oddments, it is a great pleasure, or perhaps I had better say it has been a pleasure so far, to see you at my party. What I did was nothing. Any of you--except Rabbit and Owl and Kanga--would have done the same. Oh, and Pooh. My remarks do not, of course, apply to Piglet and Roo, because they are too small. Any of you would have done the same. But it just happened to be Me. It was not, I need hardly say, with an idea of getting what Christopher Robin is looking for now"<\|quote\|>"--and he put his front leg to his mouth and said in a loud whisper,</\|quote\|>"Try under the table" "--" "that I did what I did--but because I feel that we should all do what we can to help. I feel that we should all----" "H--hup!" said Roo accidentally. "Roo, dear!" said Kanga reproachfully. "Was it me?" asked Roo, a little surprised. "What's Eeyore talking about?" Piglet whispered to Pooh. "I don't know," said Pooh rather dolefully. "I thought this was _your_ party." "I thought it was _once_. But I suppose it isn't." "I'd sooner it was yours than Eeyore's," said Piglet. "So would I," said Pooh. "H--hup!" said Roo again. "AS--I--WAS--SAYING," said Eeyore loudly and sternly, "as I was saying when I was interrupted by various Loud Sounds, I feel that----" "Here it is!" cried Christopher Robin excitedly. "Pass it down to silly old Pooh. It's for Pooh." "For Pooh?" said Eeyore. "Of course it is. The best bear in all the world." "I might have known," said Eeyore. "After all, one can't complain. I have my friends. Somebody spoke to me only yesterday. And was it last week or the week before that Rabbit bumped into me and said 'Bother!' The Social Round. Always something going on." Nobody was listening, for they were all saying "Open it, Pooh," "What is it, Pooh?" "I know what it is," "No, you don't" and other helpful remarks of this sort. And of course Pooh was opening it as quickly as ever he could, but without cutting the string, because you never know when a bit of string might be Useful. At last it was undone. When Pooh saw what it was, he nearly fell down, he was so pleased. It was a Special Pencil Case. There were pencils in it marked "B" for Bear, and pencils marked "HB" for Helping Bear, and pencils marked "BB" for Brave Bear. There was a knife for sharpening the pencils, and india-rubber for	Winnie The Pooh
"Don! Don, my boy!"	Don Lavington	he heard her tap lightly.<\|quote\|>"Don! Don, my boy!"</\|quote\|>came in low, gentle tones.	door, and as he listened he heard her tap lightly.<\|quote\|>"Don! Don, my boy!"</\|quote\|>came in low, gentle tones. For one moment the boy's	wanted, for the light footstep with the rustle of silk passed on upstairs, and Don opened the door slightly to listen. His breath came thickly with emotion as he realised where his mother had gone. It was to his bedroom door, and as he listened he heard her tap lightly.<\|quote\|>"Don! Don, my boy!"</\|quote\|>came in low, gentle tones. For one moment the boy's heart prompted him to rush up and fling himself in her arms, but again his worse half suggested that he was to be scolded and disbelieved, and mentally thrusting his fingers into his ears, he stepped out, glided down the	among the gathering of flue and dust. By that time the footsteps were at the door. "What shall I say?" Don asked himself; "she will want to know why I am here." He felt confused, and rack his brains as he would, no excuse would come. But it was not wanted, for the light footstep with the rustle of silk passed on upstairs, and Don opened the door slightly to listen. His breath came thickly with emotion as he realised where his mother had gone. It was to his bedroom door, and as he listened he heard her tap lightly.<\|quote\|>"Don! Don, my boy!"</\|quote\|>came in low, gentle tones. For one moment the boy's heart prompted him to rush up and fling himself in her arms, but again his worse half suggested that he was to be scolded and disbelieved, and mentally thrusting his fingers into his ears, he stepped out, glided down the staircase in the old boyish fashion of sliding down the banister, snatched his hat from the stand, and softly stole out to hurry down the street as hard as he could go. He had been walking swiftly some five minutes, moved by only one desire--that of getting away from the	his throat, and made his breath come short and painfully. His mother! She was coming to her room, and in another moment she would be there, and would find him with the bundle under his arm, about to run away. Quick as thought he looked sharply round, bundle in hand, when, obeying the first impulse, he was about to push it beneath the bedclothes, but cast aside the plan because he felt that it would be noticed, and quick as thought he tossed the light bundle up on the top of the great canopy of the old-fashioned bedstead, to lie among the gathering of flue and dust. By that time the footsteps were at the door. "What shall I say?" Don asked himself; "she will want to know why I am here." He felt confused, and rack his brains as he would, no excuse would come. But it was not wanted, for the light footstep with the rustle of silk passed on upstairs, and Don opened the door slightly to listen. His breath came thickly with emotion as he realised where his mother had gone. It was to his bedroom door, and as he listened he heard her tap lightly.<\|quote\|>"Don! Don, my boy!"</\|quote\|>came in low, gentle tones. For one moment the boy's heart prompted him to rush up and fling himself in her arms, but again his worse half suggested that he was to be scolded and disbelieved, and mentally thrusting his fingers into his ears, he stepped out, glided down the staircase in the old boyish fashion of sliding down the banister, snatched his hat from the stand, and softly stole out to hurry down the street as hard as he could go. He had been walking swiftly some five minutes, moved by only one desire--that of getting away from the house--when he awoke to the fact that he was going straight towards the constable's quarters and the old-fashioned lock-up where Mike must be lying, getting rid of the consequences of his holiday-making that morning. Don turned sharply round in another direction, one which led him towards the wharves where the shipping lay. While this was taking place, Jem Wimble had been banging the doors and rattling his keys as he locked up the various stores, feeling particularly proud and self-satisfied with the confidence placed in him. After this was done he had a wash at the pump, fetching a piece	outside which he did not care what happened; but now he had to pass that dining-room, and go along the passage and by the stand upon which his cocked hat hung. It was nervous work, but he went on down the first flight, running his hand slowly along the hand-balustrade, all down which he had so often slid while Kitty looked on laughing, and yet alarmed lest he should fall. And what a long time ago that seemed! He had just reached the bottom flight, and was wondering what to say if the door should open and his uncle meet him with the blue bundle under his arm, when the dining-room door did open, and he dashed back to the landing and stood in the doorway of his mother's room, listening as a step was heard upon the stairs. "Kitty!" he said to himself, as he thrust against the door, which yielded to his pressure, and he backed in softly till he could push the door to, and stand inside, watching through the crack. There was the light, soft step coming up and up, and his heart began to beat, he knew not why, till something seemed to rise in his throat, and made his breath come short and painfully. His mother! She was coming to her room, and in another moment she would be there, and would find him with the bundle under his arm, about to run away. Quick as thought he looked sharply round, bundle in hand, when, obeying the first impulse, he was about to push it beneath the bedclothes, but cast aside the plan because he felt that it would be noticed, and quick as thought he tossed the light bundle up on the top of the great canopy of the old-fashioned bedstead, to lie among the gathering of flue and dust. By that time the footsteps were at the door. "What shall I say?" Don asked himself; "she will want to know why I am here." He felt confused, and rack his brains as he would, no excuse would come. But it was not wanted, for the light footstep with the rustle of silk passed on upstairs, and Don opened the door slightly to listen. His breath came thickly with emotion as he realised where his mother had gone. It was to his bedroom door, and as he listened he heard her tap lightly.<\|quote\|>"Don! Don, my boy!"</\|quote\|>came in low, gentle tones. For one moment the boy's heart prompted him to rush up and fling himself in her arms, but again his worse half suggested that he was to be scolded and disbelieved, and mentally thrusting his fingers into his ears, he stepped out, glided down the staircase in the old boyish fashion of sliding down the banister, snatched his hat from the stand, and softly stole out to hurry down the street as hard as he could go. He had been walking swiftly some five minutes, moved by only one desire--that of getting away from the house--when he awoke to the fact that he was going straight towards the constable's quarters and the old-fashioned lock-up where Mike must be lying, getting rid of the consequences of his holiday-making that morning. Don turned sharply round in another direction, one which led him towards the wharves where the shipping lay. While this was taking place, Jem Wimble had been banging the doors and rattling his keys as he locked up the various stores, feeling particularly proud and self-satisfied with the confidence placed in him. After this was done he had a wash at the pump, fetching a piece of soap from a ledge inside the workshop where the cooper's tools were kept, and when he had duly rubbed and scrubbed and dried his face and hands, he went indoors to stare with astonishment, for his little wife was making the most of her size by sitting very upright as she finished her tea. Jem plumped himself indignantly down, and began his. This was a new annoyance. Sally had scolded times out of number, and found fault with him for being so late, but this was the first time that she had ever begun a meal without his being present, and he felt bitterly hurt. "As if I could help it," he said, half aloud. "A man has his work to do, and he must do it." "Five o'clock's tea-time, and you ought to have been here." "And if I wasn't here, it was your dooty to wait for me, marm." "Was it?" cried Sally; "then I wasn't going to. I'm not going to be ordered about and ill-treated, Jem; you always said you liked your tea ready at five o'clock. I had it ready at five o'clock, and I waited till half-past, and it's now five-and-twenty to six."	hurried out of the room. "I can't bear it," he cried to himself, as he went up to his own little chamber,-- "I can't bear it, and I will not. Every one's against me. If I stop I shall be punished, and I can't face all that to-morrow. Good-bye, mother. Some day you'll think differently, and be sorry for all this injustice, and then--" A tear moistened Don's eye as he thought of his mother and her tender, loving ways, and of what a pity it was that they ever came there to his uncle's, and it was not the tear that made Don see so blindly. "I can't stand it, and I will not," he cried, passionately. "Uncle hates me, and Mike Bannock's right, scoundrel as he is. Uncle has robbed me, and I'll go and fight for myself in the world, and when I get well off I'll come back and seize him by the throat and make him give up all he has taken." Don talked to himself a good deal more of this nonsense, and then, with his mind fully made up, he went to the chest of drawers, took out a handkerchief, spread it open upon the bed, and placed in it a couple of clean shirts and three or four pairs of stockings. "There," he said, as he tied them up tightly as small as he could, "I won't have any more. I'll go and start fair, so that I can be independent and be beholden to nobody." Tucking the bundle under his arm, he could not help feeling that it was a very prominent-looking package--the great checked blue and white handkerchief seeming to say, "This boy's going to seek his fortune!" and he wished that he was not obliged to take it. But, setting his teeth, he left the room with the drawers open, and his best suit, which he had felt disposed to take, tossed on a chair, and then began to descend. It was a glorious summer evening, and though he was in dirty, smoky Bristol, everything seemed to look bright and attractive, and to produce a sensation of low-spiritedness such as he had never felt before. He descended and passed his mother's room, and then went down more slowly, for he could hear the murmur of voices in the dining-room, which he had to pass to reach the front door, outside which he did not care what happened; but now he had to pass that dining-room, and go along the passage and by the stand upon which his cocked hat hung. It was nervous work, but he went on down the first flight, running his hand slowly along the hand-balustrade, all down which he had so often slid while Kitty looked on laughing, and yet alarmed lest he should fall. And what a long time ago that seemed! He had just reached the bottom flight, and was wondering what to say if the door should open and his uncle meet him with the blue bundle under his arm, when the dining-room door did open, and he dashed back to the landing and stood in the doorway of his mother's room, listening as a step was heard upon the stairs. "Kitty!" he said to himself, as he thrust against the door, which yielded to his pressure, and he backed in softly till he could push the door to, and stand inside, watching through the crack. There was the light, soft step coming up and up, and his heart began to beat, he knew not why, till something seemed to rise in his throat, and made his breath come short and painfully. His mother! She was coming to her room, and in another moment she would be there, and would find him with the bundle under his arm, about to run away. Quick as thought he looked sharply round, bundle in hand, when, obeying the first impulse, he was about to push it beneath the bedclothes, but cast aside the plan because he felt that it would be noticed, and quick as thought he tossed the light bundle up on the top of the great canopy of the old-fashioned bedstead, to lie among the gathering of flue and dust. By that time the footsteps were at the door. "What shall I say?" Don asked himself; "she will want to know why I am here." He felt confused, and rack his brains as he would, no excuse would come. But it was not wanted, for the light footstep with the rustle of silk passed on upstairs, and Don opened the door slightly to listen. His breath came thickly with emotion as he realised where his mother had gone. It was to his bedroom door, and as he listened he heard her tap lightly.<\|quote\|>"Don! Don, my boy!"</\|quote\|>came in low, gentle tones. For one moment the boy's heart prompted him to rush up and fling himself in her arms, but again his worse half suggested that he was to be scolded and disbelieved, and mentally thrusting his fingers into his ears, he stepped out, glided down the staircase in the old boyish fashion of sliding down the banister, snatched his hat from the stand, and softly stole out to hurry down the street as hard as he could go. He had been walking swiftly some five minutes, moved by only one desire--that of getting away from the house--when he awoke to the fact that he was going straight towards the constable's quarters and the old-fashioned lock-up where Mike must be lying, getting rid of the consequences of his holiday-making that morning. Don turned sharply round in another direction, one which led him towards the wharves where the shipping lay. While this was taking place, Jem Wimble had been banging the doors and rattling his keys as he locked up the various stores, feeling particularly proud and self-satisfied with the confidence placed in him. After this was done he had a wash at the pump, fetching a piece of soap from a ledge inside the workshop where the cooper's tools were kept, and when he had duly rubbed and scrubbed and dried his face and hands, he went indoors to stare with astonishment, for his little wife was making the most of her size by sitting very upright as she finished her tea. Jem plumped himself indignantly down, and began his. This was a new annoyance. Sally had scolded times out of number, and found fault with him for being so late, but this was the first time that she had ever begun a meal without his being present, and he felt bitterly hurt. "As if I could help it," he said, half aloud. "A man has his work to do, and he must do it." "Five o'clock's tea-time, and you ought to have been here." "And if I wasn't here, it was your dooty to wait for me, marm." "Was it?" cried Sally; "then I wasn't going to. I'm not going to be ordered about and ill-treated, Jem; you always said you liked your tea ready at five o'clock. I had it ready at five o'clock, and I waited till half-past, and it's now five-and-twenty to six." "I don't care if it's five-and-twenty to nineteen!" cried Jem angrily. "It's your dooty to wait, same as it's mine to shut up." "You might have shut up after tea." "Then I wasn't going to, marm." "Then you may have your tea by yourself, for I've done, and I'm not going to be trampled upon by you." Sally had risen in the loudness of her voice, in her temper, and in her person, for she had got up from her chair; but neither elevation was great; in fact, the personal height was very small, and there was something very kittenish and comic in her appearance, as she crossed the bright little kitchen to the door at the flight of stairs, and passing through, banged it behind her, and went up to her room. "Very well," said Jem, as he sat staring at the door; "very well, marm. So this is being married. My father used to say that if two people as is married can't agree, they ought to divide the house between 'em, but one ought to take the outside and t'other the in. That's what I'm a-going to do, only, seeing what a bit of a doll of a thing you are, and being above it, I'm going to take the outside myself. There's coffee bags enough to make a man a good bed up in the ware'us, and it won't be the first time I've shifted for myself, so I shall stop away till you fetches me back. Do you hear?" "Oh, yes, I can hear," replied Sally from the top of the stairs, Jem having shouted his last speech. "All right, then," said Jem: "so now we understands each other and can go ahead." Tightening up his lips, Jem rinsed out the slop-basin, shovelled in a good heap of sugar, and then proceeded to empty the teapot, holding the lid in its place with one fat finger the while. This done, he emptied the little milk jug also, stirred all well up together, and left it for a few minutes to cool, what time he took the cottage loaf from the white, well-scrubbed trencher, pulled it in two, took a handful of bread out of one half, and raising the lump of fresh Somersetshire butter on the point of a knife, he dabbed it into the hole he had made in the centre, shut it up	dining-room door did open, and he dashed back to the landing and stood in the doorway of his mother's room, listening as a step was heard upon the stairs. "Kitty!" he said to himself, as he thrust against the door, which yielded to his pressure, and he backed in softly till he could push the door to, and stand inside, watching through the crack. There was the light, soft step coming up and up, and his heart began to beat, he knew not why, till something seemed to rise in his throat, and made his breath come short and painfully. His mother! She was coming to her room, and in another moment she would be there, and would find him with the bundle under his arm, about to run away. Quick as thought he looked sharply round, bundle in hand, when, obeying the first impulse, he was about to push it beneath the bedclothes, but cast aside the plan because he felt that it would be noticed, and quick as thought he tossed the light bundle up on the top of the great canopy of the old-fashioned bedstead, to lie among the gathering of flue and dust. By that time the footsteps were at the door. "What shall I say?" Don asked himself; "she will want to know why I am here." He felt confused, and rack his brains as he would, no excuse would come. But it was not wanted, for the light footstep with the rustle of silk passed on upstairs, and Don opened the door slightly to listen. His breath came thickly with emotion as he realised where his mother had gone. It was to his bedroom door, and as he listened he heard her tap lightly.<\|quote\|>"Don! Don, my boy!"</\|quote\|>came in low, gentle tones. For one moment the boy's heart prompted him to rush up and fling himself in her arms, but again his worse half suggested that he was to be scolded and disbelieved, and mentally thrusting his fingers into his ears, he stepped out, glided down the staircase in the old boyish fashion of sliding down the banister, snatched his hat from the stand, and softly stole out to hurry down the street as hard as he could go. He had been walking swiftly some five minutes, moved by only one desire--that of getting away from the house--when he awoke to the fact that he was going straight towards the constable's quarters and the old-fashioned lock-up where Mike must be lying, getting rid of the consequences of his holiday-making that morning. Don turned sharply round in another direction, one which led him towards the wharves where the shipping lay. While this was taking place, Jem Wimble had been banging the doors and rattling his keys as he locked up the various stores, feeling particularly proud and self-satisfied with the confidence placed in him. After this was done he had a wash at the pump, fetching a piece of soap from a ledge inside the workshop where the cooper's tools were kept, and when he had duly rubbed and scrubbed and dried his face and hands, he went indoors to stare with astonishment, for his little wife was making the most of her size by sitting very upright as she finished her tea. Jem plumped himself indignantly down, and began his. This was a new annoyance. Sally had scolded times out of number, and found fault with him for being so late, but this was the first time that she had ever begun a meal without his being present, and he felt bitterly hurt. "As if I could help it," he said, half aloud. "A man has his work to do, and he must do it." "Five o'clock's tea-time, and you ought to have been	Don Lavington
"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more."	Kosrouchan	said he to the princess,<\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more."</\|quote\|>"Sir," answered the princess, smiling,	ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess,<\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more."</\|quote\|>"Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but	tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess,<\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more."</\|quote\|>"Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The	that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess,<\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more."</\|quote\|>"Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he, "tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful	he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess,<\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more."</\|quote\|>"Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he, "tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?" "Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is	threw herself at his feet, and the two princes informed him she was their sister, and besought him to accept her respects. The emperor stooped to raise her, and after he had gazed some time on her beauty, struck with her fine person and dignified air, he said: "The brothers are worthy of the sister, and she worthy of them; since, if I may judge of her understanding by her person, I am not amazed that the brothers would do nothing without their sister's consent; but," added he, "I hope to be better acquainted with you, my daughter, after I have seen the house." "Sir," said the princess, "it is only a plain country residence, fit for such people as we are, who live retired from the great world. It is not to be compared with the magnificent palaces of emperors." "I cannot perfectly agree with you in opinion," said the emperor very obligingly, "for its first appearance makes me suspect you; however, I will not pass my judgment upon it till I have seen it all; therefore be pleased to conduct me through the apartments." The princess led the emperor through all the rooms except the hall; and, after he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess,<\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more."</\|quote\|>"Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he, "tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?" "Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat, I will do myself the honour of relating it to you." "My daughter," replied the emperor, "my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Talking Bird." When the emperor came to the Golden Water, his eyes were fixed so steadfastly upon the fountain, that he could not take them off. At last, addressing himself to the princess, he said: "As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no spring or communication, I conclude that it is foreign, as well as the Singing Tree." "Sir," replied the princess, "it is as your majesty conjectures; and to let you know that this water has no communication with any spring, I must inform you that the basin	an account of her having consulted the Bird, as they had agreed she should, and the answer he had given her; the objection she had raised to preparing a dish of cucumbers stuffed full of pearls, and how he had told her where to find this box. The sister and brothers formed many conjectures to penetrate into what the Bird could mean by ordering them to prepare such a dish; but after much conversation, they agreed to follow his advice exactly. As soon as the princess entered the house, she called for the head cook; and after she had given him directions about the entertainment for the emperor, said to him: "Besides all this, you must dress an extraordinary dish for the emperor's own eating, which nobody else must have anything to do with besides yourself. This dish must be of cucumbers stuffed with these pearls;" and at the same time she opened him the box, and showed him the jewels. The chief cook, who had never heard of such a dish, started back, and showed his thoughts by his looks; which the princess penetrating, said: "I see you take me to be mad to order such a dish, which one may say with certainty was never made. I know this as well as you; but I am not mad, and give you these orders with the most perfect recollection. You must invent and do the best you can, and bring me back what pearls are left." The cook could make no reply, but took the box and retired; and afterward the princess gave directions to all the domestics to have everything in order, both in the house and gardens, to receive the emperor. Next day the two princes went to the place appointed, and as soon as the emperor of Persia arrived the chase began and lasted till the heat of the sun obliged him to leave off. While Prince Bahman stayed to conduct the emperor to their house, Prince Perviz rode before to show the way, and when he came in sight of the house, spurred his horse, to inform the princess that the emperor was approaching; but she had been told by some servants whom she had placed to give notice, and the prince found her waiting ready to receive him. When the emperor had entered the court-yard and alighted at the portico, the princess came and threw herself at his feet, and the two princes informed him she was their sister, and besought him to accept her respects. The emperor stooped to raise her, and after he had gazed some time on her beauty, struck with her fine person and dignified air, he said: "The brothers are worthy of the sister, and she worthy of them; since, if I may judge of her understanding by her person, I am not amazed that the brothers would do nothing without their sister's consent; but," added he, "I hope to be better acquainted with you, my daughter, after I have seen the house." "Sir," said the princess, "it is only a plain country residence, fit for such people as we are, who live retired from the great world. It is not to be compared with the magnificent palaces of emperors." "I cannot perfectly agree with you in opinion," said the emperor very obligingly, "for its first appearance makes me suspect you; however, I will not pass my judgment upon it till I have seen it all; therefore be pleased to conduct me through the apartments." The princess led the emperor through all the rooms except the hall; and, after he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess,<\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more."</\|quote\|>"Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he, "tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?" "Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat, I will do myself the honour of relating it to you." "My daughter," replied the emperor, "my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Talking Bird." When the emperor came to the Golden Water, his eyes were fixed so steadfastly upon the fountain, that he could not take them off. At last, addressing himself to the princess, he said: "As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no spring or communication, I conclude that it is foreign, as well as the Singing Tree." "Sir," replied the princess, "it is as your majesty conjectures; and to let you know that this water has no communication with any spring, I must inform you that the basin is one entire stone, so that the water cannot come in at the sides or underneath. But what your majesty will think most wonderful is that all this water proceeded but from one small flagon, emptied into this basin, which increased to the quantity you see, by a property peculiar to itself, and formed this fountain." "Well," said the emperor, going from the fountain, "this is enough for one time. I promise myself the pleasure to come and visit it often; but now let us go and see the Talking Bird." As he went toward the hall, the emperor perceived a prodigious number of singing birds in the trees around, filling the air with their songs and warblings, and asked why there were so many there and none on the other trees in the garden. "The reason, sir," answered the princess, "is because they come from all parts to accompany the song of the Talking Bird, which your majesty may see in a cage in one of the windows of the hall we are approaching; and if you attend, you will perceive that his notes are sweeter than those of any of the other birds, even the nightingale's." The emperor went into the hall; and as the Bird continued singing, the princess raised her voice, and said, "My slave, here is the emperor, pay your compliments to him." The Bird left off singing that instant, when all the other birds ceased also, and said: "The emperor is welcome; God prosper him and prolong his life!" As the entertainment was served on the sofa near the window where the Bird was placed, the sultan replied, as he was taking his seat: "Bird, I thank you, and am overjoyed to find in you the sultan and king of birds." As soon as the emperor saw the dish of cucumbers set before him, thinking they were prepared in the best manner, he reached out his hand and took one; but when he cut it, was in extreme surprise to find it stuffed with pearls. "What novelty is this?" said he; "and with what design were these cucumbers stuffed thus with pearls, since pearls are not to be eaten?" He looked at his hosts to ask them the meaning when the Bird interrupting him, said: "Can your majesty be in such great astonishment at cucumbers stuffed with pearls, which you see with your own	are, who live retired from the great world. It is not to be compared with the magnificent palaces of emperors." "I cannot perfectly agree with you in opinion," said the emperor very obligingly, "for its first appearance makes me suspect you; however, I will not pass my judgment upon it till I have seen it all; therefore be pleased to conduct me through the apartments." The princess led the emperor through all the rooms except the hall; and, after he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house." The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it. The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess,<\|quote\|>"where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more."</\|quote\|>"Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct." The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he, "tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?" "Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat, I will do myself the honour of relating it to you." "My daughter," replied the emperor, "my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Talking Bird." When the emperor came to the Golden Water, his eyes were fixed so steadfastly upon the fountain, that he could not take them off. At last, addressing himself to the princess, he said: "As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no spring or communication, I conclude that it is foreign, as well as the Singing Tree." "Sir," replied the princess, "it is as your majesty conjectures; and to let you know that this water has no communication with any spring, I must inform you that the basin is one entire stone, so that the water cannot come in at the sides or underneath. But what your majesty will think most wonderful is that all this water proceeded but from one small flagon, emptied into this basin, which increased to the quantity you see, by a property peculiar to itself, and formed this fountain." "Well," said the emperor, going from the fountain, "this is enough for one time. I promise myself the pleasure to come and visit it often; but now let us go and see the Talking Bird." As he went toward the hall, the emperor perceived a prodigious number of singing birds in the trees around, filling the air with their songs and warblings, and asked why there were so many there and none on the other trees in the garden. "The reason, sir," answered the princess, "is because they come from all parts to accompany the song of the Talking Bird, which your majesty may see in a cage in one of the windows of the hall we are approaching; and if you attend, you will perceive that his notes are sweeter than those of any of the other birds,	Arabian Nights (1)
"Wot d'ye mean?"	Bill Sikes	long, watching for _her_, Bill."<\|quote\|>"Wot d'ye mean?"</\|quote\|>asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin	with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill."<\|quote\|>"Wot d'ye mean?"</\|quote\|>asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending	his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill."<\|quote\|>"Wot d'ye mean?"</\|quote\|>asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for	who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill."<\|quote\|>"Wot d'ye mean?"</\|quote\|>asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To	replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it." "You would?" "Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me." "If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or" "I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill."<\|quote\|>"Wot d'ye mean?"</\|quote\|>asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat,	Fagin, "was to peach to blow upon us all first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with 'em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plant we've all been in, more or less of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water, but of his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?" cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. "Suppose he did all this, what then?" "What then!" replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. "If he was left alive till I came, I'd grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head." "What if I did it!" cried Fagin almost in a yell. "I, that knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!" "I don't know," replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it." "You would?" "Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me." "If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or" "I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill."<\|quote\|>"Wot d'ye mean?"</\|quote\|>asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!" cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips. "They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't." "Why why? Tell him that." "Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before," replied Noah. "What more of him?" cried Fagin. "What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that." "Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to," said Noah; "and so the first time she went to see the lady, she ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did she gave	Sikes. "There!" he said, laying the bundle on the table. "Take care of that, and do the most you can with it. It's been trouble enough to get; I thought I should have been here, three hours ago." Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright. "Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a man so for?" Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone. "Damme!" said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. "He's gone mad. I must look to myself here." "No, no," rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. "It's not you're not the person, Bill. I've no no fault to find with you." "Oh, you haven't, haven't you?" said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. "That's lucky for one of us. Which one that is, don't matter." "I've got that to tell you, Bill," said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer, "will make you worse than me." "Aye?" returned the robber with an incredulous air. "Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will think I'm lost." "Lost!" cried Fagin. "She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind, already." Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew's face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat collar in his huge hand and shook him soundly. "Speak, will you!" he said; "or if you don't, it shall be for want of breath. Open your mouth and say wot you've got to say in plain words. Out with it, you thundering old cur, out with it!" "Suppose that lad that's laying there" Fagin began. Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previously observed him. "Well!" he said, resuming his former position. "Suppose that lad," pursued Fagin, "was to peach to blow upon us all first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with 'em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plant we've all been in, more or less of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water, but of his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?" cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. "Suppose he did all this, what then?" "What then!" replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. "If he was left alive till I came, I'd grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head." "What if I did it!" cried Fagin almost in a yell. "I, that knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!" "I don't know," replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it." "You would?" "Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me." "If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or" "I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill."<\|quote\|>"Wot d'ye mean?"</\|quote\|>asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!" cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips. "They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't." "Why why? Tell him that." "Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before," replied Noah. "What more of him?" cried Fagin. "What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that." "Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to," said Noah; "and so the first time she went to see the lady, she ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did she gave him a drink of laudanum." "Hell's fire!" cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. "Let me go!" Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs. "Bill, Bill!" cried Fagin, following him hastily. "A word. Only a word." The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew came panting up. "Let me out," said Sikes. "Don't speak to me; it's not safe. Let me out, I say!" "Hear me speak a word," rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. "You won't be" "Well," replied the other. "You won't be too violent, Bill?" The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see each other's faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire in the eyes of both, which could not be mistaken. "I mean," said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise was now useless, "not too violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill, and not too bold." Sikes made no reply; but, pulling open the door, of which Fagin had turned the lock, dashed into the silent streets. Without one pause, or moment's consideration; without once turning his head to the right or left, or raising his eyes to the sky, or lowering them to the ground, but looking straight before him with savage resolution: his teeth so tightly compressed that the strained jaw seemed starting through his skin; the robber held on his headlong course, nor muttered a word, nor relaxed a muscle, until he reached his own door. He opened it, softly, with a key; strode lightly up the stairs; and entering his own room, double-locked the door, and lifting a heavy table against it, drew back the curtain of the bed. The girl was lying, half-dressed, upon it. He had roused her from her sleep, for she raised herself with a hurried and startled look. "Get up!" said the man. "It is you, Bill!" said the girl, with an expression of pleasure at his return. "It is," was the reply. "Get up." There was a candle burning, but the man hastily drew it from the candlestick, and hurled it under the grate. Seeing the faint light of early day without, the girl rose to undraw the curtain. "Let it be,"	till I came, I'd grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head." "What if I did it!" cried Fagin almost in a yell. "I, that knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!" "I don't know," replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it." "You would?" "Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me." "If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or" "I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill."<\|quote\|>"Wot d'ye mean?"</\|quote\|>asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!" cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips. "They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't." "Why why? Tell him that." "Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before," replied Noah. "What more of him?" cried Fagin. "What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that." "Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to," said Noah; "and so the first time she went to see the lady, she ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did she gave him a drink of laudanum." "Hell's fire!" cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. "Let me go!" Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs. "Bill, Bill!" cried Fagin, following him hastily. "A word. Only a word." The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew came panting up. "Let me out," said Sikes. "Don't speak to me; it's not safe. Let me out, I say!" "Hear me speak a word," rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. "You won't be" "Well," replied the other. "You won't be too violent, Bill?" The day was breaking, and there was	Oliver Twist
“I see our situation.”	Grace	more exactly stated her case.<\|quote\|>“I see our situation.”</\|quote\|>“So do I, Lady Grace!”	any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case.<\|quote\|>“I see our situation.”</\|quote\|>“So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest	one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.” He glowed with his admiration. “You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case.<\|quote\|>“I see our situation.”</\|quote\|>“So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had	end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.” He glowed with his admiration. “You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case.<\|quote\|>“I see our situation.”</\|quote\|>“So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,”	version of the prime cause of her state. “Why do you talk of it as ‘paying’--if it’s all to come back to my _being_ paid? I mean by your blest success--if you really do what you want.” “I have your word for it,” he searchingly said, “that our really pulling it off together will make up to you----?” “I should be ashamed if it didn’t, for everything!” --she took the question from his mouth. “I believe in such a cause exactly as you do--and found a lesson, at Dedborough, in your frankness and your faith.” “Then you’ll help me no end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.” He glowed with his admiration. “You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case.<\|quote\|>“I see our situation.”</\|quote\|>“So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,” she smiled, “though he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.” “He lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the people who come up to the city in the Tube.” With which Hugh had a still sharper recall of the stiff actual. “And he must be here to do	time.” “And now his time’s up?” the girl eagerly asked. “It _must_ be--and we shall see.” But Hugh postponed that question to a matter of more moment still. “The thing is that at last I’m able to tell you how I feel the trouble I’ve brought you.” It made her, quickly colouring, rest grave eyes on him. “What do you know--when I haven’t told you--about my ‘trouble’?” “Can’t I have guessed, with a ray of intelligence?” --he had his answer ready. “You’ve sought asylum with this good friend from the effects of your father’s resentment.” “‘Sought asylum’ is perhaps excessive,” Lady Grace returned-- “though it wasn’t pleasant with him after that hour, no,” she allowed. “And I couldn’t go, you see, to Kitty.” “No indeed, you couldn’t go to Kitty.” He smiled at her hard as he added: “I should have liked to see you go to Kitty! Therefore exactly is it that I’ve set you adrift--that I’ve darkened and poisoned your days. You’re paying with your comfort, with your peace, for having joined so gallantly in my grand remonstrance.” She shook her head, turning from him, but then turned back again--as if accepting, as if even relieved by, this version of the prime cause of her state. “Why do you talk of it as ‘paying’--if it’s all to come back to my _being_ paid? I mean by your blest success--if you really do what you want.” “I have your word for it,” he searchingly said, “that our really pulling it off together will make up to you----?” “I should be ashamed if it didn’t, for everything!” --she took the question from his mouth. “I believe in such a cause exactly as you do--and found a lesson, at Dedborough, in your frankness and your faith.” “Then you’ll help me no end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.” He glowed with his admiration. “You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case.<\|quote\|>“I see our situation.”</\|quote\|>“So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,” she smiled, “though he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.” “He lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the people who come up to the city in the Tube.” With which Hugh had a still sharper recall of the stiff actual. “And he must be here to do business to-day.” “You know,” Lady Grace asked, “that he’s to meet Mr. Bender?” “Lady Sandgate kindly warned me, and,” her companion saw as he glanced at the clock on the chimney, “I’ve only ten minutes, at best. The ‘Journal’ won’t have been good for him,” he added-- “you doubtless have seen the ‘Journal’?” “No” --she was vague. “We live by the ‘Morning Post.’” “That’s why our friend here didn’t speak then,” Hugh said with a better light-- “which, out of a dim consideration for her, I didn’t do, either. But they’ve a leader this morning about Lady Lappington and her Longhi, and on Bender and his hauls, and on the certainty--if we don’t do something energetic--of more and more Benders to come: such a conquering horde as invaded the old civilisation, only armed now with huge cheque-books instead of with spears and battle-axes. They refer to the rumour current--as too horrific to believe--of Lord Theign’s putting up his Moretto; with the question of how properly to qualify any such sad purpose in him should the further report prove true of a new and momentous opinion about the picture entertained by several eminent authorities.” “Of whom,” said the girl, intensely attached	a lurid light if it has all been for _that!_” “It has been--well, to keep things as I want them; and if I’ve given you precious information mightn’t you on your side--” “Estimate its value in cash?” --Hugh sharply took her up. “Ah, Lady Sandgate, I _am_ in your debt, but if you really bargain for your precious information I’d rather we assume that I haven’t enjoyed it.” She made him, however, in reply, a sign for silence; she had heard Lady Grace enter the other room from the back landing, and, reaching the nearer door, she disposed of the question with high gay bravery. “I won’t bargain with the Treasury!” --she had passed out by the time Lady Grace arrived. II As Hugh recognised in this friend’s entrance and face the light of welcome he went, full of his subject, straight to their main affair. “I haven’t been able to wait, I’ve wanted so much to tell you--I mean how I’ve just come back from Brussels, where I saw Pappen-dick, who was free and ready, by the happiest chance, to start for Verona, which he must have reached some time yesterday.” The girl’s responsive interest fairly broke into rapture. “Ah, the dear sweet thing!” “Yes, he’s a brick--but the question now hangs in the balance. Allowing him time to have got into relation with the picture, I’ve begun to expect his wire, which will probably come to my club; but my fidget, while I wait, has driven me” --he threw out and dropped his arms in expression of his soft surrender-- “well, just to do _this_: to come to you here, in my fever, at an unnatural hour and uninvited, and at least let you know I’ve ‘acted.’” “Oh, but I simply rejoice,” Lady Grace declared, “to be acting _with_ you.” “Then if you are, if you are,” the young man cried, “why everything’s beautiful and right!” “It’s all I care for and think of now,” she went on in her bright devotion, “and I’ve only wondered and hoped!” Well, Hugh found for it all a rapid, abundant lucidity. “He was away from home at first, and I had to wait--but I crossed last week, found him and settled incoming home by Paris, where I had a grand four days’ jaw with the fellows there and saw _their_ great specimen of our master: all of which has given him time.” “And now his time’s up?” the girl eagerly asked. “It _must_ be--and we shall see.” But Hugh postponed that question to a matter of more moment still. “The thing is that at last I’m able to tell you how I feel the trouble I’ve brought you.” It made her, quickly colouring, rest grave eyes on him. “What do you know--when I haven’t told you--about my ‘trouble’?” “Can’t I have guessed, with a ray of intelligence?” --he had his answer ready. “You’ve sought asylum with this good friend from the effects of your father’s resentment.” “‘Sought asylum’ is perhaps excessive,” Lady Grace returned-- “though it wasn’t pleasant with him after that hour, no,” she allowed. “And I couldn’t go, you see, to Kitty.” “No indeed, you couldn’t go to Kitty.” He smiled at her hard as he added: “I should have liked to see you go to Kitty! Therefore exactly is it that I’ve set you adrift--that I’ve darkened and poisoned your days. You’re paying with your comfort, with your peace, for having joined so gallantly in my grand remonstrance.” She shook her head, turning from him, but then turned back again--as if accepting, as if even relieved by, this version of the prime cause of her state. “Why do you talk of it as ‘paying’--if it’s all to come back to my _being_ paid? I mean by your blest success--if you really do what you want.” “I have your word for it,” he searchingly said, “that our really pulling it off together will make up to you----?” “I should be ashamed if it didn’t, for everything!” --she took the question from his mouth. “I believe in such a cause exactly as you do--and found a lesson, at Dedborough, in your frankness and your faith.” “Then you’ll help me no end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.” He glowed with his admiration. “You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case.<\|quote\|>“I see our situation.”</\|quote\|>“So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,” she smiled, “though he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.” “He lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the people who come up to the city in the Tube.” With which Hugh had a still sharper recall of the stiff actual. “And he must be here to do business to-day.” “You know,” Lady Grace asked, “that he’s to meet Mr. Bender?” “Lady Sandgate kindly warned me, and,” her companion saw as he glanced at the clock on the chimney, “I’ve only ten minutes, at best. The ‘Journal’ won’t have been good for him,” he added-- “you doubtless have seen the ‘Journal’?” “No” --she was vague. “We live by the ‘Morning Post.’” “That’s why our friend here didn’t speak then,” Hugh said with a better light-- “which, out of a dim consideration for her, I didn’t do, either. But they’ve a leader this morning about Lady Lappington and her Longhi, and on Bender and his hauls, and on the certainty--if we don’t do something energetic--of more and more Benders to come: such a conquering horde as invaded the old civilisation, only armed now with huge cheque-books instead of with spears and battle-axes. They refer to the rumour current--as too horrific to believe--of Lord Theign’s putting up his Moretto; with the question of how properly to qualify any such sad purpose in him should the further report prove true of a new and momentous opinion about the picture entertained by several eminent authorities.” “Of whom,” said the girl, intensely attached to this recital, “you’re of course seen as not the least.” “Of whom, of course, Lady Grace, I’m as yet--however I’m ‘seen’--the whole collection. But we’ve time” --he rested on that “The fat, if you’ll allow me the expression, is on the fire--which, as I see the matter, is where this particular fat _should_ be.” “Is the article, then,” his companion appealed, “very severe?” “I prefer to call it very enlightened and very intelligent--and the great thing is that it immensely ‘marks,’ as they say. It will have made a big public difference--from this day; though it’s of course aimed not so much at persons as at conditions; which it calls upon us all somehow to tackle.” “Exactly” --she was full of the saving vision; “but as the conditions are directly embodied in persons----” “Oh, of course it here and there bells the cat; which means that it bells three or four.” “Yes,” she richly brooded-- “Lady Lappington _is_ a cat!” “She will have been ‘belled,’ at any rate, with your father,” Hugh amusedly went on, “to the certainty of a row; and a row can only be good for us--I mean for _us_ in particular.” Yet he had to bethink himself. “The case depends a good deal of course on how your father _takes_ such a resounding rap.” “Oh, I know how he’ll take it!” --her perception went all the way. “In the very highest and properest spirit?” “Well, you’ll see.” She was as brave as she was clear. “Or at least I shall!” Struck with all this in her he renewed his homage. “You _are_, yes, splendid!” “I even,” she laughed, “surprise myself.” But he was already back at his calculations. “How early do the papers get to you?” “At Dedborough? Oh, quite for breakfast--which isn’t, however, very early.” “Then that’s what has caused his wire to Bender.” “But how will such talk strike _him_?” the girl asked. Hugh meanwhile, visibly, had not only followed his train of thought, he had let it lead him to certainty. “It will have moved Mr. Bender to absolute rapture.” “Rather,” Lady Grace wondered, “than have put him off?” “It will have put him prodigiously _on!_ Mr. Bender--as he said to me at Dedborough of his noble host there,” Hugh pursued-- “is ‘a very nice man’; but he’s a product of the world of advertisment, and advertisement is all he sees and	_must_ be--and we shall see.” But Hugh postponed that question to a matter of more moment still. “The thing is that at last I’m able to tell you how I feel the trouble I’ve brought you.” It made her, quickly colouring, rest grave eyes on him. “What do you know--when I haven’t told you--about my ‘trouble’?” “Can’t I have guessed, with a ray of intelligence?” --he had his answer ready. “You’ve sought asylum with this good friend from the effects of your father’s resentment.” “‘Sought asylum’ is perhaps excessive,” Lady Grace returned-- “though it wasn’t pleasant with him after that hour, no,” she allowed. “And I couldn’t go, you see, to Kitty.” “No indeed, you couldn’t go to Kitty.” He smiled at her hard as he added: “I should have liked to see you go to Kitty! Therefore exactly is it that I’ve set you adrift--that I’ve darkened and poisoned your days. You’re paying with your comfort, with your peace, for having joined so gallantly in my grand remonstrance.” She shook her head, turning from him, but then turned back again--as if accepting, as if even relieved by, this version of the prime cause of her state. “Why do you talk of it as ‘paying’--if it’s all to come back to my _being_ paid? I mean by your blest success--if you really do what you want.” “I have your word for it,” he searchingly said, “that our really pulling it off together will make up to you----?” “I should be ashamed if it didn’t, for everything!” --she took the question from his mouth. “I believe in such a cause exactly as you do--and found a lesson, at Dedborough, in your frankness and your faith.” “Then you’ll help me no end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought out. “One _has_ to be a girl, naturally, to be a daughter of one’s house,” she laughed; “and that’s all I am of ours--but a true and a right and a straight one.” He glowed with his admiration. “You’re splendid!” That might be or not, her light shrug intimated; she gave it, at any rate, the go-by and more exactly stated her case.<\|quote\|>“I see our situation.”</\|quote\|>“So do I, Lady Grace!” he cried with the strongest emphasis. “And your father only doesn’t.” “Yes,” she said for intelligent correction-- “he sees it, there’s nothing in life he sees so much. But unfortunately he sees it all wrong.” Hugh seized her point of view as if there had been nothing of her that he wouldn’t have seized. “He sees it all wrong then! My appeal the other day he took as a rude protest. And any protest----” “Any protest,” she quickly and fully agreed, “he takes as an offence, yes. It’s his theory that he still has rights,” she smiled, “though he _is_ a miserable peer.” “How should he not have rights,” said Hugh, “when he has really everything on earth?” “Ah, he doesn’t even _know_ that--he takes it so much for granted.” And she sought, though as rather sadly and despairingly, to explain. “He lives all in his own world.” “He lives all in his own, yes; but he does business all in ours--quite as much as the people who come up to the city in the Tube.” With which Hugh had a still sharper recall of the stiff actual. “And he must be here to do business to-day.” “You know,” Lady Grace asked, “that he’s to meet Mr. Bender?” “Lady Sandgate kindly warned me, and,” her companion saw as he glanced at the clock on the chimney, “I’ve only ten minutes, at best. The ‘Journal’ won’t have been good for him,” he added-- “you doubtless have seen the ‘Journal’?” “No” --she was vague. “We live by the ‘Morning Post.’” “That’s why our friend here didn’t speak then,” Hugh said with a better light-- “which, out of a dim consideration for her, I didn’t do, either. But they’ve a leader this morning about Lady Lappington and her Longhi, and on Bender and his hauls, and on the certainty--if we don’t do something energetic--of more and more Benders to come: such a conquering horde as invaded the old civilisation, only armed now with huge cheque-books instead of with spears and battle-axes. They refer to the rumour current--as too horrific to believe--of	The Outcry
We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.	No speaker	for us to be snooty."<\|quote\|>We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.</\|quote\|>"What will we say?" Bill	said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty."<\|quote\|>We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.</\|quote\|>"What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough."	gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty."<\|quote\|>We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.</\|quote\|>"What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you	coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill. "What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty."<\|quote\|>We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.</\|quote\|>"What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not."	really have to get into town," I said. "What a pity." After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "Por ustedes?" I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us." She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill. "What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty."<\|quote\|>We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.</\|quote\|>"What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?" "It has the look of a pub," Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up	right by Tues. and is practically so now. I know her so well and try to look after her but it's not so easy. Love to all the chaps, MICHAEL. "What day of the week is it?" I asked Harris. "Wednesday, I think. Yes, quite. Wednesday. Wonderful how one loses track of the days up here in the mountains." "Yes. We've been here nearly a week." "I hope you're not thinking of leaving?" "Yes. We'll go in on the afternoon bus, I'm afraid." "What a rotten business. I had hoped we'd all have another go at the Irati together." "We have to go _into_ Pamplona. We're meeting people there." "What rotten luck for me. We've had a jolly time here at Burguete." "Come on in to Pamplona. We can play some bridge there, and there's going to be a damned fine fiesta." "I'd like to. Awfully nice of you to ask me. I'd best stop on here, though. I've not much more time to fish." "You want those big ones in the Irati." "I say, I do, you know. They're enormous trout there." "I'd like to try them once more." "Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap." "We really have to get into town," I said. "What a pity." After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "Por ustedes?" I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us." She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill. "What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty."<\|quote\|>We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.</\|quote\|>"What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?" "It has the look of a pub," Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris. "This is mine," said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. "I say. You know this does utilize well." Bill slapped him on the back. "Good old Harris." "I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson-Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know." "Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we're so fond of you." "I say, Barnes. You don't know what this all means to me." "Come on and utilize another glass," I said. "Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can't know. That's all." "Drink up, Harris." We walked back down the road	and we put one of the trout-bags in. I carried the other. "Well," said Bill, "have we got everything?" "The worms." "Your worms. Put them in there." He had the pack on his back and I put the worm-cans in one of the outside flap pockets. "You got everything now?" I looked around on the grass at the foot of the elm-trees. "Yes." We started up the road into the woods. It was a long walk home to Burguete, and it was dark when we came down across the fields to the road, and along the road between the houses of the town, their windows lighted, to the inn. We stayed five days at Burguete and had good fishing. The nights were cold and the days were hot, and there was always a breeze even in the heat of the day. It was hot enough so that it felt good to wade in a cold stream, and the sun dried you when you came out and sat on the bank. We found a stream with a pool deep enough to swim in. In the evenings we played three-handed bridge with an Englishman named Harris, who had walked over from Saint Jean Pied de Port and was stopping at the inn for the fishing. He was very pleasant and went with us twice to the Irati River. There was no word from Robert Cohn nor from Brett and Mike. CHAPTER 13 One morning I went down to breakfast and the Englishman, Harris, was already at the table. He was reading the paper through spectacles. He looked up and smiled. "Good morning," he said. "Letter for you. I stopped at the post and they gave it me with mine." The letter was at my place at the table, leaning against a coffee-cup. Harris was reading the paper again. I opened the letter. It had been forwarded from Pamplona. It was dated San Sebastian, Sunday: DEAR JAKE, We got here Friday, Brett passed out on the train, so brought her here for 3 days rest with old friends of ours. We go to Montoya Hotel Pamplona Tuesday, arriving at I don't know what hour. Will you send a note by the bus to tell us what to do to rejoin you all on Wednesday. All our love and sorry to be late, but Brett was really done in and will be quite all right by Tues. and is practically so now. I know her so well and try to look after her but it's not so easy. Love to all the chaps, MICHAEL. "What day of the week is it?" I asked Harris. "Wednesday, I think. Yes, quite. Wednesday. Wonderful how one loses track of the days up here in the mountains." "Yes. We've been here nearly a week." "I hope you're not thinking of leaving?" "Yes. We'll go in on the afternoon bus, I'm afraid." "What a rotten business. I had hoped we'd all have another go at the Irati together." "We have to go _into_ Pamplona. We're meeting people there." "What rotten luck for me. We've had a jolly time here at Burguete." "Come on in to Pamplona. We can play some bridge there, and there's going to be a damned fine fiesta." "I'd like to. Awfully nice of you to ask me. I'd best stop on here, though. I've not much more time to fish." "You want those big ones in the Irati." "I say, I do, you know. They're enormous trout there." "I'd like to try them once more." "Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap." "We really have to get into town," I said. "What a pity." After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "Por ustedes?" I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us." She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill. "What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty."<\|quote\|>We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.</\|quote\|>"What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?" "It has the look of a pub," Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris. "This is mine," said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. "I say. You know this does utilize well." Bill slapped him on the back. "Good old Harris." "I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson-Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know." "Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we're so fond of you." "I say, Barnes. You don't know what this all means to me." "Come on and utilize another glass," I said. "Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can't know. That's all." "Drink up, Harris." We walked back down the road from Roncesvalles with Harris between us. We had lunch at the inn and Harris went with us to the bus. He gave us his card, with his address in London and his club and his business address, and as we got on the bus he handed us each an envelope. I opened mine and there were a dozen flies in it. Harris had tied them himself. He tied all his own flies. "I say, Harris--" I began. "No, no!" he said. He was climbing down from the bus. "They're not first-rate flies at all. I only thought if you fished them some time it might remind you of what a good time we had." The bus started. Harris stood in front of the post-office. He waved. As we started along the road he turned and walked back toward the inn. "Say, wasn't that Harris nice?" Bill said. "I think he really did have a good time." "Harris? You bet he did." "I wish he'd come into Pamplona." "He wanted to fish." "Yes. You couldn't tell how English would mix with each other, anyway." "I suppose not." We got into Pamplona late in the afternoon and the bus stopped in front of the Hotel Montoya. Out in the plaza they were stringing electric-light wires to light the plaza for the fiesta. A few kids came up when the bus stopped, and a customs officer for the town made all the people getting down from the bus open their bundles on the sidewalk. We went into the hotel and on the stairs I met Montoya. He shook hands with us, smiling in his embarrassed way. "Your friends are here," he said. "Mr. Campbell?" "Yes. Mr. Cohn and Mr. Campbell and Lady Ashley." He smiled as though there were something I would hear about. "When did they get in?" "Yesterday. I've saved you the rooms you had." "That's fine. Did you give Mr. Campbell the room on the plaza?" "Yes. All the rooms we looked at." "Where are our friends now?" "I think they went to the pelota." "And how about the bulls?" Montoya smiled. "To-night," he said. "To-night at seven o'clock they bring in the Villar bulls, and to-morrow come the Miuras. Do you all go down?" "Oh, yes. They've never seen a desencajonada." Montoya put his hand on my shoulder. "I'll see you there." He smiled again. He always smiled as	very pleasant and went with us twice to the Irati River. There was no word from Robert Cohn nor from Brett and Mike. CHAPTER 13 One morning I went down to breakfast and the Englishman, Harris, was already at the table. He was reading the paper through spectacles. He looked up and smiled. "Good morning," he said. "Letter for you. I stopped at the post and they gave it me with mine." The letter was at my place at the table, leaning against a coffee-cup. Harris was reading the paper again. I opened the letter. It had been forwarded from Pamplona. It was dated San Sebastian, Sunday: DEAR JAKE, We got here Friday, Brett passed out on the train, so brought her here for 3 days rest with old friends of ours. We go to Montoya Hotel Pamplona Tuesday, arriving at I don't know what hour. Will you send a note by the bus to tell us what to do to rejoin you all on Wednesday. All our love and sorry to be late, but Brett was really done in and will be quite all right by Tues. and is practically so now. I know her so well and try to look after her but it's not so easy. Love to all the chaps, MICHAEL. "What day of the week is it?" I asked Harris. "Wednesday, I think. Yes, quite. Wednesday. Wonderful how one loses track of the days up here in the mountains." "Yes. We've been here nearly a week." "I hope you're not thinking of leaving?" "Yes. We'll go in on the afternoon bus, I'm afraid." "What a rotten business. I had hoped we'd all have another go at the Irati together." "We have to go _into_ Pamplona. We're meeting people there." "What rotten luck for me. We've had a jolly time here at Burguete." "Come on in to Pamplona. We can play some bridge there, and there's going to be a damned fine fiesta." "I'd like to. Awfully nice of you to ask me. I'd best stop on here, though. I've not much more time to fish." "You want those big ones in the Irati." "I say, I do, you know. They're enormous trout there." "I'd like to try them once more." "Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap." "We really have to get into town," I said. "What a pity." After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "Por ustedes?" I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us." She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill. "What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty."<\|quote\|>We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.</\|quote\|>"What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?" "It has the look of a pub," Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris. "This is mine," said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. "I say. You know this does utilize well." Bill slapped him on the back. "Good old Harris." "I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson-Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know." "Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we're so fond of you." "I say, Barnes. You don't know what this all means to me." "Come on and utilize another glass," I said. "Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can't know. That's all." "Drink up, Harris." We walked back down the road from Roncesvalles with Harris between us. We had lunch at the inn and Harris went with us to the bus. He gave us his card, with his address in London and his club and his business address, and as we got on the bus he handed us each an envelope. I opened mine and there were a dozen flies in it. Harris had tied them himself. He tied all his own flies. "I say, Harris--" I began. "No, no!" he said. He was climbing down from the bus. "They're not first-rate flies at all. I only thought if you fished them some time it might remind you of what a good time we had." The bus started. Harris stood in front of the post-office. He waved. As we started along the road he turned and walked back toward the inn. "Say, wasn't that Harris nice?" Bill said. "I think he really did have a good time." "Harris? You bet he did." "I	The Sun Also Rises
"Most certainly I am not."	Dr. Aziz	his hospital?" "You're not offended?"<\|quote\|>"Most certainly I am not."</\|quote\|>"If you are, this must	your little rotter down at his hospital?" "You're not offended?"<\|quote\|>"Most certainly I am not."</\|quote\|>"If you are, this must be cleared up later on."	the girl was still engaged to Heaslop, also I never felt . . ." "Yes, yes; but you didn't contradict what I said, so I thought it was true. Oh dear, East and West. Most misleading. Will you please put your little rotter down at his hospital?" "You're not offended?"<\|quote\|>"Most certainly I am not."</\|quote\|>"If you are, this must be cleared up later on." "It has been," he answered, dignified. "I believe absolutely what you say, and of that there need be no further question." "But the way I said it must be cleared up. I was unintentionally rude. Unreserved regrets." "The fault is	damned. Amusement indeed. Is it likely at such a time?" "Oh, I beg your pardon, I'm sure. The licentious Oriental imagination was at work," he replied, speaking gaily, but cut to the heart; for hours after his mistake he bled inwardly. "You see, Aziz, the circumstances . . . also the girl was still engaged to Heaslop, also I never felt . . ." "Yes, yes; but you didn't contradict what I said, so I thought it was true. Oh dear, East and West. Most misleading. Will you please put your little rotter down at his hospital?" "You're not offended?"<\|quote\|>"Most certainly I am not."</\|quote\|>"If you are, this must be cleared up later on." "It has been," he answered, dignified. "I believe absolutely what you say, and of that there need be no further question." "But the way I said it must be cleared up. I was unintentionally rude. Unreserved regrets." "The fault is entirely mine." Tangles like this still interrupted their intercourse. A pause in the wrong place, an intonation misunderstood, and a whole conversation went awry. Fielding had been startled, not shocked, but how convey the difference? There is always trouble when two people do not think of sex at the same	mosquitoes, but it's years before I shall meet the one that kills me. You've something else in your mind." "I've not; don't be ridiculous." "You have. You're cross with me about something or other." Any direct attack threw him out of action. Presently he said: "So you and Madamsell Adela used to amuse one another in the evening, naughty boy." Those drab and high-minded talks had scarcely made for dalliance. Fielding was so startled at the story being taken seriously, and so disliked being called a naughty boy, that he lost his head and cried: "You little rotter! Well, I'm damned. Amusement indeed. Is it likely at such a time?" "Oh, I beg your pardon, I'm sure. The licentious Oriental imagination was at work," he replied, speaking gaily, but cut to the heart; for hours after his mistake he bled inwardly. "You see, Aziz, the circumstances . . . also the girl was still engaged to Heaslop, also I never felt . . ." "Yes, yes; but you didn't contradict what I said, so I thought it was true. Oh dear, East and West. Most misleading. Will you please put your little rotter down at his hospital?" "You're not offended?"<\|quote\|>"Most certainly I am not."</\|quote\|>"If you are, this must be cleared up later on." "It has been," he answered, dignified. "I believe absolutely what you say, and of that there need be no further question." "But the way I said it must be cleared up. I was unintentionally rude. Unreserved regrets." "The fault is entirely mine." Tangles like this still interrupted their intercourse. A pause in the wrong place, an intonation misunderstood, and a whole conversation went awry. Fielding had been startled, not shocked, but how convey the difference? There is always trouble when two people do not think of sex at the same moment, always mutual resentment and surprise, even when the two people are of the same race. He began to recapitulate his feelings about Miss Quested. Aziz cut him short with: "But I believe you, I believe. Mohammed Latif shall be severely punished for inventing this." "Oh, leave it alone, like all gossip it's merely one of those half-alive things that try to crowd out real life. Take no notice, it'll vanish, like poor old Mrs. Moore's tombs." "Mohammed Latif has taken to intriguing. We are already much displeased with him. Will it satisfy you if we send him back to	shot up rather crossly. "Yes, but the scale, the scale. You always get the scale wrong, my dear fellow. A pity there is this rumour, but such a very small pity so small that we may as well talk of something else." "You mind for Miss Quested's sake, though. I can see from your face." "As far as I do mind. I travel light." "Cyril, that boastfulness about travelling light will be your ruin. It is raising up enemies against you on all sides, and makes me feel excessively uneasy." "What enemies?" Since Aziz had only himself in mind, he could not reply. Feeling a fool, he became angrier. "I have given you list after list of the people who cannot be trusted in this city. In your position I should have the sense to know I was surrounded by enemies. You observe I speak in a low voice. It is because I see your sais is new. How do I know he isn't a spy?" He lowered his voice: "Every third servant is a spy." "Now, what is the matter?" he asked, smiling. "Do you contradict my last remark?" "It simply doesn't affect me. Spies are as thick as mosquitoes, but it's years before I shall meet the one that kills me. You've something else in your mind." "I've not; don't be ridiculous." "You have. You're cross with me about something or other." Any direct attack threw him out of action. Presently he said: "So you and Madamsell Adela used to amuse one another in the evening, naughty boy." Those drab and high-minded talks had scarcely made for dalliance. Fielding was so startled at the story being taken seriously, and so disliked being called a naughty boy, that he lost his head and cried: "You little rotter! Well, I'm damned. Amusement indeed. Is it likely at such a time?" "Oh, I beg your pardon, I'm sure. The licentious Oriental imagination was at work," he replied, speaking gaily, but cut to the heart; for hours after his mistake he bled inwardly. "You see, Aziz, the circumstances . . . also the girl was still engaged to Heaslop, also I never felt . . ." "Yes, yes; but you didn't contradict what I said, so I thought it was true. Oh dear, East and West. Most misleading. Will you please put your little rotter down at his hospital?" "You're not offended?"<\|quote\|>"Most certainly I am not."</\|quote\|>"If you are, this must be cleared up later on." "It has been," he answered, dignified. "I believe absolutely what you say, and of that there need be no further question." "But the way I said it must be cleared up. I was unintentionally rude. Unreserved regrets." "The fault is entirely mine." Tangles like this still interrupted their intercourse. A pause in the wrong place, an intonation misunderstood, and a whole conversation went awry. Fielding had been startled, not shocked, but how convey the difference? There is always trouble when two people do not think of sex at the same moment, always mutual resentment and surprise, even when the two people are of the same race. He began to recapitulate his feelings about Miss Quested. Aziz cut him short with: "But I believe you, I believe. Mohammed Latif shall be severely punished for inventing this." "Oh, leave it alone, like all gossip it's merely one of those half-alive things that try to crowd out real life. Take no notice, it'll vanish, like poor old Mrs. Moore's tombs." "Mohammed Latif has taken to intriguing. We are already much displeased with him. Will it satisfy you if we send him back to his family without a present?" "We'll discuss M.L. at dinner." His eyes went clotted and hard. "Dinner. This is most unlucky I forgot. I have promised to dine with Das." "Bring Das to me." "He will have invited other friends." "You are coming to dinner with me as arranged," said Fielding, looking away. "I don't stand this. You are coming to dinner with me. You come." They had reached the hospital now. Fielding continued round the Maidan alone. He was annoyed with himself, but counted on dinner to pull things straight. At the post office he saw the Collector. Their vehicles were parked side by side while their servants competed in the interior of the building. "Good morning; so you are back," said Turton icily. "I should be glad if you will put in your appearance at the club this evening." "I have accepted re-election, sir. Do you regard it as necessary I should come? I should be glad to be excused; indeed, I have a dinner engagement this evening." "It is not a question of your feelings, but of the wish of the Lieutenant-Governor. Perhaps you will ask me whether I speak officially. I do. I shall expect you	where he could find it. But he resented him making up to this particular woman, whom he still regarded as his enemy; also, why had he not been told? What is friendship without confidences? He himself had told things sometimes regarded as shocking, and the Englishman had listened, tolerant, but surrendering nothing in return. He met Fielding at the railway station on his return, agreed to dine with him, and then started taxing him by the oblique method, outwardly merry. An avowed European scandal there was Mr. McBryde and Miss Derek. Miss Derek's faithful attachment to Chandrapore was now explained: Mr. McBryde had been caught in her room, and his wife was divorcing him. "That pure-minded fellow. However, he will blame the Indian climate. Everything is our fault really. Now, have I not discovered an important piece of news for you, Cyril?" "Not very," said Fielding, who took little interest in distant sins. "Listen to mine." Aziz' face lit up. "At the conference, it was settled. . . ." "This evening will do for schoolmastery. I should go straight to the Minto now, the cholera looks bad. We begin to have local cases as well as imported. In fact, the whole of life is somewhat sad. The new Civil Surgeon is the same as the last, but does not yet dare to be. That is all any administrative change amounts to. All my suffering has won nothing for us. But look here, Cyril, while I remember it. There's gossip about you as well as McBryde. They say that you and Miss Quested became also rather too intimate friends. To speak perfectly frankly, they say you and she have been guilty of impropriety." "They would say that." "It's all over the town, and may injure your reputation. You know, everyone is by no means your supporter. I have tried all I could to silence such a story." "Don't bother. Miss Quested has cleared out at last." "It is those who stop in the country, not those who leave it, whom such a story injures. Imagine my dismay and anxiety. I could scarcely get a wink of sleep. First my name was coupled with her and now it is yours." "Don't use such exaggerated phrases." "As what?" "As dismay and anxiety." "Have I not lived all my life in India? Do I not know what produces a bad impression here?" His voice shot up rather crossly. "Yes, but the scale, the scale. You always get the scale wrong, my dear fellow. A pity there is this rumour, but such a very small pity so small that we may as well talk of something else." "You mind for Miss Quested's sake, though. I can see from your face." "As far as I do mind. I travel light." "Cyril, that boastfulness about travelling light will be your ruin. It is raising up enemies against you on all sides, and makes me feel excessively uneasy." "What enemies?" Since Aziz had only himself in mind, he could not reply. Feeling a fool, he became angrier. "I have given you list after list of the people who cannot be trusted in this city. In your position I should have the sense to know I was surrounded by enemies. You observe I speak in a low voice. It is because I see your sais is new. How do I know he isn't a spy?" He lowered his voice: "Every third servant is a spy." "Now, what is the matter?" he asked, smiling. "Do you contradict my last remark?" "It simply doesn't affect me. Spies are as thick as mosquitoes, but it's years before I shall meet the one that kills me. You've something else in your mind." "I've not; don't be ridiculous." "You have. You're cross with me about something or other." Any direct attack threw him out of action. Presently he said: "So you and Madamsell Adela used to amuse one another in the evening, naughty boy." Those drab and high-minded talks had scarcely made for dalliance. Fielding was so startled at the story being taken seriously, and so disliked being called a naughty boy, that he lost his head and cried: "You little rotter! Well, I'm damned. Amusement indeed. Is it likely at such a time?" "Oh, I beg your pardon, I'm sure. The licentious Oriental imagination was at work," he replied, speaking gaily, but cut to the heart; for hours after his mistake he bled inwardly. "You see, Aziz, the circumstances . . . also the girl was still engaged to Heaslop, also I never felt . . ." "Yes, yes; but you didn't contradict what I said, so I thought it was true. Oh dear, East and West. Most misleading. Will you please put your little rotter down at his hospital?" "You're not offended?"<\|quote\|>"Most certainly I am not."</\|quote\|>"If you are, this must be cleared up later on." "It has been," he answered, dignified. "I believe absolutely what you say, and of that there need be no further question." "But the way I said it must be cleared up. I was unintentionally rude. Unreserved regrets." "The fault is entirely mine." Tangles like this still interrupted their intercourse. A pause in the wrong place, an intonation misunderstood, and a whole conversation went awry. Fielding had been startled, not shocked, but how convey the difference? There is always trouble when two people do not think of sex at the same moment, always mutual resentment and surprise, even when the two people are of the same race. He began to recapitulate his feelings about Miss Quested. Aziz cut him short with: "But I believe you, I believe. Mohammed Latif shall be severely punished for inventing this." "Oh, leave it alone, like all gossip it's merely one of those half-alive things that try to crowd out real life. Take no notice, it'll vanish, like poor old Mrs. Moore's tombs." "Mohammed Latif has taken to intriguing. We are already much displeased with him. Will it satisfy you if we send him back to his family without a present?" "We'll discuss M.L. at dinner." His eyes went clotted and hard. "Dinner. This is most unlucky I forgot. I have promised to dine with Das." "Bring Das to me." "He will have invited other friends." "You are coming to dinner with me as arranged," said Fielding, looking away. "I don't stand this. You are coming to dinner with me. You come." They had reached the hospital now. Fielding continued round the Maidan alone. He was annoyed with himself, but counted on dinner to pull things straight. At the post office he saw the Collector. Their vehicles were parked side by side while their servants competed in the interior of the building. "Good morning; so you are back," said Turton icily. "I should be glad if you will put in your appearance at the club this evening." "I have accepted re-election, sir. Do you regard it as necessary I should come? I should be glad to be excused; indeed, I have a dinner engagement this evening." "It is not a question of your feelings, but of the wish of the Lieutenant-Governor. Perhaps you will ask me whether I speak officially. I do. I shall expect you this evening at six. We shall not interfere with your subsequent plans." He attended the grim little function in due course. The skeletons of hospitality rattled "Have a peg, have a drink." He talked for five minutes to Mrs. Blakiston, who was the only surviving female. He talked to McBryde, who was defiant about his divorce, conscious that he had sinned as a sahib. He talked to Major Roberts, the new Civil Surgeon; and to young Milner, the new City Magistrate; but the more the club changed, the more it promised to be the same thing. "It is no good," he thought, as he returned past the mosque, "we all build upon sand; and the more modern the country gets, the worse'll be the crash. In the old eighteenth century, when cruelty and injustice raged, an invisible power repaired their ravages. Everything echoes now; there's no stopping the echo. The original sound may be harmless, but the echo is always evil." This reflection about an echo lay at the verge of Fielding's mind. He could never develop it. It belonged to the universe that he had missed or rejected. And the mosque missed it too. Like himself, those shallow arcades provided but a limited asylum. "There is no God but God" doesn't carry us far through the complexities of matter and spirit; it is only a game with words, really, a religious pun, not a religious truth. He found Aziz overtired and dispirited, and he determined not to allude to their misunderstanding until the end of the evening; it would be more acceptable then. He made a clean breast about the club said he had only gone under compulsion, and should never attend again unless the order was renewed. "In other words, probably never; for I am going quite soon to England." "I thought you might end in England," he said very quietly, then changed the conversation. Rather awkwardly they ate their dinner, then went out to sit in the Mogul garden-house. "I am only going for a little time. On official business. My service is anxious to get me away from Chandrapore for a bit. It is obliged to value me highly, but does not care for me. The situation is somewhat humorous." "What is the nature of the business? Will it leave you much spare time?" "Enough to see my friends." "I expected you to make such a	say that you and Miss Quested became also rather too intimate friends. To speak perfectly frankly, they say you and she have been guilty of impropriety." "They would say that." "It's all over the town, and may injure your reputation. You know, everyone is by no means your supporter. I have tried all I could to silence such a story." "Don't bother. Miss Quested has cleared out at last." "It is those who stop in the country, not those who leave it, whom such a story injures. Imagine my dismay and anxiety. I could scarcely get a wink of sleep. First my name was coupled with her and now it is yours." "Don't use such exaggerated phrases." "As what?" "As dismay and anxiety." "Have I not lived all my life in India? Do I not know what produces a bad impression here?" His voice shot up rather crossly. "Yes, but the scale, the scale. You always get the scale wrong, my dear fellow. A pity there is this rumour, but such a very small pity so small that we may as well talk of something else." "You mind for Miss Quested's sake, though. I can see from your face." "As far as I do mind. I travel light." "Cyril, that boastfulness about travelling light will be your ruin. It is raising up enemies against you on all sides, and makes me feel excessively uneasy." "What enemies?" Since Aziz had only himself in mind, he could not reply. Feeling a fool, he became angrier. "I have given you list after list of the people who cannot be trusted in this city. In your position I should have the sense to know I was surrounded by enemies. You observe I speak in a low voice. It is because I see your sais is new. How do I know he isn't a spy?" He lowered his voice: "Every third servant is a spy." "Now, what is the matter?" he asked, smiling. "Do you contradict my last remark?" "It simply doesn't affect me. Spies are as thick as mosquitoes, but it's years before I shall meet the one that kills me. You've something else in your mind." "I've not; don't be ridiculous." "You have. You're cross with me about something or other." Any direct attack threw him out of action. Presently he said: "So you and Madamsell Adela used to amuse one another in the evening, naughty boy." Those drab and high-minded talks had scarcely made for dalliance. Fielding was so startled at the story being taken seriously, and so disliked being called a naughty boy, that he lost his head and cried: "You little rotter! Well, I'm damned. Amusement indeed. Is it likely at such a time?" "Oh, I beg your pardon, I'm sure. The licentious Oriental imagination was at work," he replied, speaking gaily, but cut to the heart; for hours after his mistake he bled inwardly. "You see, Aziz, the circumstances . . . also the girl was still engaged to Heaslop, also I never felt . . ." "Yes, yes; but you didn't contradict what I said, so I thought it was true. Oh dear, East and West. Most misleading. Will you please put your little rotter down at his hospital?" "You're not offended?"<\|quote\|>"Most certainly I am not."</\|quote\|>"If you are, this must be cleared up later on." "It has been," he answered, dignified. "I believe absolutely what you say, and of that there need be no further question." "But the way I said it must be cleared up. I was unintentionally rude. Unreserved regrets." "The fault is entirely mine." Tangles like this still interrupted their intercourse. A pause in the wrong place, an intonation misunderstood, and a whole conversation went awry. Fielding had been startled, not shocked, but how convey the difference? There is always trouble when two people do not think of sex at the same moment, always mutual resentment and surprise, even when the two people are of the same race. He began to recapitulate his feelings about Miss Quested. Aziz cut him short with: "But I believe you, I believe. Mohammed Latif shall be severely punished for inventing this." "Oh, leave it alone, like all gossip it's merely one of those half-alive things that try to crowd out real life. Take no notice, it'll vanish, like poor old Mrs. Moore's tombs." "Mohammed Latif has taken to intriguing. We are already much displeased with him. Will it satisfy you if we send him back to his family without a present?" "We'll discuss M.L. at dinner." His eyes went clotted and hard. "Dinner. This is most unlucky I forgot. I have promised to dine with Das." "Bring Das to me." "He will have invited other friends." "You are coming to dinner with me as arranged," said Fielding, looking away. "I don't stand this. You are coming to dinner with me. You come."	A Passage To India
"Open the window, and see if he is not."	Polina Alexandrovna	he is there," she said.<\|quote\|>"Open the window, and see if he is not."</\|quote\|>She pushed me in that	beneath the window? "Yes, yes, he is there," she said.<\|quote\|>"Open the window, and see if he is not."</\|quote\|>She pushed me in that direction; yet, no sooner did	something or other which had happened recently. On the whole, she appeared to be laughing at Astley, for she kept repeating that he was waiting for her, and did I know whether, even at that moment, he was not standing beneath the window? "Yes, yes, he is there," she said.<\|quote\|>"Open the window, and see if he is not."</\|quote\|>She pushed me in that direction; yet, no sooner did I make a movement to obey her behest than she burst into laughter, and I remained beside her, and she embraced me. "Shall we go away tomorrow?" presently she asked, as though some disturbing thought had recurred to her recollection.	of a sudden she noticed my ardent gaze, and smiled slightly. The next moment, for no apparent reason, she began to talk of Astley. She continued talking and talking about him, but I could not make out all she said more particularly when she was endeavouring to tell me of something or other which had happened recently. On the whole, she appeared to be laughing at Astley, for she kept repeating that he was waiting for her, and did I know whether, even at that moment, he was not standing beneath the window? "Yes, yes, he is there," she said.<\|quote\|>"Open the window, and see if he is not."</\|quote\|>She pushed me in that direction; yet, no sooner did I make a movement to obey her behest than she burst into laughter, and I remained beside her, and she embraced me. "Shall we go away tomorrow?" presently she asked, as though some disturbing thought had recurred to her recollection. "How would it be if we were to try and overtake Grandmamma? I think we should do so at Berlin. And what think you she would have to say to us when we caught her up, and her eyes first lit upon us? What, too, about Mr. Astley? _He_ would	were trying to tell me something very quickly. At intervals, too, she would break off into the smile which I was beginning to dread. "No, no!" she kept repeating. "_You_ are my dear one; _you_ are the man I trust." Again she laid her hands upon my shoulders, and again she gazed at me as she reiterated: "You love me, you love me? Will you _always_ love me?" I could not take my eyes off her. Never before had I seen her in this mood of humility and affection. True, the mood was the outcome of hysteria; but ! All of a sudden she noticed my ardent gaze, and smiled slightly. The next moment, for no apparent reason, she began to talk of Astley. She continued talking and talking about him, but I could not make out all she said more particularly when she was endeavouring to tell me of something or other which had happened recently. On the whole, she appeared to be laughing at Astley, for she kept repeating that he was waiting for her, and did I know whether, even at that moment, he was not standing beneath the window? "Yes, yes, he is there," she said.<\|quote\|>"Open the window, and see if he is not."</\|quote\|>She pushed me in that direction; yet, no sooner did I make a movement to obey her behest than she burst into laughter, and I remained beside her, and she embraced me. "Shall we go away tomorrow?" presently she asked, as though some disturbing thought had recurred to her recollection. "How would it be if we were to try and overtake Grandmamma? I think we should do so at Berlin. And what think you she would have to say to us when we caught her up, and her eyes first lit upon us? What, too, about Mr. Astley? _He_ would not leap from the Shlangenberg for my sake! No! Of that I am very sure!" and she laughed. "Do you know where he is going next year? He says he intends to go to the North Pole for scientific investigations, and has invited me to go with him! Ha, ha, ha! He also says that we Russians know nothing, can do nothing, without European help. But he is a good fellow all the same. For instance, he does not blame the General in the matter, but declares that Mlle. Blanche that love But no; I do not know, I do	gasped between her convulsive sobs. I clasped her in my arms, kissed her hands and feet, and fell upon my knees before her. Presently the hysterical fit passed away, and, laying her hands upon my shoulders, she gazed for a while into my face, as though trying to read it something I said to her, but it was clear that she did not hear it. Her face looked so dark and despondent that I began to fear for her reason. At length she drew me towards herself a trustful smile playing over her features; and then, as suddenly, she pushed me away again as she eyed me dimly. Finally she threw herself upon me in an embrace. "You love me?" she said. "_Do_ you? you who were willing even to quarrel with the Baron at my bidding?" Then she laughed laughed as though something dear, but laughable, had recurred to her memory. Yes, she laughed and wept at the same time. What was I to do? I was like a man in a fever. I remember that she began to say something to me though _what_ I do not know, since she spoke with a feverish lisp, as though she were trying to tell me something very quickly. At intervals, too, she would break off into the smile which I was beginning to dread. "No, no!" she kept repeating. "_You_ are my dear one; _you_ are the man I trust." Again she laid her hands upon my shoulders, and again she gazed at me as she reiterated: "You love me, you love me? Will you _always_ love me?" I could not take my eyes off her. Never before had I seen her in this mood of humility and affection. True, the mood was the outcome of hysteria; but ! All of a sudden she noticed my ardent gaze, and smiled slightly. The next moment, for no apparent reason, she began to talk of Astley. She continued talking and talking about him, but I could not make out all she said more particularly when she was endeavouring to tell me of something or other which had happened recently. On the whole, she appeared to be laughing at Astley, for she kept repeating that he was waiting for her, and did I know whether, even at that moment, he was not standing beneath the window? "Yes, yes, he is there," she said.<\|quote\|>"Open the window, and see if he is not."</\|quote\|>She pushed me in that direction; yet, no sooner did I make a movement to obey her behest than she burst into laughter, and I remained beside her, and she embraced me. "Shall we go away tomorrow?" presently she asked, as though some disturbing thought had recurred to her recollection. "How would it be if we were to try and overtake Grandmamma? I think we should do so at Berlin. And what think you she would have to say to us when we caught her up, and her eyes first lit upon us? What, too, about Mr. Astley? _He_ would not leap from the Shlangenberg for my sake! No! Of that I am very sure!" and she laughed. "Do you know where he is going next year? He says he intends to go to the North Pole for scientific investigations, and has invited me to go with him! Ha, ha, ha! He also says that we Russians know nothing, can do nothing, without European help. But he is a good fellow all the same. For instance, he does not blame the General in the matter, but declares that Mlle. Blanche that love But no; I do not know, I do not know." She stopped suddenly, as though she had said her say, and was feeling bewildered. "What poor creatures these people are. How sorry I am for them, and for Grandmamma! But when are you going to kill De Griers? Surely you do not intend actually to murder him? You fool! Do you suppose that I should _allow_ you to fight De Griers? Nor shall you kill the Baron." Here she burst out laughing. "How absurd you looked when you were talking to the Burmergelms! I was watching you all the time watching you from where I was sitting. And how unwilling you were to go when I sent you! Oh, how I laughed and laughed!" Then she kissed and embraced me again; again she pressed her face to mine with tender passion. Yet I neither saw nor heard her, for my head was in a whirl.... It must have been about seven o clock in the morning when I awoke. Daylight had come, and Polina was sitting by my side a strange expression on her face, as though she had seen a vision and was unable to collect her thoughts. She too had just awoken, and was now staring	a meditative halt before my little trunk. "Shall I put the money there until tomorrow?" I asked, turning sharply round to Polina as the recollection of her returned to me. She was still in her old place still making not a sound. Yet her eyes had followed every one of my movements. Somehow in her face there was a strange expression an expression which I did not like. I think that I shall not be wrong if I say that it indicated sheer hatred. Impulsively I approached her. "Polina," I said, "here are twenty-five thousand florins fifty thousand francs, or more. Take them, and tomorrow throw them in De Griers face." She returned no answer. "Or, if you should prefer," I continued, "let me take them to him myself tomorrow yes, early tomorrow morning. Shall I?" Then all at once she burst out laughing, and laughed for a long while. With astonishment and a feeling of offence I gazed at her. Her laughter was too like the derisive merriment which she had so often indulged in of late merriment which had broken forth always at the time of my most passionate explanations. At length she ceased, and frowned at me from under her eyebrows. "I am _not_ going to take your money," she said contemptuously. "Why not?" I cried. "Why not, Polina?" "Because I am not in the habit of receiving money for nothing." "But I am offering it to you as a _friend_. In the same way I would offer you my very life." Upon this she threw me a long, questioning glance, as though she were seeking to probe me to the depths. "You are giving too much for me," she remarked with a smile. "The beloved of De Griers is not worth fifty thousand francs." "Oh Polina, how can you speak so?" I exclaimed reproachfully. "Am _I_ De Griers?" "You?" she cried with her eyes suddenly flashing. "Why, I _hate_ you! Yes, yes, I _hate_ you! I love you no more than I do De Griers." Then she buried her face in her hands, and relapsed into hysterics. I darted to her side. Somehow I had an intuition of something having happened to her which had nothing to do with myself. She was like a person temporarily insane. "Buy me, would you, would you? Would you buy me for fifty thousand francs as De Griers did?" she gasped between her convulsive sobs. I clasped her in my arms, kissed her hands and feet, and fell upon my knees before her. Presently the hysterical fit passed away, and, laying her hands upon my shoulders, she gazed for a while into my face, as though trying to read it something I said to her, but it was clear that she did not hear it. Her face looked so dark and despondent that I began to fear for her reason. At length she drew me towards herself a trustful smile playing over her features; and then, as suddenly, she pushed me away again as she eyed me dimly. Finally she threw herself upon me in an embrace. "You love me?" she said. "_Do_ you? you who were willing even to quarrel with the Baron at my bidding?" Then she laughed laughed as though something dear, but laughable, had recurred to her memory. Yes, she laughed and wept at the same time. What was I to do? I was like a man in a fever. I remember that she began to say something to me though _what_ I do not know, since she spoke with a feverish lisp, as though she were trying to tell me something very quickly. At intervals, too, she would break off into the smile which I was beginning to dread. "No, no!" she kept repeating. "_You_ are my dear one; _you_ are the man I trust." Again she laid her hands upon my shoulders, and again she gazed at me as she reiterated: "You love me, you love me? Will you _always_ love me?" I could not take my eyes off her. Never before had I seen her in this mood of humility and affection. True, the mood was the outcome of hysteria; but ! All of a sudden she noticed my ardent gaze, and smiled slightly. The next moment, for no apparent reason, she began to talk of Astley. She continued talking and talking about him, but I could not make out all she said more particularly when she was endeavouring to tell me of something or other which had happened recently. On the whole, she appeared to be laughing at Astley, for she kept repeating that he was waiting for her, and did I know whether, even at that moment, he was not standing beneath the window? "Yes, yes, he is there," she said.<\|quote\|>"Open the window, and see if he is not."</\|quote\|>She pushed me in that direction; yet, no sooner did I make a movement to obey her behest than she burst into laughter, and I remained beside her, and she embraced me. "Shall we go away tomorrow?" presently she asked, as though some disturbing thought had recurred to her recollection. "How would it be if we were to try and overtake Grandmamma? I think we should do so at Berlin. And what think you she would have to say to us when we caught her up, and her eyes first lit upon us? What, too, about Mr. Astley? _He_ would not leap from the Shlangenberg for my sake! No! Of that I am very sure!" and she laughed. "Do you know where he is going next year? He says he intends to go to the North Pole for scientific investigations, and has invited me to go with him! Ha, ha, ha! He also says that we Russians know nothing, can do nothing, without European help. But he is a good fellow all the same. For instance, he does not blame the General in the matter, but declares that Mlle. Blanche that love But no; I do not know, I do not know." She stopped suddenly, as though she had said her say, and was feeling bewildered. "What poor creatures these people are. How sorry I am for them, and for Grandmamma! But when are you going to kill De Griers? Surely you do not intend actually to murder him? You fool! Do you suppose that I should _allow_ you to fight De Griers? Nor shall you kill the Baron." Here she burst out laughing. "How absurd you looked when you were talking to the Burmergelms! I was watching you all the time watching you from where I was sitting. And how unwilling you were to go when I sent you! Oh, how I laughed and laughed!" Then she kissed and embraced me again; again she pressed her face to mine with tender passion. Yet I neither saw nor heard her, for my head was in a whirl.... It must have been about seven o clock in the morning when I awoke. Daylight had come, and Polina was sitting by my side a strange expression on her face, as though she had seen a vision and was unable to collect her thoughts. She too had just awoken, and was now staring at the money on the table. My head ached; it felt heavy. I attempted to take Polina s hand, but she pushed me from her, and leapt from the sofa. The dawn was full of mist, for rain had fallen, yet she moved to the window, opened it, and, leaning her elbows upon the window-sill, thrust out her head and shoulders to take the air. In this position did she remain for several minutes, without ever looking round at me, or listening to what I was saying. Into my head there came the uneasy thought: What is to happen now? How is it all to end? Suddenly Polina rose from the window, approached the table, and, looking at me with an expression of infinite aversion, said with lips which quivered with anger: "Well? Are you going to hand me over my fifty thousand francs?" "Polina, you say that _again, again?_" I exclaimed. "You have changed your mind, then? Ha, ha, ha! You are sorry you ever promised them?" On the table where, the previous night, I had counted the money there still was lying the packet of twenty five thousand florins. I handed it to her. "The francs are mine, then, are they? They are mine?" she inquired viciously as she balanced the money in her hands. "Yes; they have _always_ been yours," I said. "Then _take_ your fifty thousand francs!" and she hurled them full in my face. The packet burst as she did so, and the floor became strewed with bank-notes. The instant that the deed was done she rushed from the room. At that moment she cannot have been in her right mind; yet, what was the cause of her temporary aberration I cannot say. For a month past she had been unwell. Yet what had brought about this _present_ condition of mind, above all things, this outburst? Had it come of wounded pride? Had it come of despair over her decision to come to me? Had it come of the fact that, presuming too much on my good fortune, I had seemed to be intending to desert her (even as De Griers had done) when once I had given her the fifty thousand francs? But, on my honour, I had never cherished any such intention. What was at fault, I think, was her own pride, which kept urging her not to trust me, but, rather, to	I love you no more than I do De Griers." Then she buried her face in her hands, and relapsed into hysterics. I darted to her side. Somehow I had an intuition of something having happened to her which had nothing to do with myself. She was like a person temporarily insane. "Buy me, would you, would you? Would you buy me for fifty thousand francs as De Griers did?" she gasped between her convulsive sobs. I clasped her in my arms, kissed her hands and feet, and fell upon my knees before her. Presently the hysterical fit passed away, and, laying her hands upon my shoulders, she gazed for a while into my face, as though trying to read it something I said to her, but it was clear that she did not hear it. Her face looked so dark and despondent that I began to fear for her reason. At length she drew me towards herself a trustful smile playing over her features; and then, as suddenly, she pushed me away again as she eyed me dimly. Finally she threw herself upon me in an embrace. "You love me?" she said. "_Do_ you? you who were willing even to quarrel with the Baron at my bidding?" Then she laughed laughed as though something dear, but laughable, had recurred to her memory. Yes, she laughed and wept at the same time. What was I to do? I was like a man in a fever. I remember that she began to say something to me though _what_ I do not know, since she spoke with a feverish lisp, as though she were trying to tell me something very quickly. At intervals, too, she would break off into the smile which I was beginning to dread. "No, no!" she kept repeating. "_You_ are my dear one; _you_ are the man I trust." Again she laid her hands upon my shoulders, and again she gazed at me as she reiterated: "You love me, you love me? Will you _always_ love me?" I could not take my eyes off her. Never before had I seen her in this mood of humility and affection. True, the mood was the outcome of hysteria; but ! All of a sudden she noticed my ardent gaze, and smiled slightly. The next moment, for no apparent reason, she began to talk of Astley. She continued talking and talking about him, but I could not make out all she said more particularly when she was endeavouring to tell me of something or other which had happened recently. On the whole, she appeared to be laughing at Astley, for she kept repeating that he was waiting for her, and did I know whether, even at that moment, he was not standing beneath the window? "Yes, yes, he is there," she said.<\|quote\|>"Open the window, and see if he is not."</\|quote\|>She pushed me in that direction; yet, no sooner did I make a movement to obey her behest than she burst into laughter, and I remained beside her, and she embraced me. "Shall we go away tomorrow?" presently she asked, as though some disturbing thought had recurred to her recollection. "How would it be if we were to try and overtake Grandmamma? I think we should do so at Berlin. And what think you she would have to say to us when we caught her up, and her eyes first lit upon us? What, too, about Mr. Astley? _He_ would not leap from the Shlangenberg for my sake! No! Of that I am very sure!" and she laughed. "Do you know where he is going next year? He says he intends to go to the North Pole for scientific investigations, and has invited me to go with him! Ha, ha, ha! He also says that we Russians know nothing, can do nothing, without European help. But he is a good fellow all the same. For instance, he does not blame the General in the matter, but declares that Mlle. Blanche that love But no; I do not know, I do not know." She stopped suddenly, as though she had said her say, and was feeling bewildered. "What poor creatures these people are. How sorry I am for them, and for Grandmamma! But when are you going to kill De Griers? Surely you do not intend actually to murder him? You fool! Do you suppose that I should _allow_ you to fight De Griers? Nor shall you kill the Baron." Here she burst out laughing. "How absurd you looked when you were talking to the Burmergelms! I was watching you all the time	The Gambler
asked Poirot.	No speaker	see." "The rooms are locked?"<\|quote\|>asked Poirot.</\|quote\|>"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable."	Poirot everything he wants to see." "The rooms are locked?"<\|quote\|>asked Poirot.</\|quote\|>"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Then he	how to treat him." "That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly. John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me. "Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see." "The rooms are locked?"<\|quote\|>asked Poirot.</\|quote\|>"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us." We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it. [Illustration] Poirot locked the	cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so. "You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?" "Yes. I met him." John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly. "It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him." "That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly. John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me. "Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see." "The rooms are locked?"<\|quote\|>asked Poirot.</\|quote\|>"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us." We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it. [Illustration] Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He darted from one object to the other with the agility of a grasshopper. I remained by the door, fearing to obliterate any clues. Poirot, however, did not seem grateful to me for my forbearance. "What have	not develop until early the next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance, my friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In the meantime, remember it." As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked weary and haggard. "This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said. "Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?" "I comprehend perfectly." "You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon." "Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only." John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so. "You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?" "Yes. I met him." John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly. "It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him." "That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly. John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me. "Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see." "The rooms are locked?"<\|quote\|>asked Poirot.</\|quote\|>"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us." We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it. [Illustration] Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He darted from one object to the other with the agility of a grasshopper. I remained by the door, fearing to obliterate any clues. Poirot, however, did not seem grateful to me for my forbearance. "What have you, my friend," he cried, "that you remain there like how do you say it? ah, yes, the stuck pig?" I explained that I was afraid of obliterating any foot-marks. "Foot-marks? But what an idea! There has already been practically an army in the room! What foot-marks are we likely to find? No, come here and aid me in my search. I will put down my little case until I need it." He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was an ill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted up, and precipitated	would tell me why you wanted to know if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night? I have been turning it over in my mind, but I can't see how it has anything to do with the matter?" He was silent for a minute or two as we walked along, but finally he said: "I do not mind telling you though, as you know, it is not my habit to explain until the end is reached. The present contention is that Mrs. Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning, presumably administered in her coffee." "Yes?" "Well, what time was the coffee served?" "About eight o'clock." "Therefore she drank it between then and half-past eight certainly not much later. Well, strychnine is a fairly rapid poison. Its effects would be felt very soon, probably in about an hour. Yet, in Mrs. Inglethorp's case, the symptoms do not manifest themselves until five o'clock the next morning: nine hours! But a heavy meal, taken at about the same time as the poison, might retard its effects, though hardly to that extent. Still, it is a possibility to be taken into account. But, according to you, she ate very little for supper, and yet the symptoms do not develop until early the next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance, my friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In the meantime, remember it." As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked weary and haggard. "This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said. "Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?" "I comprehend perfectly." "You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon." "Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only." John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so. "You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?" "Yes. I met him." John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly. "It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him." "That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly. John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me. "Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see." "The rooms are locked?"<\|quote\|>asked Poirot.</\|quote\|>"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us." We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it. [Illustration] Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He darted from one object to the other with the agility of a grasshopper. I remained by the door, fearing to obliterate any clues. Poirot, however, did not seem grateful to me for my forbearance. "What have you, my friend," he cried, "that you remain there like how do you say it? ah, yes, the stuck pig?" I explained that I was afraid of obliterating any foot-marks. "Foot-marks? But what an idea! There has already been practically an army in the room! What foot-marks are we likely to find? No, come here and aid me in my search. I will put down my little case until I need it." He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was an ill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted up, and precipitated the despatch-case on the floor. "_Eh voil une table!_" cried Poirot. "Ah, my friend, one may live in a big house and yet have no comfort." After which piece of moralizing, he resumed his search. A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on the writing-table, engaged his attention for some time. He took out the key from the lock, and passed it to me to inspect. I saw nothing peculiar, however. It was an ordinary key of the Yale type, with a bit of twisted wire through the handle. Next, he examined the framework of the door we had broken in, assuring himself that the bolt had really been shot. Then he went to the door opposite leading into Cynthia's room. That door was also bolted, as I had stated. However, he went to the length of unbolting it, and opening and shutting it several times; this he did with the utmost precaution against making any noise. Suddenly something in the bolt itself seemed to rivet his attention. He examined it carefully, and then, nimbly whipping out a pair of small forceps from his case, he drew out some minute particle which he carefully sealed up in	am pleased with you. You have a good memory, and you have given me the facts faithfully. Of the order in which you present them, I say nothing truly, it is deplorable! But I make allowances you are upset. To that I attribute the circumstance that you have omitted one fact of paramount importance." "What is that?" I asked. "You have not told me if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night." I stared at him. Surely the war had affected the little man's brain. He was carefully engaged in brushing his coat before putting it on, and seemed wholly engrossed in the task. "I don't remember," I said. "And, anyway, I don't see" "You do not see? But it is of the first importance." "I can't see why," I said, rather nettled. "As far as I can remember, she didn't eat much. She was obviously upset, and it had taken her appetite away. That was only natural." "Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "it was only natural." He opened a drawer, and took out a small despatch-case, then turned to me. "Now I am ready. We will proceed to the ch teau, and study matters on the spot. Excuse me, _mon ami_, you dressed in haste, and your tie is on one side. Permit me." With a deft gesture, he rearranged it. "_ a y est!_ Now, shall we start?" We hurried up the village, and turned in at the lodge gates. Poirot stopped for a moment, and gazed sorrowfully over the beautiful expanse of park, still glittering with morning dew. "So beautiful, so beautiful, and yet, the poor family, plunged in sorrow, prostrated with grief." He looked at me keenly as he spoke, and I was aware that I reddened under his prolonged gaze. Was the family prostrated by grief? Was the sorrow at Mrs. Inglethorp's death so great? I realized that there was an emotional lack in the atmosphere. The dead woman had not the gift of commanding love. Her death was a shock and a distress, but she would not be passionately regretted. Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts. He nodded his head gravely. "No, you are right," he said, "it is not as though there was a blood tie. She has been kind and generous to these Cavendishes, but she was not their own mother. Blood tells always remember that blood tells." "Poirot," I said, "I wish you would tell me why you wanted to know if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night? I have been turning it over in my mind, but I can't see how it has anything to do with the matter?" He was silent for a minute or two as we walked along, but finally he said: "I do not mind telling you though, as you know, it is not my habit to explain until the end is reached. The present contention is that Mrs. Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning, presumably administered in her coffee." "Yes?" "Well, what time was the coffee served?" "About eight o'clock." "Therefore she drank it between then and half-past eight certainly not much later. Well, strychnine is a fairly rapid poison. Its effects would be felt very soon, probably in about an hour. Yet, in Mrs. Inglethorp's case, the symptoms do not manifest themselves until five o'clock the next morning: nine hours! But a heavy meal, taken at about the same time as the poison, might retard its effects, though hardly to that extent. Still, it is a possibility to be taken into account. But, according to you, she ate very little for supper, and yet the symptoms do not develop until early the next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance, my friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In the meantime, remember it." As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked weary and haggard. "This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said. "Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?" "I comprehend perfectly." "You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon." "Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only." John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so. "You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?" "Yes. I met him." John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly. "It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him." "That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly. John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me. "Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see." "The rooms are locked?"<\|quote\|>asked Poirot.</\|quote\|>"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us." We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it. [Illustration] Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He darted from one object to the other with the agility of a grasshopper. I remained by the door, fearing to obliterate any clues. Poirot, however, did not seem grateful to me for my forbearance. "What have you, my friend," he cried, "that you remain there like how do you say it? ah, yes, the stuck pig?" I explained that I was afraid of obliterating any foot-marks. "Foot-marks? But what an idea! There has already been practically an army in the room! What foot-marks are we likely to find? No, come here and aid me in my search. I will put down my little case until I need it." He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was an ill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted up, and precipitated the despatch-case on the floor. "_Eh voil une table!_" cried Poirot. "Ah, my friend, one may live in a big house and yet have no comfort." After which piece of moralizing, he resumed his search. A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on the writing-table, engaged his attention for some time. He took out the key from the lock, and passed it to me to inspect. I saw nothing peculiar, however. It was an ordinary key of the Yale type, with a bit of twisted wire through the handle. Next, he examined the framework of the door we had broken in, assuring himself that the bolt had really been shot. Then he went to the door opposite leading into Cynthia's room. That door was also bolted, as I had stated. However, he went to the length of unbolting it, and opening and shutting it several times; this he did with the utmost precaution against making any noise. Suddenly something in the bolt itself seemed to rivet his attention. He examined it carefully, and then, nimbly whipping out a pair of small forceps from his case, he drew out some minute particle which he carefully sealed up in a tiny envelope. On the chest of drawers there was a tray with a spirit lamp and a small saucepan on it. A small quantity of a dark fluid remained in the saucepan, and an empty cup and saucer that had been drunk out of stood near it. I wondered how I could have been so unobservant as to overlook this. Here was a clue worth having. Poirot delicately dipped his finger into liquid, and tasted it gingerly. He made a grimace. "Cocoa with I think rum in it." He passed on to the debris on the floor, where the table by the bed had been overturned. A reading-lamp, some books, matches, a bunch of keys, and the crushed fragments of a coffee-cup lay scattered about. "Ah, this is curious," said Poirot. "I must confess that I see nothing particularly curious about it." "You do not? Observe the lamp the chimney is broken in two places; they lie there as they fell. But see, the coffee-cup is absolutely smashed to powder." "Well," I said wearily, "I suppose someone must have stepped on it." "Exactly," said Poirot, in an odd voice. "Someone stepped on it." He rose from his knees, and walked slowly across to the mantelpiece, where he stood abstractedly fingering the ornaments, and straightening them a trick of his when he was agitated. "_Mon ami_," he said, turning to me, "somebody stepped on that cup, grinding it to powder, and the reason they did so was either because it contained strychnine or which is far more serious because it did not contain strychnine!" I made no reply. I was bewildered, but I knew that it was no good asking him to explain. In a moment or two he roused himself, and went on with his investigations. He picked up the bunch of keys from the floor, and twirling them round in his fingers finally selected one, very bright and shining, which he tried in the lock of the purple despatch-case. It fitted, and he opened the box, but after a moment's hesitation, closed and relocked it, and slipped the bunch of keys, as well as the key that had originally stood in the lock, into his own pocket. "I have no authority to go through these papers. But it should be done at once!" He then made a very careful examination of the drawers of the wash-stand. Crossing the	me keenly as he spoke, and I was aware that I reddened under his prolonged gaze. Was the family prostrated by grief? Was the sorrow at Mrs. Inglethorp's death so great? I realized that there was an emotional lack in the atmosphere. The dead woman had not the gift of commanding love. Her death was a shock and a distress, but she would not be passionately regretted. Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts. He nodded his head gravely. "No, you are right," he said, "it is not as though there was a blood tie. She has been kind and generous to these Cavendishes, but she was not their own mother. Blood tells always remember that blood tells." "Poirot," I said, "I wish you would tell me why you wanted to know if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night? I have been turning it over in my mind, but I can't see how it has anything to do with the matter?" He was silent for a minute or two as we walked along, but finally he said: "I do not mind telling you though, as you know, it is not my habit to explain until the end is reached. The present contention is that Mrs. Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning, presumably administered in her coffee." "Yes?" "Well, what time was the coffee served?" "About eight o'clock." "Therefore she drank it between then and half-past eight certainly not much later. Well, strychnine is a fairly rapid poison. Its effects would be felt very soon, probably in about an hour. Yet, in Mrs. Inglethorp's case, the symptoms do not manifest themselves until five o'clock the next morning: nine hours! But a heavy meal, taken at about the same time as the poison, might retard its effects, though hardly to that extent. Still, it is a possibility to be taken into account. But, according to you, she ate very little for supper, and yet the symptoms do not develop until early the next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance, my friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In the meantime, remember it." As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked weary and haggard. "This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said. "Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?" "I comprehend perfectly." "You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon." "Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only." John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so. "You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?" "Yes. I met him." John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly. "It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him." "That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly. John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me. "Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see." "The rooms are locked?"<\|quote\|>asked Poirot.</\|quote\|>"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us." We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it. [Illustration] Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He darted from one object to the other with the agility of a grasshopper. I remained by the door, fearing to obliterate any clues. Poirot, however, did not seem grateful to me for my forbearance. "What have you, my friend," he cried, "that you remain there like how do you say it? ah, yes, the stuck pig?" I explained that I was afraid of obliterating any foot-marks. "Foot-marks? But what an idea! There has already been practically an army in the room! What foot-marks are we likely to find? No, come here and aid me in my search. I will put down my little case until I need it." He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was an ill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted up, and precipitated the despatch-case on the floor. "_Eh voil une table!_" cried Poirot. "Ah, my friend, one may live in a big house and yet have no comfort." After which piece of moralizing, he resumed his search. A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on the writing-table, engaged his attention for some time. He took out the key from the lock, and passed it to me to inspect. I saw nothing peculiar, however. It was an ordinary key of the Yale type, with a bit of twisted wire through the handle. Next, he examined the framework of the door we had broken in, assuring himself that the bolt had really been shot. Then he went to the door opposite leading into Cynthia's room. That door was also bolted, as I had stated. However, he went to the length of unbolting it, and opening and shutting it several times; this he did with the utmost precaution against making any noise. Suddenly something in the bolt itself seemed to rivet his attention. He examined it carefully, and then, nimbly whipping out a pair of small forceps from his case, he drew out some minute particle which he carefully sealed up in a tiny envelope. On the chest of drawers there was a tray with a spirit lamp and a small saucepan on it. A small quantity of a dark fluid remained in the saucepan, and an empty cup and saucer that had been drunk out of stood near it. I wondered how I could have been so unobservant as to overlook this. Here was a clue worth having. Poirot delicately dipped his finger into liquid, and tasted it gingerly. He made a grimace. "Cocoa with I think rum in it." He passed on to the debris on the floor, where the table by the bed had been overturned. A reading-lamp, some books, matches, a bunch of keys, and the crushed fragments of a coffee-cup lay scattered about. "Ah, this is curious," said Poirot. "I must confess that I see nothing particularly curious about it." "You do not? Observe the lamp the chimney is broken in two places; they lie there as they fell. But see, the coffee-cup is absolutely smashed to	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,"	Dorian Gray	some smart women with her."<\|quote\|>"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,"</\|quote\|>said Dorian Gray, half to	s box. She has got some smart women with her."<\|quote\|>"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,"</\|quote\|>said Dorian Gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely	t let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister s box. She has got some smart women with her."<\|quote\|>"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,"</\|quote\|>said Dorian Gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then	is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn t let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister s box. She has got some smart women with her."<\|quote\|>"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,"</\|quote\|>said Dorian Gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go on to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for	she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously." "Harry, Harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. "Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn t let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister s box. She has got some smart women with her."<\|quote\|>"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,"</\|quote\|>said Dorian Gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go on to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was everything to me. Then came that dreadful night was it really only last night? when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But	"It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one s _d but_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one s old age. I suppose they don t know your name at the theatre? If they don t, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point." Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl ? Oh, Harry, I can t bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once." "I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously." "Harry, Harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. "Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn t let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister s box. She has got some smart women with her."<\|quote\|>"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,"</\|quote\|>said Dorian Gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go on to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was everything to me. Then came that dreadful night was it really only last night? when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a bit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly something happened that made me afraid. I can t tell you what it was, but it was terrible. I said I would go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My God! My God! Harry, what shall I do? You don t know the danger I am in, and there is nothing to keep me straight. She would have done that for me. She had no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her." "My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, taking a cigarette from his case and producing a gold-latten matchbox, "the only way a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible interest in life. If you had married this girl, you would have been wretched. Of course, you would have treated her kindly. One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing. But she would have soon found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman finds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy, or wears very smart bonnets that	behind and see her, after the play was over?" "Yes." "I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?" "I was brutal, Harry perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know myself better." "Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours." "I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head and smiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don t sneer at it, Harry, any more at least not before me. I want to be good. I can t bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?" "By marrying Sibyl Vane." "Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian" "Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don t say it. Don t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife." "Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man." "Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian," he said, "my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry s grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?" "It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one s _d but_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one s old age. I suppose they don t know your name at the theatre? If they don t, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point." Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl ? Oh, Harry, I can t bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once." "I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously." "Harry, Harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. "Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn t let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister s box. She has got some smart women with her."<\|quote\|>"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,"</\|quote\|>said Dorian Gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go on to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was everything to me. Then came that dreadful night was it really only last night? when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a bit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly something happened that made me afraid. I can t tell you what it was, but it was terrible. I said I would go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My God! My God! Harry, what shall I do? You don t know the danger I am in, and there is nothing to keep me straight. She would have done that for me. She had no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her." "My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, taking a cigarette from his case and producing a gold-latten matchbox, "the only way a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible interest in life. If you had married this girl, you would have been wretched. Of course, you would have treated her kindly. One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing. But she would have soon found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman finds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy, or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman s husband has to pay for. I say nothing about the social mistake, which would have been abject which, of course, I would not have allowed but I assure you that in any case the whole thing would have been an absolute failure." "I suppose it would," muttered the lad, walking up and down the room and looking horribly pale. "But I thought it was my duty. It is not my fault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was right. I remember your saying once that there is a fatality about good resolutions that they are always made too late. Mine certainly were." "Good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific laws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely _nil_. They give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions that have a certain charm for the weak. That is all that can be said for them. They are simply cheques that men draw on a bank where they have no account." "Harry," cried Dorian Gray, coming over and sitting down beside him, "why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? I don t think I am heartless. Do you?" "You have done too many foolish things during the last fortnight to be entitled to give yourself that name, Dorian," answered Lord Henry with his sweet melancholy smile. The lad frowned. "I don t like that explanation, Harry," he rejoined, "but I am glad you don t think I am heartless. I am nothing of the kind. I know I am not. And yet I must admit that this thing that has happened does not affect me as it should. It seems to me to be simply like a wonderful ending to a wonderful play. It has all the terrible beauty of a Greek tragedy, a tragedy in which I took a great part, but by which I have not been wounded." "It is an interesting question," said Lord Henry, who found an exquisite pleasure in playing on the lad s unconscious egotism, "an extremely interesting question. I fancy that the true explanation is this: It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style. They	remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian," he said, "my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry s grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?" "It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one s _d but_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one s old age. I suppose they don t know your name at the theatre? If they don t, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point." Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl ? Oh, Harry, I can t bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once." "I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously." "Harry, Harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. "Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn t let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister s box. She has got some smart women with her."<\|quote\|>"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,"</\|quote\|>said Dorian Gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go on to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was everything to me. Then came that dreadful night was it really only last night? when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a bit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly something happened that made me afraid. I can t tell you what it was, but it was terrible. I said I would go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My God! My God! Harry, what shall I do? You don t know the danger I am in, and there is nothing to keep me straight. She would have done that for me. She had no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her." "My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, taking a cigarette from his case and producing a gold-latten matchbox, "the only way a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
“This is Mr. Carraway,”	Nick	he would give his name.<\|quote\|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</\|quote\|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded	know who I was before he would give his name.<\|quote\|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</\|quote\|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I	helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.<\|quote\|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</\|quote\|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to	“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.<\|quote\|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</\|quote\|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.”	opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.<\|quote\|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</\|quote\|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d	I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.<\|quote\|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</\|quote\|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of	solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.<\|quote\|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</\|quote\|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest	a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.<\|quote\|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</\|quote\|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had	The Great Gatsby
"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?"	Anne Shirley	"I couldn't," said Marilla grimly.<\|quote\|>"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?"</\|quote\|>asked Anne wide-eyed. "No." "Oh!"	imagine you were my aunt." "I couldn't," said Marilla grimly.<\|quote\|>"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?"</\|quote\|>asked Anne wide-eyed. "No." "Oh!" Anne drew a long breath.	grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can't I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No. I'm not your aunt and I don't believe in calling people names that don't belong to them." "But we could imagine you were my aunt." "I couldn't," said Marilla grimly.<\|quote\|>"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?"</\|quote\|>asked Anne wide-eyed. "No." "Oh!" Anne drew a long breath. "Oh, Miss--Marilla, how much you miss!" "I don't believe in imagining things different from what they really are," retorted Marilla. "When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances He doesn't mean for us to imagine them away. And that reminds	in it if you're careful to speak respectfully. Everybody, young and old, in Avonlea calls me Marilla except the minister. He says Miss Cuthbert--when he thinks of it." "I'd love to call you Aunt Marilla," said Anne wistfully. "I've never had an aunt or any relation at all--not even a grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can't I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No. I'm not your aunt and I don't believe in calling people names that don't belong to them." "But we could imagine you were my aunt." "I couldn't," said Marilla grimly.<\|quote\|>"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?"</\|quote\|>asked Anne wide-eyed. "No." "Oh!" Anne drew a long breath. "Oh, Miss--Marilla, how much you miss!" "I don't believe in imagining things different from what they really are," retorted Marilla. "When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances He doesn't mean for us to imagine them away. And that reminds me. Go into the sitting room, Anne--be sure your feet are clean and don't let any flies in--and bring me out the illustrated card that's on the mantelpiece. The Lord's Prayer is on it and you'll devote your spare time this afternoon to learning it off by heart. There's to	too easily. Yes, you can stay here and we will try to do right by you. You must go to school; but it's only a fortnight till vacation so it isn't worth while for you to start before it opens again in September." "What am I to call you?" asked Anne. "Shall I always say Miss Cuthbert? Can I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No; you'll call me just plain Marilla. I'm not used to being called Miss Cuthbert and it would make me nervous." "It sounds awfully disrespectful to just say Marilla," protested Anne. "I guess there'll be nothing disrespectful in it if you're careful to speak respectfully. Everybody, young and old, in Avonlea calls me Marilla except the minister. He says Miss Cuthbert--when he thinks of it." "I'd love to call you Aunt Marilla," said Anne wistfully. "I've never had an aunt or any relation at all--not even a grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can't I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No. I'm not your aunt and I don't believe in calling people names that don't belong to them." "But we could imagine you were my aunt." "I couldn't," said Marilla grimly.<\|quote\|>"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?"</\|quote\|>asked Anne wide-eyed. "No." "Oh!" Anne drew a long breath. "Oh, Miss--Marilla, how much you miss!" "I don't believe in imagining things different from what they really are," retorted Marilla. "When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances He doesn't mean for us to imagine them away. And that reminds me. Go into the sitting room, Anne--be sure your feet are clean and don't let any flies in--and bring me out the illustrated card that's on the mantelpiece. The Lord's Prayer is on it and you'll devote your spare time this afternoon to learning it off by heart. There's to be no more of such praying as I heard last night." "I suppose I was very awkward," said Anne apologetically, "but then, you see, I'd never had any practice. You couldn't really expect a person to pray very well the first time she tried, could you? I thought out a splendid prayer after I went to bed, just as I promised you I would. It was nearly as long as a minister's and so poetical. But would you believe it? I couldn't remember one word when I woke up this morning. And I'm afraid I'll never be able to think	immovably. "Just go and do it before you ask any more questions, Anne." Anne went and attended to the dishcloth. Then she returned to Marilla and fastened imploring eyes of the latter's face. "Well," said Marilla, unable to find any excuse for deferring her explanation longer, "I suppose I might as well tell you. Matthew and I have decided to keep you--that is, if you will try to be a good little girl and show yourself grateful. Why, child, whatever is the matter?" "I'm crying," said Anne in a tone of bewilderment. "I can't think why. I'm glad as glad can be. Oh, _glad_ doesn't seem the right word at all. I was glad about the White Way and the cherry blossoms--but this! Oh, it's something more than glad. I'm so happy. I'll try to be so good. It will be uphill work, I expect, for Mrs. Thomas often told me I was desperately wicked. However, I'll do my very best. But can you tell me why I'm crying?" "I suppose it's because you're all excited and worked up," said Marilla disapprovingly. "Sit down on that chair and try to calm yourself. I'm afraid you both cry and laugh far too easily. Yes, you can stay here and we will try to do right by you. You must go to school; but it's only a fortnight till vacation so it isn't worth while for you to start before it opens again in September." "What am I to call you?" asked Anne. "Shall I always say Miss Cuthbert? Can I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No; you'll call me just plain Marilla. I'm not used to being called Miss Cuthbert and it would make me nervous." "It sounds awfully disrespectful to just say Marilla," protested Anne. "I guess there'll be nothing disrespectful in it if you're careful to speak respectfully. Everybody, young and old, in Avonlea calls me Marilla except the minister. He says Miss Cuthbert--when he thinks of it." "I'd love to call you Aunt Marilla," said Anne wistfully. "I've never had an aunt or any relation at all--not even a grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can't I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No. I'm not your aunt and I don't believe in calling people names that don't belong to them." "But we could imagine you were my aunt." "I couldn't," said Marilla grimly.<\|quote\|>"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?"</\|quote\|>asked Anne wide-eyed. "No." "Oh!" Anne drew a long breath. "Oh, Miss--Marilla, how much you miss!" "I don't believe in imagining things different from what they really are," retorted Marilla. "When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances He doesn't mean for us to imagine them away. And that reminds me. Go into the sitting room, Anne--be sure your feet are clean and don't let any flies in--and bring me out the illustrated card that's on the mantelpiece. The Lord's Prayer is on it and you'll devote your spare time this afternoon to learning it off by heart. There's to be no more of such praying as I heard last night." "I suppose I was very awkward," said Anne apologetically, "but then, you see, I'd never had any practice. You couldn't really expect a person to pray very well the first time she tried, could you? I thought out a splendid prayer after I went to bed, just as I promised you I would. It was nearly as long as a minister's and so poetical. But would you believe it? I couldn't remember one word when I woke up this morning. And I'm afraid I'll never be able to think out another one as good. Somehow, things never are so good when they're thought out a second time. Have you ever noticed that?" "Here is something for you to notice, Anne. When I tell you to do a thing I want you to obey me at once and not stand stock-still and discourse about it. Just you go and do as I bid you." Anne promptly departed for the sitting-room across the hall; she failed to return; after waiting ten minutes Marilla laid down her knitting and marched after her with a grim expression. She found Anne standing motionless before a picture hanging on the wall between the two windows, with her eyes a-star with dreams. The white and green light strained through apple trees and clustering vines outside fell over the rapt little figure with a half-unearthly radiance. "Anne, whatever are you thinking of?" demanded Marilla sharply. Anne came back to earth with a start. "That," she said, pointing to the picture--a rather vivid chromo entitled, "Christ Blessing Little Children"--" "and I was just imagining I was one of them--that I was the little girl in the blue dress, standing off by herself in the corner as if she	will," said Marilla. "Go to sleep now like a good child. Good night." "I can only say good night tonight with a clear conscience," said Anne, cuddling luxuriously down among her pillows. Marilla retreated to the kitchen, set the candle firmly on the table, and glared at Matthew. "Matthew Cuthbert, it's about time somebody adopted that child and taught her something. She's next door to a perfect heathen. Will you believe that she never said a prayer in her life till tonight? I'll send her to the manse tomorrow and borrow the Peep of the Day series, that's what I'll do. And she shall go to Sunday-school just as soon as I can get some suitable clothes made for her. I foresee that I shall have my hands full. Well, well, we can't get through this world without our share of trouble. I've had a pretty easy life of it so far, but my time has come at last and I suppose I'll just have to make the best of it." CHAPTER VIII. Anne's Bringing-up Is Begun \|FOR reasons best known to herself, Marilla did not tell Anne that she was to stay at Green Gables until the next afternoon. During the forenoon she kept the child busy with various tasks and watched over her with a keen eye while she did them. By noon she had concluded that Anne was smart and obedient, willing to work and quick to learn; her most serious shortcoming seemed to be a tendency to fall into daydreams in the middle of a task and forget all about it until such time as she was sharply recalled to earth by a reprimand or a catastrophe. When Anne had finished washing the dinner dishes she suddenly confronted Marilla with the air and expression of one desperately determined to learn the worst. Her thin little body trembled from head to foot; her face flushed and her eyes dilated until they were almost black; she clasped her hands tightly and said in an imploring voice: "Oh, please, Miss Cuthbert, won't you tell me if you are going to send me away or not? I've tried to be patient all the morning, but I really feel that I cannot bear not knowing any longer. It's a dreadful feeling. Please tell me." "You haven't scalded the dishcloth in clean hot water as I told you to do," said Marilla immovably. "Just go and do it before you ask any more questions, Anne." Anne went and attended to the dishcloth. Then she returned to Marilla and fastened imploring eyes of the latter's face. "Well," said Marilla, unable to find any excuse for deferring her explanation longer, "I suppose I might as well tell you. Matthew and I have decided to keep you--that is, if you will try to be a good little girl and show yourself grateful. Why, child, whatever is the matter?" "I'm crying," said Anne in a tone of bewilderment. "I can't think why. I'm glad as glad can be. Oh, _glad_ doesn't seem the right word at all. I was glad about the White Way and the cherry blossoms--but this! Oh, it's something more than glad. I'm so happy. I'll try to be so good. It will be uphill work, I expect, for Mrs. Thomas often told me I was desperately wicked. However, I'll do my very best. But can you tell me why I'm crying?" "I suppose it's because you're all excited and worked up," said Marilla disapprovingly. "Sit down on that chair and try to calm yourself. I'm afraid you both cry and laugh far too easily. Yes, you can stay here and we will try to do right by you. You must go to school; but it's only a fortnight till vacation so it isn't worth while for you to start before it opens again in September." "What am I to call you?" asked Anne. "Shall I always say Miss Cuthbert? Can I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No; you'll call me just plain Marilla. I'm not used to being called Miss Cuthbert and it would make me nervous." "It sounds awfully disrespectful to just say Marilla," protested Anne. "I guess there'll be nothing disrespectful in it if you're careful to speak respectfully. Everybody, young and old, in Avonlea calls me Marilla except the minister. He says Miss Cuthbert--when he thinks of it." "I'd love to call you Aunt Marilla," said Anne wistfully. "I've never had an aunt or any relation at all--not even a grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can't I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No. I'm not your aunt and I don't believe in calling people names that don't belong to them." "But we could imagine you were my aunt." "I couldn't," said Marilla grimly.<\|quote\|>"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?"</\|quote\|>asked Anne wide-eyed. "No." "Oh!" Anne drew a long breath. "Oh, Miss--Marilla, how much you miss!" "I don't believe in imagining things different from what they really are," retorted Marilla. "When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances He doesn't mean for us to imagine them away. And that reminds me. Go into the sitting room, Anne--be sure your feet are clean and don't let any flies in--and bring me out the illustrated card that's on the mantelpiece. The Lord's Prayer is on it and you'll devote your spare time this afternoon to learning it off by heart. There's to be no more of such praying as I heard last night." "I suppose I was very awkward," said Anne apologetically, "but then, you see, I'd never had any practice. You couldn't really expect a person to pray very well the first time she tried, could you? I thought out a splendid prayer after I went to bed, just as I promised you I would. It was nearly as long as a minister's and so poetical. But would you believe it? I couldn't remember one word when I woke up this morning. And I'm afraid I'll never be able to think out another one as good. Somehow, things never are so good when they're thought out a second time. Have you ever noticed that?" "Here is something for you to notice, Anne. When I tell you to do a thing I want you to obey me at once and not stand stock-still and discourse about it. Just you go and do as I bid you." Anne promptly departed for the sitting-room across the hall; she failed to return; after waiting ten minutes Marilla laid down her knitting and marched after her with a grim expression. She found Anne standing motionless before a picture hanging on the wall between the two windows, with her eyes a-star with dreams. The white and green light strained through apple trees and clustering vines outside fell over the rapt little figure with a half-unearthly radiance. "Anne, whatever are you thinking of?" demanded Marilla sharply. Anne came back to earth with a start. "That," she said, pointing to the picture--a rather vivid chromo entitled, "Christ Blessing Little Children"--" "and I was just imagining I was one of them--that I was the little girl in the blue dress, standing off by herself in the corner as if she didn't belong to anybody, like me. She looks lonely and sad, don't you think? I guess she hadn't any father or mother of her own. But she wanted to be blessed, too, so she just crept shyly up on the outside of the crowd, hoping nobody would notice her--except Him. I'm sure I know just how she felt. Her heart must have beat and her hands must have got cold, like mine did when I asked you if I could stay. She was afraid He mightn't notice her. But it's likely He did, don't you think? I've been trying to imagine it all out--her edging a little nearer all the time until she was quite close to Him; and then He would look at her and put His hand on her hair and oh, such a thrill of joy as would run over her! But I wish the artist hadn't painted Him so sorrowful looking. All His pictures are like that, if you've noticed. But I don't believe He could really have looked so sad or the children would have been afraid of Him." "Anne," said Marilla, wondering why she had not broken into this speech long before, "you shouldn't talk that way. It's irreverent--positively irreverent." Anne's eyes marveled. "Why, I felt just as reverent as could be. I'm sure I didn't mean to be irreverent." "Well I don't suppose you did--but it doesn't sound right to talk so familiarly about such things. And another thing, Anne, when I send you after something you're to bring it at once and not fall into mooning and imagining before pictures. Remember that. Take that card and come right to the kitchen. Now, sit down in the corner and learn that prayer off by heart." Anne set the card up against the jugful of apple blossoms she had brought in to decorate the dinner-table--Marilla had eyed that decoration askance, but had said nothing--propped her chin on her hands, and fell to studying it intently for several silent minutes. "I like this," she announced at length. "It's beautiful. I've heard it before--I heard the superintendent of the asylum Sunday school say it over once. But I didn't like it then. He had such a cracked voice and he prayed it so mournfully. I really felt sure he thought praying was a disagreeable duty. This isn't poetry, but it makes me feel just the same	worst. Her thin little body trembled from head to foot; her face flushed and her eyes dilated until they were almost black; she clasped her hands tightly and said in an imploring voice: "Oh, please, Miss Cuthbert, won't you tell me if you are going to send me away or not? I've tried to be patient all the morning, but I really feel that I cannot bear not knowing any longer. It's a dreadful feeling. Please tell me." "You haven't scalded the dishcloth in clean hot water as I told you to do," said Marilla immovably. "Just go and do it before you ask any more questions, Anne." Anne went and attended to the dishcloth. Then she returned to Marilla and fastened imploring eyes of the latter's face. "Well," said Marilla, unable to find any excuse for deferring her explanation longer, "I suppose I might as well tell you. Matthew and I have decided to keep you--that is, if you will try to be a good little girl and show yourself grateful. Why, child, whatever is the matter?" "I'm crying," said Anne in a tone of bewilderment. "I can't think why. I'm glad as glad can be. Oh, _glad_ doesn't seem the right word at all. I was glad about the White Way and the cherry blossoms--but this! Oh, it's something more than glad. I'm so happy. I'll try to be so good. It will be uphill work, I expect, for Mrs. Thomas often told me I was desperately wicked. However, I'll do my very best. But can you tell me why I'm crying?" "I suppose it's because you're all excited and worked up," said Marilla disapprovingly. "Sit down on that chair and try to calm yourself. I'm afraid you both cry and laugh far too easily. Yes, you can stay here and we will try to do right by you. You must go to school; but it's only a fortnight till vacation so it isn't worth while for you to start before it opens again in September." "What am I to call you?" asked Anne. "Shall I always say Miss Cuthbert? Can I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No; you'll call me just plain Marilla. I'm not used to being called Miss Cuthbert and it would make me nervous." "It sounds awfully disrespectful to just say Marilla," protested Anne. "I guess there'll be nothing disrespectful in it if you're careful to speak respectfully. Everybody, young and old, in Avonlea calls me Marilla except the minister. He says Miss Cuthbert--when he thinks of it." "I'd love to call you Aunt Marilla," said Anne wistfully. "I've never had an aunt or any relation at all--not even a grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can't I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No. I'm not your aunt and I don't believe in calling people names that don't belong to them." "But we could imagine you were my aunt." "I couldn't," said Marilla grimly.<\|quote\|>"Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?"</\|quote\|>asked Anne wide-eyed. "No." "Oh!" Anne drew a long breath. "Oh, Miss--Marilla, how much you miss!" "I don't believe in imagining things different from what they really are," retorted Marilla. "When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances He doesn't mean for us to imagine them away. And that reminds me. Go into the sitting room, Anne--be sure your feet are clean and don't let any flies in--and bring me out the illustrated card that's on the mantelpiece. The Lord's Prayer is on it and you'll devote your spare time this afternoon to learning it off by heart. There's to be no more of such praying as I heard last night." "I suppose I was very awkward," said Anne apologetically, "but then, you see, I'd never had any practice. You couldn't really expect a person to pray very well the first time she tried, could you? I thought out a splendid prayer after I went to bed, just as I promised you I would. It was nearly as long as a minister's and so poetical. But would you believe it? I couldn't remember one word when I woke up this morning. And I'm afraid I'll never be able to think out another one as good. Somehow, things never are so good when they're thought out a second time. Have you ever noticed that?" "Here is something for you to notice, Anne. When I tell you to do a thing I want you to obey me at once and not stand stock-still and discourse about it. Just you go and do as I bid you." Anne promptly departed for the sitting-room across the hall; she failed to return; after waiting ten minutes Marilla laid down her knitting and marched after her with a grim expression. She found Anne standing motionless before a picture hanging on the wall between the two windows, with her eyes a-star with dreams. The white and green light strained through apple trees and clustering vines outside fell over the rapt little figure with a half-unearthly radiance. "Anne, whatever are you thinking of?" demanded Marilla sharply. Anne came back to earth with a start. "That," she said, pointing to the picture--a rather vivid chromo entitled, "Christ Blessing Little Children"--" "and I was just imagining I was	Anne Of Green Gables
"You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."	Bill Gorton	go to hell," Bill said.<\|quote\|>"You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."</\|quote\|>"Where's that beer?" Mike asked.	an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said.<\|quote\|>"You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."</\|quote\|>"Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with	Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said.<\|quote\|>"You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."</\|quote\|>"Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down	the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said.<\|quote\|>"You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."</\|quote\|>"Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can	all. Some one knocked on the door. "Come in." It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed. "Some encierro," Bill said. "Some encierro." "I say, weren't you there?" Mike asked. "Ring for some beer, Bill." "What a morning!" Bill said. He mopped off his face. "My God! what a morning! And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the human punching-bag." "What happened inside?" "Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?" "There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down." "And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said.<\|quote\|>"You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."</\|quote\|>"Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was	with a number of Muratti cigarette-stubs, shoved far back in the drawer of the bed-table that stood beside her bed in the Hotel Montoya, in Pamplona. * * * * * Back in the hotel, the night watchman was sitting on a bench inside the door. He had been there all night and was very sleepy. He stood up as I came in. Three of the waitresses came in at the same time. They had been to the morning show at the bull-ring. They went up-stairs laughing. I followed them up-stairs and went into my room. I took off my shoes and lay down on the bed. The window was open onto the balcony and the sunlight was bright in the room. I did not feel sleepy. It must have been half past three o'clock when I had gone to bed and the bands had waked me at six. My jaw was sore on both sides. I felt it with my thumb and fingers. That damn Cohn. He should have hit somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone away. He was so sure that Brett loved him. He was going to stay, and true love would conquer all. Some one knocked on the door. "Come in." It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed. "Some encierro," Bill said. "Some encierro." "I say, weren't you there?" Mike asked. "Ring for some beer, Bill." "What a morning!" Bill said. He mopped off his face. "My God! what a morning! And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the human punching-bag." "What happened inside?" "Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?" "There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down." "And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said.<\|quote\|>"You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."</\|quote\|>"Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No." "Yes." "What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good." "I'll bet she was," Bill said. "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too." "I know. He shook hands with me." "Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. The bull-fighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been damned funny." "Where did you hear all this?" "Brett. I saw her this morning." "What happened finally?" "It	put his hand on the small of his back. "Right through the back. A cornada right through the back. For fun--you understand." He shook his head and walked away, carrying the coffee-pots. Two men were going by in the street. The waiter shouted to them. They were grave-looking. One shook his head. "Muerto!" he called. The waiter nodded his head. The two men went on. They were on some errand. The waiter came over to my table. "You hear? Muerto. Dead. He's dead. With a horn through him. All for morning fun. Es muy flamenco." "It's bad." "Not for me," the waiter said. "No fun in that for me." Later in the day we learned that the man who was killed was named Vicente Girones, and came from near Tafalla. The next day in the paper we read that he was twenty-eight years old, and had a farm, a wife, and two children. He had continued to come to the fiesta each year after he was married. The next day his wife came in from Tafalla to be with the body, and the day after there was a service in the chapel of San Fermin, and the coffin was carried to the railway-station by members of the dancing and drinking society of Tafalla. The drums marched ahead, and there was music on the fifes, and behind the men who carried the coffin walked the wife and two children. . . . Behind them marched all the members of the dancing and drinking societies of Pamplona, Estella, Tafalla, and Sanguesa who could stay over for the funeral. The coffin was loaded into the baggage-car of the train, and the widow and the two children rode, sitting, all three together, in an open third-class railway-carriage. The train started with a jerk, and then ran smoothly, going down grade around the edge of the plateau and out into the fields of grain that blew in the wind on the plain on the way to Tafalla. The bull who killed Vicente Girones was named Bocanegra, was Number 118 of the bull-breeding establishment of Sanchez Tabemo, and was killed by Pedro Romero as the third bull of that same afternoon. His ear was cut by popular acclamation and given to Pedro Romero, who, in turn, gave it to Brett, who wrapped it in a handkerchief belonging to myself, and left both ear and handkerchief, along with a number of Muratti cigarette-stubs, shoved far back in the drawer of the bed-table that stood beside her bed in the Hotel Montoya, in Pamplona. * * * * * Back in the hotel, the night watchman was sitting on a bench inside the door. He had been there all night and was very sleepy. He stood up as I came in. Three of the waitresses came in at the same time. They had been to the morning show at the bull-ring. They went up-stairs laughing. I followed them up-stairs and went into my room. I took off my shoes and lay down on the bed. The window was open onto the balcony and the sunlight was bright in the room. I did not feel sleepy. It must have been half past three o'clock when I had gone to bed and the bands had waked me at six. My jaw was sore on both sides. I felt it with my thumb and fingers. That damn Cohn. He should have hit somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone away. He was so sure that Brett loved him. He was going to stay, and true love would conquer all. Some one knocked on the door. "Come in." It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed. "Some encierro," Bill said. "Some encierro." "I say, weren't you there?" Mike asked. "Ring for some beer, Bill." "What a morning!" Bill said. He mopped off his face. "My God! what a morning! And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the human punching-bag." "What happened inside?" "Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?" "There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down." "And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said.<\|quote\|>"You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."</\|quote\|>"Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No." "Yes." "What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good." "I'll bet she was," Bill said. "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too." "I know. He shook hands with me." "Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. The bull-fighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been damned funny." "Where did you hear all this?" "Brett. I saw her this morning." "What happened finally?" "It seems the bull-fighter fellow was sitting on the bed. He'd been knocked down about fifteen times, and he wanted to fight some more. Brett held him and wouldn't let him get up. He was weak, but Brett couldn't hold him, and he got up. Then Cohn said he wouldn't hit him again. Said he couldn't do it. Said it would be wicked. So the bull-fighter chap sort of rather staggered over to him. Cohn went back against the wall." "'So you won't hit me?' "'No,' "said Cohn." 'I'd be ashamed to.' "So the bull-fighter fellow hit him just as hard as he could in the face, and then sat down on the floor. He couldn't get up, Brett said. Cohn wanted to pick him up and carry him to the bed. He said if Cohn helped him he'd kill him, and he'd kill him anyway this morning if Cohn wasn't out of town. Cohn was crying, and Brett had told him off, and he wanted to shake hands. I've told you that before." "Tell the rest," Bill said. "It seems the bull-fighter chap was sitting on the floor. He was waiting to get strength enough to get up and hit Cohn again. Brett wasn't having any shaking hands, and Cohn was crying and telling her how much he loved her, and she was telling him not to be a ruddy ass. Then Cohn leaned down to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. No hard feelings, you know. All for forgiveness. And the bull-fighter chap hit him in the face again." "That's quite a kid," Bill said. "He ruined Cohn," Mike said. "You know I don't think Cohn will ever want to knock people about again." "When did you see Brett?" "This morning. She came in to get some things. She's looking after this Romero lad." He poured out another bottle of beer. "Brett's rather cut up. But she loves looking after people. That's how we came to go off together. She was looking after me." "I know," I said. "I'm rather drunk," Mike said. "I think I'll _stay_ rather drunk. This is all awfully amusing, but it's not too pleasant. It's not too pleasant for me." He drank off the beer. "I gave Brett what for, you know. I said if she would go about with Jews and bull-fighters and such people, she must expect trouble." He leaned forward. "I	bull-ring. They went up-stairs laughing. I followed them up-stairs and went into my room. I took off my shoes and lay down on the bed. The window was open onto the balcony and the sunlight was bright in the room. I did not feel sleepy. It must have been half past three o'clock when I had gone to bed and the bands had waked me at six. My jaw was sore on both sides. I felt it with my thumb and fingers. That damn Cohn. He should have hit somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone away. He was so sure that Brett loved him. He was going to stay, and true love would conquer all. Some one knocked on the door. "Come in." It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed. "Some encierro," Bill said. "Some encierro." "I say, weren't you there?" Mike asked. "Ring for some beer, Bill." "What a morning!" Bill said. He mopped off his face. "My God! what a morning! And here's old Jake. Old Jake, the human punching-bag." "What happened inside?" "Good God!" Bill said, "what happened, Mike?" "There were these bulls coming in," Mike said. "Just ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped and brought the whole lot of them down." "And the bulls all came in right over them," Bill said. "I heard them yell." "That was Edna," Bill said. "Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts." "One bull went along the barrera and hooked everybody over." "They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary," Mike said. "What a morning!" Bill said. "The damn police kept arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide with the bulls." "The steers took them in, in the end," Mike said. "It took about an hour." "It was really about a quarter of an hour," Mike objected. "Oh, go to hell," Bill said.<\|quote\|>"You've been in the war. It was two hours and a half for me."</\|quote\|>"Where's that beer?" Mike asked. "What did you do with the lovely Edna?" "We took her home just now. She's gone to bed." "How did she like it?" "Fine. We told her it was just like that every morning." "She was impressed," Mike said. "She wanted us to go down in the ring, too," Bill said. "She likes action." "I said it wouldn't be fair to my creditors," Mike said. "What a morning," Bill said. "And what a night!" "How's your jaw, Jake?" Mike asked. "Sore," I said. Bill laughed. "Why didn't you hit him with a chair?" "You can talk," Mike said. "He'd have knocked you out, too. I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table." "Where did he go afterward?" I asked. "Here she is," Mike said. "Here's the beautiful lady with the beer." The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles and glasses down on the table. "Now bring up three more bottles," Mike said. "Where did Cohn go after he hit me?" I asked Bill. "Don't you know about that?" Mike was opening a beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, holding the glass close to the bottle. "Really?" Bill asked. "Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter chap in the bull-fighter's room, and then he massacred the poor, bloody bull-fighter." "No." "Yes." "What a night!" Bill said. "He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching scene." He took a long drink of the beer. "He is an ass." "What happened?" "Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I think she was rather good." "I'll bet she was," Bill said. "Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to shake hands with Brett, too." "I know. He shook hands with me." "Did he? Well, they weren't having any of it. The bull-fighter fellow was rather good. He didn't say much, but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again. Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been damned funny." "Where did you hear all this?" "Brett. I saw her this morning." "What happened finally?" "It seems the bull-fighter fellow was sitting on the bed. He'd been knocked down about fifteen times, and he wanted to fight some more. Brett held him and wouldn't let him get up. He was weak, but Brett couldn't hold him, and he got up. Then Cohn said he wouldn't hit him again. Said he couldn't do it. Said it would be wicked. So the bull-fighter chap sort of rather staggered over to him. Cohn went back against the wall." "'So you won't hit me?' "'No,' "said Cohn." 'I'd be ashamed to.' "So the bull-fighter fellow hit him just as hard as he could in the face, and then sat down on the floor. He couldn't get up, Brett said. Cohn wanted to pick him up and carry him to the bed. He said if Cohn helped him he'd kill him, and he'd kill him anyway this morning if Cohn wasn't out of town. Cohn was crying, and Brett had told him off, and he wanted to shake hands. I've told you that before." "Tell the rest," Bill said. "It seems the bull-fighter chap was	The Sun Also Rises
"it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,"	Professor De Worms	very clever fellow," he said,<\|quote\|>"it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,"</\|quote\|>and he sank his bald	him steadily. "You are a very clever fellow," he said,<\|quote\|>"it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,"</\|quote\|>and he sank his bald brow in his two hands.	say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried." The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily. "You are a very clever fellow," he said,<\|quote\|>"it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,"</\|quote\|>and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is	speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried." The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily. "You are a very clever fellow," he said,<\|quote\|>"it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,"</\|quote\|>and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is lifted." After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands "It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter." "Thank you," said Syme, "you flatter me." "Listen to me," said the other, "and remember whom we have to see tomorrow.	and drained his glass. CHAPTER IX. THE MAN IN SPECTACLES "Burgundy is a jolly thing," said the Professor sadly, as he set his glass down. "You don't look as if it were," said Syme; "you drink it as if it were medicine." "You must excuse my manner," said the Professor dismally, "my position is rather a curious one. Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can't leave off. So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can't help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried." The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily. "You are a very clever fellow," he said,<\|quote\|>"it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,"</\|quote\|>and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is lifted." After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands "It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter." "Thank you," said Syme, "you flatter me." "Listen to me," said the other, "and remember whom we have to see tomorrow. You and I are going tomorrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower. We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man. I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in goggles. He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is	a high German accent," Yes, I am wanted by the oppressed of the world. You are arresting me on the charge of being the great anarchist, Professor de Worms.' "The policeman impassively consulted a paper in his hand," No, sir,' "he said civilly," at least, not exactly, sir. I am arresting you on the charge of not being the celebrated anarchist, Professor de Worms.' "This charge, if it was criminal at all, was certainly the lighter of the two, and I went along with the man, doubtful, but not greatly dismayed. I was shown into a number of rooms, and eventually into the presence of a police officer, who explained that a serious campaign had been opened against the centres of anarchy, and that this, my successful masquerade, might be of considerable value to the public safety. He offered me a good salary and this little blue card. Though our conversation was short, he struck me as a man of very massive common sense and humour; but I cannot tell you much about him personally, because" Syme laid down his knife and fork. "I know," he said, "because you talked to him in a dark room." Professor de Worms nodded and drained his glass. CHAPTER IX. THE MAN IN SPECTACLES "Burgundy is a jolly thing," said the Professor sadly, as he set his glass down. "You don't look as if it were," said Syme; "you drink it as if it were medicine." "You must excuse my manner," said the Professor dismally, "my position is rather a curious one. Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can't leave off. So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can't help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried." The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily. "You are a very clever fellow," he said,<\|quote\|>"it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,"</\|quote\|>and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is lifted." After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands "It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter." "Thank you," said Syme, "you flatter me." "Listen to me," said the other, "and remember whom we have to see tomorrow. You and I are going tomorrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower. We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man. I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in goggles. He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is almost a redeeming trait. But the little Doctor has a brutal sanity that is more shocking than the Secretary's disease. Don't you notice his detestable virility and vitality. He bounces like an india-rubber ball. Depend on it, Sunday was not asleep (I wonder if he ever sleeps?) when he locked up all the plans of this outrage in the round, black head of Dr. Bull." "And you think," said Syme, "that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?" "Don't be an ass," said his mentor. "I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers like this, see," and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table "B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require." Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did	was. Then he tried to blast my claims intellectually. I countered that by a very simple dodge. Whenever he said something that nobody but he could understand, I replied with something which I could not even understand myself." I don't fancy,' "he said," that you could have worked out the principle that evolution is only negation, since there inheres in it the introduction of lacuna, which are an essential of differentiation.' "I replied quite scornfully," You read all that up in Pinckwerts; the notion that involution functioned eugenically was exposed long ago by Glumpe.' "It is unnecessary for me to say that there never were such people as Pinckwerts and Glumpe. But the people all round (rather to my surprise) seemed to remember them quite well, and the Professor, finding that the learned and mysterious method left him rather at the mercy of an enemy slightly deficient in scruples, fell back upon a more popular form of wit." I see,' "he sneered," you prevail like the false pig in sop.' And you fail,' "I answered, smiling," like the hedgehog in Montaigne.' "Need I say that there is no hedgehog in Montaigne?" Your claptrap comes off,' "he said;" so would your beard.' "I had no intelligent answer to this, which was quite true and rather witty. But I laughed heartily, answered," Like the Pantheist's boots,' "at random, and turned on my heel with all the honours of victory. The real Professor was thrown out, but not with violence, though one man tried very patiently to pull off his nose. He is now, I believe, received everywhere in Europe as a delightful impostor. His apparent earnestness and anger, you see, make him all the more entertaining." "Well," said Syme, "I can understand your putting on his dirty old beard for a night's practical joke, but I don't understand your never taking it off again." "That is the rest of the story," said the impersonator. "When I myself left the company, followed by reverent applause, I went limping down the dark street, hoping that I should soon be far enough away to be able to walk like a human being. To my astonishment, as I was turning the corner, I felt a touch on the shoulder, and turning, found myself under the shadow of an enormous policeman. He told me I was wanted. I struck a sort of paralytic attitude, and cried in a high German accent," Yes, I am wanted by the oppressed of the world. You are arresting me on the charge of being the great anarchist, Professor de Worms.' "The policeman impassively consulted a paper in his hand," No, sir,' "he said civilly," at least, not exactly, sir. I am arresting you on the charge of not being the celebrated anarchist, Professor de Worms.' "This charge, if it was criminal at all, was certainly the lighter of the two, and I went along with the man, doubtful, but not greatly dismayed. I was shown into a number of rooms, and eventually into the presence of a police officer, who explained that a serious campaign had been opened against the centres of anarchy, and that this, my successful masquerade, might be of considerable value to the public safety. He offered me a good salary and this little blue card. Though our conversation was short, he struck me as a man of very massive common sense and humour; but I cannot tell you much about him personally, because" Syme laid down his knife and fork. "I know," he said, "because you talked to him in a dark room." Professor de Worms nodded and drained his glass. CHAPTER IX. THE MAN IN SPECTACLES "Burgundy is a jolly thing," said the Professor sadly, as he set his glass down. "You don't look as if it were," said Syme; "you drink it as if it were medicine." "You must excuse my manner," said the Professor dismally, "my position is rather a curious one. Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can't leave off. So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can't help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried." The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily. "You are a very clever fellow," he said,<\|quote\|>"it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,"</\|quote\|>and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is lifted." After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands "It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter." "Thank you," said Syme, "you flatter me." "Listen to me," said the other, "and remember whom we have to see tomorrow. You and I are going tomorrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower. We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man. I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in goggles. He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is almost a redeeming trait. But the little Doctor has a brutal sanity that is more shocking than the Secretary's disease. Don't you notice his detestable virility and vitality. He bounces like an india-rubber ball. Depend on it, Sunday was not asleep (I wonder if he ever sleeps?) when he locked up all the plans of this outrage in the round, black head of Dr. Bull." "And you think," said Syme, "that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?" "Don't be an ass," said his mentor. "I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers like this, see," and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table "B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require." Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee. But wine and companionship had always the effect of inspiring him to a farcical ingenuity, and the Professor soon found himself struggling with the too vast energy of the new language, as it passed through the heated brain of Syme. "We must have several word-signs," said Syme seriously "words that we are likely to want, fine shades of meaning. My favourite word is coeval'. What's yours?" "Do stop playing the goat," said the Professor plaintively. "You don't know how serious this is." "Lush' too," said Syme, shaking his head sagaciously, "we must have lush' word applied to grass, don't you know?" "Do you imagine," asked the Professor furiously, "that we are going to talk to Dr. Bull about grass?" "There are several ways in which the subject could be approached," said Syme reflectively, "and the word introduced without appearing forced. We might say, Dr. Bull, as a revolutionist, you remember that a tyrant once advised us to eat grass; and indeed many of us, looking on the fresh lush grass of summer...'" "Do you understand," said the other, "that this is a tragedy?" "Perfectly," replied Syme; "always be comic in a tragedy. What the deuce else can you do? I wish this language of yours had a wider scope. I suppose we could not extend it from the fingers to the toes? That would involve pulling off our boots and socks during the conversation, which however unobtrusively performed" "Syme," said his friend with a stern simplicity, "go to bed!" Syme, however, sat up in bed for a considerable time mastering the new code. He was awakened next morning while the east was still sealed with darkness, and found his grey-bearded ally standing like a ghost beside his bed. Syme sat up in bed blinking; then slowly collected his thoughts, threw off the bed-clothes, and stood up. It seemed to him in some curious way that all the safety and sociability of the night before fell with the bedclothes off him, and he stood up in an air of cold danger. He still felt an entire trust and loyalty towards his companion; but it was the trust between two men going to the scaffold. "Well," said Syme with a forced cheerfulness as he pulled on his	I went along with the man, doubtful, but not greatly dismayed. I was shown into a number of rooms, and eventually into the presence of a police officer, who explained that a serious campaign had been opened against the centres of anarchy, and that this, my successful masquerade, might be of considerable value to the public safety. He offered me a good salary and this little blue card. Though our conversation was short, he struck me as a man of very massive common sense and humour; but I cannot tell you much about him personally, because" Syme laid down his knife and fork. "I know," he said, "because you talked to him in a dark room." Professor de Worms nodded and drained his glass. CHAPTER IX. THE MAN IN SPECTACLES "Burgundy is a jolly thing," said the Professor sadly, as he set his glass down. "You don't look as if it were," said Syme; "you drink it as if it were medicine." "You must excuse my manner," said the Professor dismally, "my position is rather a curious one. Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can't leave off. So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can't help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried." The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily. "You are a very clever fellow," he said,<\|quote\|>"it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,"</\|quote\|>and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is lifted." After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands "It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter." "Thank you," said Syme, "you flatter me." "Listen to me," said the other, "and remember whom we have to see tomorrow. You and I are going tomorrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower. We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man. I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in goggles. He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is almost a redeeming trait. But the little Doctor has a brutal sanity that is more shocking than the Secretary's disease. Don't you notice his detestable virility and vitality. He bounces like an india-rubber ball. Depend on it, Sunday was not asleep (I wonder if he ever sleeps?) when he locked up all the plans of this outrage in the round, black head of Dr. Bull." "And you think," said Syme, "that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?" "Don't be an ass," said his mentor. "I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers like this, see," and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table "B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require." Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee.	The Man Who Was Thursday
So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.	No speaker	over quite often—in the afternoons.”<\|quote\|>So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.</\|quote\|>“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted	who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.”<\|quote\|>So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.</\|quote\|>“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re	the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all. Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. “Going away?” I inquired. “No, old sport.” “I hear you fired all your servants.” “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.”<\|quote\|>So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.</\|quote\|>“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.” “I see.” He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned	had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all. Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. “Going away?” I inquired. “No, old sport.” “I hear you fired all your servants.” “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.”<\|quote\|>So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.</\|quote\|>“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.” “I see.” He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden. The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of	I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door. “Is Mr. Gatsby sick?” “Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way. “I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over.” “Who?” he demanded rudely. “Carraway.” “Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.” Abruptly he slammed the door. My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all. Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. “Going away?” I inquired. “No, old sport.” “I hear you fired all your servants.” “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.”<\|quote\|>So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.</\|quote\|>“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.” “I see.” He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden. The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocketbook slapped to the floor. “Oh, my!” she gasped. I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it at arm’s length and	milk of wonder. His heart beat faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete. Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something—an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever. VII It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door. “Is Mr. Gatsby sick?” “Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way. “I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over.” “Who?” he demanded rudely. “Carraway.” “Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.” Abruptly he slammed the door. My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all. Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. “Going away?” I inquired. “No, old sport.” “I hear you fired all your servants.” “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.”<\|quote\|>So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.</\|quote\|>“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.” “I see.” He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden. The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocketbook slapped to the floor. “Oh, my!” she gasped. I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that I had no designs upon it—but everyone near by, including the woman, suspected me just the same. “Hot!” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Some weather! … Hot! … Hot! … Hot! … Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it … ?” My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand. That anyone should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made damp the pyjama pocket over his heart! … Through the hall of the Buchanans’ house blew a faint wind, carrying the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we waited at the door. “The master’s body?” roared the butler into the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, madame, but we can’t furnish it—it’s far too hot to touch this noon!” What he really said was: “Yes … Yes … I’ll see.” He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to take our stiff straw hats. “Madame expects you in the salon!” he cried, needlessly indicating the direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the common store of	the dance?” “The dance?” He dismissed all the dances he had given with a snap of his fingers. “Old sport, the dance is unimportant.” He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say: “I never loved you.” After she had obliterated four years with that sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back to Louisville and be married from her house—just as if it were five years ago. “And she doesn’t understand,” he said. “She used to be able to understand. We’d sit for hours—” He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit rinds and discarded favours and crushed flowers. “I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” I ventured. “You can’t repeat the past.” “Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you can!” He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand. “I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before,” he said, nodding determinedly. “She’ll see.” He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was … … One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder. His heart beat faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete. Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something—an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever. VII It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door. “Is Mr. Gatsby sick?” “Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way. “I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over.” “Who?” he demanded rudely. “Carraway.” “Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.” Abruptly he slammed the door. My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all. Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. “Going away?” I inquired. “No, old sport.” “I hear you fired all your servants.” “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.”<\|quote\|>So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.</\|quote\|>“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.” “I see.” He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden. The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocketbook slapped to the floor. “Oh, my!” she gasped. I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that I had no designs upon it—but everyone near by, including the woman, suspected me just the same. “Hot!” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Some weather! … Hot! … Hot! … Hot! … Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it … ?” My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand. That anyone should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made damp the pyjama pocket over his heart! … Through the hall of the Buchanans’ house blew a faint wind, carrying the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we waited at the door. “The master’s body?” roared the butler into the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, madame, but we can’t furnish it—it’s far too hot to touch this noon!” What he really said was: “Yes … Yes … I’ll see.” He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to take our stiff straw hats. “Madame expects you in the salon!” he cried, needlessly indicating the direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the common store of life. The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols weighing down their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans. “We can’t move,” they said together. Jordan’s fingers, powdered white over their tan, rested for a moment in mine. “And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?” I inquired. Simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, at the hall telephone. Gatsby stood in the centre of the crimson carpet and gazed around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air. “The rumour is,” whispered Jordan, “that that’s Tom’s girl on the telephone.” We were silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance: “Very well, then, I won’t sell you the car at all … I’m under no obligations to you at all … and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I won’t stand that at all!” “Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically. “No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to know about it.” Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room. “Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir … Nick …” “Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy. As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth. “You know I love you,” she murmured. “You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan. Daisy looked around doubtfully. “You kiss Nick too.” “What a low, vulgar girl!” “I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms. “Come to your own mother that loves you.” The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he	go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was … … One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder. His heart beat faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete. Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something—an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever. VII It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door. “Is Mr. Gatsby sick?” “Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way. “I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over.” “Who?” he demanded rudely. “Carraway.” “Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.” Abruptly he slammed the door. My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all. Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. “Going away?” I inquired. “No, old sport.” “I hear you fired all your servants.” “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.”<\|quote\|>So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.</\|quote\|>“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.” “I see.” He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden. The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocketbook slapped to the floor. “Oh, my!” she gasped. I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that I had no designs upon it—but everyone near by, including the woman, suspected me just the same. “Hot!” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Some weather! … Hot! … Hot! … Hot! … Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it … ?” My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand. That anyone should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made damp the pyjama pocket over his heart! … Through the hall of the Buchanans’ house blew a faint wind, carrying the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we waited at the door. “The master’s body?” roared the butler into the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, madame, but we can’t furnish it—it’s far too hot to touch this noon!” What he really said was: “Yes … Yes … I’ll see.” He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to take our stiff straw hats. “Madame expects you in the salon!” he cried, needlessly indicating the direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the common store of life. The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols weighing down their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans. “We can’t move,” they said together.	The Great Gatsby
Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second.	No speaker	panted. “No friends any more!”<\|quote\|>Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second.</\|quote\|>“Well, you’re a damned ungrateful	Jake and Jim Burden,” Ántonia panted. “No friends any more!”<\|quote\|>Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second.</\|quote\|>“Well, you’re a damned ungrateful lot, the whole pack of	Jim,” he called. Mrs. Shimerda threw her hands over her head and clutched as if she were going to pull down lightning. “Law, law!” she shrieked after us. “Law for knock my Ambrosch down!” “I never like you no more, Jake and Jim Burden,” Ántonia panted. “No friends any more!”<\|quote\|>Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second.</\|quote\|>“Well, you’re a damned ungrateful lot, the whole pack of you,” he shouted back. “I guess the Burdens can get along without you. You’ve been a sight of trouble to them, anyhow!” We rode away, feeling so outraged that the fine morning was spoiled for us. I had n’t a	not take the path around the pond, but plunged through the muddy water, without even lifting their skirts. They came on, screaming and clawing the air. By this time Ambrosch had come to his senses and was sputtering with nose-bleed. Jake sprang into his saddle. “Let’s get out of this, Jim,” he called. Mrs. Shimerda threw her hands over her head and clutched as if she were going to pull down lightning. “Law, law!” she shrieked after us. “Law for knock my Ambrosch down!” “I never like you no more, Jake and Jim Burden,” Ántonia panted. “No friends any more!”<\|quote\|>Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second.</\|quote\|>“Well, you’re a damned ungrateful lot, the whole pack of you,” he shouted back. “I guess the Burdens can get along without you. You’ve been a sight of trouble to them, anyhow!” We rode away, feeling so outraged that the fine morning was spoiled for us. I had n’t a word to say, and poor Jake was white as paper and trembling all over. It made him sick to get so angry. “They ain’t the same, Jimmy,” he kept saying in a hurt tone. “These foreigners ain’t the same. You can’t trust ’em to be fair. It’s dirty to kick	caught him by the belt of his trousers and yanked him back. Ambrosch’s feet had scarcely touched the ground when he lunged out with a vicious kick at Jake’s stomach. Fortunately Jake was in such a position that he could dodge it. This was not the sort of thing country boys did when they played at fisticuffs, and Jake was furious. He landed Ambrosch a blow on the head—it sounded like the crack of an axe on a cow-pumpkin. Ambrosch dropped over, stunned. We heard squeals, and looking up saw Ántonia and her mother coming on the run. They did not take the path around the pond, but plunged through the muddy water, without even lifting their skirts. They came on, screaming and clawing the air. By this time Ambrosch had come to his senses and was sputtering with nose-bleed. Jake sprang into his saddle. “Let’s get out of this, Jim,” he called. Mrs. Shimerda threw her hands over her head and clutched as if she were going to pull down lightning. “Law, law!” she shrieked after us. “Law for knock my Ambrosch down!” “I never like you no more, Jake and Jim Burden,” Ántonia panted. “No friends any more!”<\|quote\|>Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second.</\|quote\|>“Well, you’re a damned ungrateful lot, the whole pack of you,” he shouted back. “I guess the Burdens can get along without you. You’ve been a sight of trouble to them, anyhow!” We rode away, feeling so outraged that the fine morning was spoiled for us. I had n’t a word to say, and poor Jake was white as paper and trembling all over. It made him sick to get so angry. “They ain’t the same, Jimmy,” he kept saying in a hurt tone. “These foreigners ain’t the same. You can’t trust ’em to be fair. It’s dirty to kick a feller. You heard how the women turned on you—and after all we went through on account of ’em last winter! They ain’t to be trusted. I don’t want to see you get too thick with any of ’em.” “I’ll never be friends with them again, Jake,” I declared hotly. “I believe they are all like Krajiek and Ambrosch underneath.” Grandfather heard our story with a twinkle in his eye. He advised Jake to ride to town to-morrow, go to a justice of the peace, tell him he had knocked young Shimerda down, and pay his fine. Then if Mrs.	draw-head. Ambrosch was up on the windmill tower, oiling the wheel. He came down, not very cordially. When Jake asked for the collar, he grunted and scratched his head. The collar belonged to grandfather, of course, and Jake, feeling responsible for it, flared up. “Now, don’t you say you have n’t got it, Ambrosch, because I know you have, and if you ain’t a-going to look for it, I will.” Ambrosch shrugged his shoulders and sauntered down the hill toward the stable. I could see that it was one of his mean days. Presently he returned, carrying a collar that had been badly used—trampled in the dirt and gnawed by rats until the hair was sticking out of it. “This what you want?” he asked surlily. Jake jumped off his horse. I saw a wave of red come up under the rough stubble on his face. “That ain’t the piece of harness I loaned you, Ambrosch; or if it is, you’ve used it shameful. I ain’t a-going to carry such a looking thing back to Mr. Burden.” Ambrosch dropped the collar on the ground. “All right,” he said coolly, took up his oil-can, and began to climb the mill. Jake caught him by the belt of his trousers and yanked him back. Ambrosch’s feet had scarcely touched the ground when he lunged out with a vicious kick at Jake’s stomach. Fortunately Jake was in such a position that he could dodge it. This was not the sort of thing country boys did when they played at fisticuffs, and Jake was furious. He landed Ambrosch a blow on the head—it sounded like the crack of an axe on a cow-pumpkin. Ambrosch dropped over, stunned. We heard squeals, and looking up saw Ántonia and her mother coming on the run. They did not take the path around the pond, but plunged through the muddy water, without even lifting their skirts. They came on, screaming and clawing the air. By this time Ambrosch had come to his senses and was sputtering with nose-bleed. Jake sprang into his saddle. “Let’s get out of this, Jim,” he called. Mrs. Shimerda threw her hands over her head and clutched as if she were going to pull down lightning. “Law, law!” she shrieked after us. “Law for knock my Ambrosch down!” “I never like you no more, Jake and Jim Burden,” Ántonia panted. “No friends any more!”<\|quote\|>Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second.</\|quote\|>“Well, you’re a damned ungrateful lot, the whole pack of you,” he shouted back. “I guess the Burdens can get along without you. You’ve been a sight of trouble to them, anyhow!” We rode away, feeling so outraged that the fine morning was spoiled for us. I had n’t a word to say, and poor Jake was white as paper and trembling all over. It made him sick to get so angry. “They ain’t the same, Jimmy,” he kept saying in a hurt tone. “These foreigners ain’t the same. You can’t trust ’em to be fair. It’s dirty to kick a feller. You heard how the women turned on you—and after all we went through on account of ’em last winter! They ain’t to be trusted. I don’t want to see you get too thick with any of ’em.” “I’ll never be friends with them again, Jake,” I declared hotly. “I believe they are all like Krajiek and Ambrosch underneath.” Grandfather heard our story with a twinkle in his eye. He advised Jake to ride to town to-morrow, go to a justice of the peace, tell him he had knocked young Shimerda down, and pay his fine. Then if Mrs. Shimerda was inclined to make trouble—her son was still under age—she would be forestalled. Jake said he might as well take the wagon and haul to market the pig he had been fattening. On Monday, about an hour after Jake had started, we saw Mrs. Shimerda and her Ambrosch proudly driving by, looking neither to the right nor left. As they rattled out of sight down the Black Hawk road, grandfather chuckled, saying he had rather expected she would follow the matter up. Jake paid his fine with a ten-dollar bill grandfather had given him for that purpose. But when the Shimerdas found that Jake sold his pig in town that day, Ambrosch worked it out in his shrewd head that Jake had to sell his pig to pay his fine. This theory afforded the Shimerdas great satisfaction, apparently. For weeks afterward, whenever Jake and I met Ántonia on her way to the post-office, or going along the road with her work-team, she would clap her hands and call to us in a spiteful, crowing voice:— “Jake-y, Jake-y, sell the pig and pay the slap!” Otto pretended not to be surprised at Ántonia’s behavior. He only lifted his brows and	On Sundays she helped her mother make garden or sewed all day. Grandfather was pleased with Ántonia. When we complained of her, he only smiled and said, “She will help some fellow get ahead in the world.” Nowadays Tony could talk of nothing but the prices of things, or how much she could lift and endure. She was too proud of her strength. I knew, too, that Ambrosch put upon her some chores a girl ought not to do, and that the farmhands around the country joked in a nasty way about it. Whenever I saw her come up the furrow, shouting to her beasts, sunburned, sweaty, her dress open at the neck, and her throat and chest dust-plastered, I used to think of the tone in which poor Mr. Shimerda, who could say so little, yet managed to say so much when he exclaimed, “My Án-tonia!” XVIII AFTER I began to go to the country school, I saw less of the Bohemians. We were sixteen pupils at the sod schoolhouse, and we all came on horseback and brought our dinner. My schoolmates were none of them very interesting, but I somehow felt that by making comrades of them I was getting even with Ántonia for her indifference. Since the father’s death, Ambrosch was more than ever the head of the house and he seemed to direct the feelings as well as the fortunes of his women-folk. Ántonia often quoted his opinions to me, and she let me see that she admired him, while she thought of me only as a little boy. Before the spring was over, there was a distinct coldness between us and the Shimerdas. It came about in this way. One Sunday I rode over there with Jake to get a horse-collar which Ambrosch had borrowed from him and had not returned. It was a beautiful blue morning. The buffalo-peas were blooming in pink and purple masses along the roadside, and the larks, perched on last year’s dried sunflower stalks, were singing straight at the sun, their heads thrown back and their yellow breasts a-quiver. The wind blew about us in warm, sweet gusts. We rode slowly, with a pleasant sense of Sunday indolence. We found the Shimerdas working just as if it were a week-day. Marek was cleaning out the stable, and Ántonia and her mother were making garden, off across the pond in the draw-head. Ambrosch was up on the windmill tower, oiling the wheel. He came down, not very cordially. When Jake asked for the collar, he grunted and scratched his head. The collar belonged to grandfather, of course, and Jake, feeling responsible for it, flared up. “Now, don’t you say you have n’t got it, Ambrosch, because I know you have, and if you ain’t a-going to look for it, I will.” Ambrosch shrugged his shoulders and sauntered down the hill toward the stable. I could see that it was one of his mean days. Presently he returned, carrying a collar that had been badly used—trampled in the dirt and gnawed by rats until the hair was sticking out of it. “This what you want?” he asked surlily. Jake jumped off his horse. I saw a wave of red come up under the rough stubble on his face. “That ain’t the piece of harness I loaned you, Ambrosch; or if it is, you’ve used it shameful. I ain’t a-going to carry such a looking thing back to Mr. Burden.” Ambrosch dropped the collar on the ground. “All right,” he said coolly, took up his oil-can, and began to climb the mill. Jake caught him by the belt of his trousers and yanked him back. Ambrosch’s feet had scarcely touched the ground when he lunged out with a vicious kick at Jake’s stomach. Fortunately Jake was in such a position that he could dodge it. This was not the sort of thing country boys did when they played at fisticuffs, and Jake was furious. He landed Ambrosch a blow on the head—it sounded like the crack of an axe on a cow-pumpkin. Ambrosch dropped over, stunned. We heard squeals, and looking up saw Ántonia and her mother coming on the run. They did not take the path around the pond, but plunged through the muddy water, without even lifting their skirts. They came on, screaming and clawing the air. By this time Ambrosch had come to his senses and was sputtering with nose-bleed. Jake sprang into his saddle. “Let’s get out of this, Jim,” he called. Mrs. Shimerda threw her hands over her head and clutched as if she were going to pull down lightning. “Law, law!” she shrieked after us. “Law for knock my Ambrosch down!” “I never like you no more, Jake and Jim Burden,” Ántonia panted. “No friends any more!”<\|quote\|>Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second.</\|quote\|>“Well, you’re a damned ungrateful lot, the whole pack of you,” he shouted back. “I guess the Burdens can get along without you. You’ve been a sight of trouble to them, anyhow!” We rode away, feeling so outraged that the fine morning was spoiled for us. I had n’t a word to say, and poor Jake was white as paper and trembling all over. It made him sick to get so angry. “They ain’t the same, Jimmy,” he kept saying in a hurt tone. “These foreigners ain’t the same. You can’t trust ’em to be fair. It’s dirty to kick a feller. You heard how the women turned on you—and after all we went through on account of ’em last winter! They ain’t to be trusted. I don’t want to see you get too thick with any of ’em.” “I’ll never be friends with them again, Jake,” I declared hotly. “I believe they are all like Krajiek and Ambrosch underneath.” Grandfather heard our story with a twinkle in his eye. He advised Jake to ride to town to-morrow, go to a justice of the peace, tell him he had knocked young Shimerda down, and pay his fine. Then if Mrs. Shimerda was inclined to make trouble—her son was still under age—she would be forestalled. Jake said he might as well take the wagon and haul to market the pig he had been fattening. On Monday, about an hour after Jake had started, we saw Mrs. Shimerda and her Ambrosch proudly driving by, looking neither to the right nor left. As they rattled out of sight down the Black Hawk road, grandfather chuckled, saying he had rather expected she would follow the matter up. Jake paid his fine with a ten-dollar bill grandfather had given him for that purpose. But when the Shimerdas found that Jake sold his pig in town that day, Ambrosch worked it out in his shrewd head that Jake had to sell his pig to pay his fine. This theory afforded the Shimerdas great satisfaction, apparently. For weeks afterward, whenever Jake and I met Ántonia on her way to the post-office, or going along the road with her work-team, she would clap her hands and call to us in a spiteful, crowing voice:— “Jake-y, Jake-y, sell the pig and pay the slap!” Otto pretended not to be surprised at Ántonia’s behavior. He only lifted his brows and said, “You can’t tell me anything new about a Czech; I’m an Austrian.” Grandfather was never a party to what Jake called our feud with the Shimerdas. Ambrosch and Ántonia always greeted him respectfully, and he asked them about their affairs and gave them advice as usual. He thought the future looked hopeful for them. Ambrosch was a far-seeing fellow; he soon realized that his oxen were too heavy for any work except breaking sod, and he succeeded in selling them to a newly arrived German. With the money he bought another team of horses, which grandfather selected for him. Marek was strong, and Ambrosch worked him hard; but he could never teach him to cultivate corn, I remember. The one idea that had ever got through poor Marek’s thick head was that all exertion was meritorious. He always bore down on the handles of the cultivator and drove the blades so deep into the earth that the horses were soon exhausted. In June Ambrosch went to work at Mr. Bushy’s for a week, and took Marek with him at full wages. Mrs. Shimerda then drove the second cultivator; she and Ántonia worked in the fields all day and did the chores at night. While the two women were running the place alone, one of the new horses got colic and gave them a terrible fright. Ántonia had gone down to the barn one night to see that all was well before she went to bed, and she noticed that one of the roans was swollen about the middle and stood with its head hanging. She mounted another horse, without waiting to saddle him, and hammered on our door just as we were going to bed. Grandfather answered her knock. He did not send one of his men, but rode back with her himself, taking a syringe and an old piece of carpet he kept for hot applications when our horses were sick. He found Mrs. Shimerda sitting by the horse with her lantern, groaning and wringing her hands. It took but a few moments to release the gases pent up in the poor beast, and the two women heard the rush of wind and saw the roan visibly diminish in girth. “If I lose that horse, Mr. Burden,” Ántonia exclaimed, “I never stay here till Ambrosch come home! I go drown myself in the pond before morning.” When Ambrosch	could see that it was one of his mean days. Presently he returned, carrying a collar that had been badly used—trampled in the dirt and gnawed by rats until the hair was sticking out of it. “This what you want?” he asked surlily. Jake jumped off his horse. I saw a wave of red come up under the rough stubble on his face. “That ain’t the piece of harness I loaned you, Ambrosch; or if it is, you’ve used it shameful. I ain’t a-going to carry such a looking thing back to Mr. Burden.” Ambrosch dropped the collar on the ground. “All right,” he said coolly, took up his oil-can, and began to climb the mill. Jake caught him by the belt of his trousers and yanked him back. Ambrosch’s feet had scarcely touched the ground when he lunged out with a vicious kick at Jake’s stomach. Fortunately Jake was in such a position that he could dodge it. This was not the sort of thing country boys did when they played at fisticuffs, and Jake was furious. He landed Ambrosch a blow on the head—it sounded like the crack of an axe on a cow-pumpkin. Ambrosch dropped over, stunned. We heard squeals, and looking up saw Ántonia and her mother coming on the run. They did not take the path around the pond, but plunged through the muddy water, without even lifting their skirts. They came on, screaming and clawing the air. By this time Ambrosch had come to his senses and was sputtering with nose-bleed. Jake sprang into his saddle. “Let’s get out of this, Jim,” he called. Mrs. Shimerda threw her hands over her head and clutched as if she were going to pull down lightning. “Law, law!” she shrieked after us. “Law for knock my Ambrosch down!” “I never like you no more, Jake and Jim Burden,” Ántonia panted. “No friends any more!”<\|quote\|>Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second.</\|quote\|>“Well, you’re a damned ungrateful lot, the whole pack of you,” he shouted back. “I guess the Burdens can get along without you. You’ve been a sight of trouble to them, anyhow!” We rode away, feeling so outraged that the fine morning was spoiled for us. I had n’t a word to say, and poor Jake was white as paper and trembling all over. It made him sick to get so angry. “They ain’t the same, Jimmy,” he kept saying in a hurt tone. “These foreigners ain’t the same. You can’t trust ’em to be fair. It’s dirty to kick a feller. You heard how the women turned on you—and after all we went through on account of ’em last winter! They ain’t to be trusted. I don’t want to see you get too thick with any of ’em.” “I’ll never be friends with them again, Jake,” I declared hotly. “I believe they are all like Krajiek and Ambrosch underneath.” Grandfather heard our story with a twinkle in his eye. He advised Jake to ride to town to-morrow, go to a justice of the peace, tell him he had knocked young Shimerda down, and pay his fine. Then if Mrs. Shimerda was inclined to make trouble—her son was still under age—she would be forestalled. Jake said he might as well take the wagon and haul to market the pig he had been fattening. On Monday, about an hour after Jake had started, we saw Mrs. Shimerda and her Ambrosch proudly driving by, looking neither to the right nor left. As they rattled out of sight down the Black Hawk road, grandfather chuckled, saying he had rather expected she would follow the matter up. Jake paid his fine with a ten-dollar bill grandfather had given him for that purpose. But when the Shimerdas found that Jake sold his pig in town that day, Ambrosch worked it out in his shrewd head that Jake had to sell his pig to pay his fine. This theory afforded the Shimerdas great satisfaction, apparently. For weeks afterward, whenever Jake and I met Ántonia on her way to the post-office, or going along	My Antonia
interposed Daisy.	No speaker	your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!"<\|quote\|>interposed Daisy.</\|quote\|>"Though you may be flirting,	with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!"<\|quote\|>interposed Daisy.</\|quote\|>"Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he	old married ones," Daisy declared. "Well," said Winterbourne, "when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn t exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!"<\|quote\|>interposed Daisy.</\|quote\|>"Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else." "He isn t preaching, at any rate," said Daisy with vivacity. "And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends."	flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the piano; they don t understand that sort of thing here." "I thought they understood nothing else!" exclaimed Daisy. "Not in young unmarried women." "It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women than in old married ones," Daisy declared. "Well," said Winterbourne, "when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn t exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!"<\|quote\|>interposed Daisy.</\|quote\|>"Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else." "He isn t preaching, at any rate," said Daisy with vivacity. "And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends." "Ah!" rejoined Winterbourne, "if you are in love with each other, it is another affair." She had allowed him up to this point to talk so frankly that he had no expectation of shocking her by this ejaculation; but she immediately got up, blushing visibly, and leaving him to exclaim	am not a nice girl." "You re a very nice girl; but I wish you would flirt with me, and me only," said Winterbourne. "Ah! thank you--thank you very much; you are the last man I should think of flirting with. As I have had the pleasure of informing you, you are too stiff." "You say that too often," said Winterbourne. Daisy gave a delighted laugh. "If I could have the sweet hope of making you angry, I should say it again." "Don t do that; when I am angry I m stiffer than ever. But if you won t flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the piano; they don t understand that sort of thing here." "I thought they understood nothing else!" exclaimed Daisy. "Not in young unmarried women." "It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women than in old married ones," Daisy declared. "Well," said Winterbourne, "when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn t exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!"<\|quote\|>interposed Daisy.</\|quote\|>"Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else." "He isn t preaching, at any rate," said Daisy with vivacity. "And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends." "Ah!" rejoined Winterbourne, "if you are in love with each other, it is another affair." She had allowed him up to this point to talk so frankly that he had no expectation of shocking her by this ejaculation; but she immediately got up, blushing visibly, and leaving him to exclaim mentally that little American flirts were the queerest creatures in the world. "Mr. Giovanelli, at least," she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance, "never says such very disagreeable things to me." Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy. "Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental smile. Daisy turned to Winterbourne, beginning to smile again. He was still more perplexed, for this inconsequent smile made nothing clear, though it seemed to prove, indeed, that	hear anything so cool as Mrs. Walker s wanting me to get into her carriage and drop poor Mr. Giovanelli, and under the pretext that it was proper? People have different ideas! It would have been most unkind; he had been talking about that walk for ten days." "He should not have talked about it at all," said Winterbourne; "he would never have proposed to a young lady of this country to walk about the streets with him." "About the streets?" cried Daisy with her pretty stare. "Where, then, would he have proposed to her to walk? The Pincio is not the streets, either; and I, thank goodness, am not a young lady of this country. The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne gravely. "Of course they are," she cried, giving him her little smiling stare again. "I m a fearful, frightful flirt! Did you ever hear of a nice girl that was not? But I suppose you will tell me now that I am not a nice girl." "You re a very nice girl; but I wish you would flirt with me, and me only," said Winterbourne. "Ah! thank you--thank you very much; you are the last man I should think of flirting with. As I have had the pleasure of informing you, you are too stiff." "You say that too often," said Winterbourne. Daisy gave a delighted laugh. "If I could have the sweet hope of making you angry, I should say it again." "Don t do that; when I am angry I m stiffer than ever. But if you won t flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the piano; they don t understand that sort of thing here." "I thought they understood nothing else!" exclaimed Daisy. "Not in young unmarried women." "It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women than in old married ones," Daisy declared. "Well," said Winterbourne, "when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn t exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!"<\|quote\|>interposed Daisy.</\|quote\|>"Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else." "He isn t preaching, at any rate," said Daisy with vivacity. "And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends." "Ah!" rejoined Winterbourne, "if you are in love with each other, it is another affair." She had allowed him up to this point to talk so frankly that he had no expectation of shocking her by this ejaculation; but she immediately got up, blushing visibly, and leaving him to exclaim mentally that little American flirts were the queerest creatures in the world. "Mr. Giovanelli, at least," she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance, "never says such very disagreeable things to me." Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy. "Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental smile. Daisy turned to Winterbourne, beginning to smile again. He was still more perplexed, for this inconsequent smile made nothing clear, though it seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice," Winterbourne rejoined. "I prefer weak tea!" cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the window, for the rest of the evening. There was an interesting performance at the piano, but neither of these young people gave heed to it. When Daisy came to take leave of Mrs. Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired the weakness of which she had been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her to depart with what grace she might. Winterbourne was standing near the door; he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly unconscious of any violation of the usual social forms. She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incongruous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said; "we ve	to her." Daisy came after eleven o clock; but she was not, on such an occasion, a young lady to wait to be spoken to. She rustled forward in radiant loveliness, smiling and chattering, carrying a large bouquet, and attended by Mr. Giovanelli. Everyone stopped talking and turned and looked at her. She came straight to Mrs. Walker. "I m afraid you thought I never was coming, so I sent mother off to tell you. I wanted to make Mr. Giovanelli practice some things before he came; you know he sings beautifully, and I want you to ask him to sing. This is Mr. Giovanelli; you know I introduced him to you; he s got the most lovely voice, and he knows the most charming set of songs. I made him go over them this evening on purpose; we had the greatest time at the hotel." Of all this Daisy delivered herself with the sweetest, brightest audibleness, looking now at her hostess and now round the room, while she gave a series of little pats, round her shoulders, to the edges of her dress. "Is there anyone I know?" she asked. "I think every one knows you!" said Mrs. Walker pregnantly, and she gave a very cursory greeting to Mr. Giovanelli. This gentleman bore himself gallantly. He smiled and bowed and showed his white teeth; he curled his mustaches and rolled his eyes and performed all the proper functions of a handsome Italian at an evening party. He sang very prettily half a dozen songs, though Mrs. Walker afterward declared that she had been quite unable to find out who asked him. It was apparently not Daisy who had given him his orders. Daisy sat at a distance from the piano, and though she had publicly, as it were, professed a high admiration for his singing, talked, not inaudibly, while it was going on. "It s a pity these rooms are so small; we can t dance," she said to Winterbourne, as if she had seen him five minutes before. "I am not sorry we can t dance," Winterbourne answered; "I don t dance." "Of course you don t dance; you re too stiff," said Miss Daisy. "I hope you enjoyed your drive with Mrs. Walker!" "No. I didn t enjoy it; I preferred walking with you." "We paired off: that was much better," said Daisy. "But did you ever hear anything so cool as Mrs. Walker s wanting me to get into her carriage and drop poor Mr. Giovanelli, and under the pretext that it was proper? People have different ideas! It would have been most unkind; he had been talking about that walk for ten days." "He should not have talked about it at all," said Winterbourne; "he would never have proposed to a young lady of this country to walk about the streets with him." "About the streets?" cried Daisy with her pretty stare. "Where, then, would he have proposed to her to walk? The Pincio is not the streets, either; and I, thank goodness, am not a young lady of this country. The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne gravely. "Of course they are," she cried, giving him her little smiling stare again. "I m a fearful, frightful flirt! Did you ever hear of a nice girl that was not? But I suppose you will tell me now that I am not a nice girl." "You re a very nice girl; but I wish you would flirt with me, and me only," said Winterbourne. "Ah! thank you--thank you very much; you are the last man I should think of flirting with. As I have had the pleasure of informing you, you are too stiff." "You say that too often," said Winterbourne. Daisy gave a delighted laugh. "If I could have the sweet hope of making you angry, I should say it again." "Don t do that; when I am angry I m stiffer than ever. But if you won t flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the piano; they don t understand that sort of thing here." "I thought they understood nothing else!" exclaimed Daisy. "Not in young unmarried women." "It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women than in old married ones," Daisy declared. "Well," said Winterbourne, "when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn t exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!"<\|quote\|>interposed Daisy.</\|quote\|>"Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else." "He isn t preaching, at any rate," said Daisy with vivacity. "And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends." "Ah!" rejoined Winterbourne, "if you are in love with each other, it is another affair." She had allowed him up to this point to talk so frankly that he had no expectation of shocking her by this ejaculation; but she immediately got up, blushing visibly, and leaving him to exclaim mentally that little American flirts were the queerest creatures in the world. "Mr. Giovanelli, at least," she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance, "never says such very disagreeable things to me." Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy. "Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental smile. Daisy turned to Winterbourne, beginning to smile again. He was still more perplexed, for this inconsequent smile made nothing clear, though it seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice," Winterbourne rejoined. "I prefer weak tea!" cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the window, for the rest of the evening. There was an interesting performance at the piano, but neither of these young people gave heed to it. When Daisy came to take leave of Mrs. Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired the weakness of which she had been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her to depart with what grace she might. Winterbourne was standing near the door; he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly unconscious of any violation of the usual social forms. She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incongruous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said; "we ve had a beautiful evening. You see, if I let Daisy come to parties without me, I don t want her to go away without me." Daisy turned away, looking with a pale, grave face at the circle near the door; Winterbourne saw that, for the first moment, she was too much shocked and puzzled even for indignation. He on his side was greatly touched. "That was very cruel," he said to Mrs. Walker. "She never enters my drawing room again!" replied his hostess. Since Winterbourne was not to meet her in Mrs. Walker s drawing room, he went as often as possible to Mrs. Miller s hotel. The ladies were rarely at home, but when he found them, the devoted Giovanelli was always present. Very often the brilliant little Roman was in the drawing room with Daisy alone, Mrs. Miller being apparently constantly of the opinion that discretion is the better part of surveillance. Winterbourne noted, at first with surprise, that Daisy on these occasions was never embarrassed or annoyed by his own entrance; but he very presently began to feel that she had no more surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete with Giovanelli being interrupted; she could chatter as freshly and freely with two gentlemen as with one; there was always, in her conversation, the same odd mixture of audacity and puerility. Winterbourne remarked to himself that if she was seriously interested in Giovanelli, it was very singular that she should not take more trouble to preserve the sanctity of their interviews; and he liked her the more for her innocent-looking indifference and her apparently inexhaustible good humor. He could hardly have said why, but she seemed to him a girl who would never be jealous. At the risk of exciting a somewhat derisive smile on the reader s part, I may affirm that with regard to the women who had hitherto interested him, it very often seemed to Winterbourne among the possibilities that, given certain contingencies, he should be afraid--literally afraid--of these ladies; he had a pleasant sense that he should never be afraid of Daisy Miller. It must be added that this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, or rather of his apprehension, that she would prove a very light young person. But she was	his eyes and performed all the proper functions of a handsome Italian at an evening party. He sang very prettily half a dozen songs, though Mrs. Walker afterward declared that she had been quite unable to find out who asked him. It was apparently not Daisy who had given him his orders. Daisy sat at a distance from the piano, and though she had publicly, as it were, professed a high admiration for his singing, talked, not inaudibly, while it was going on. "It s a pity these rooms are so small; we can t dance," she said to Winterbourne, as if she had seen him five minutes before. "I am not sorry we can t dance," Winterbourne answered; "I don t dance." "Of course you don t dance; you re too stiff," said Miss Daisy. "I hope you enjoyed your drive with Mrs. Walker!" "No. I didn t enjoy it; I preferred walking with you." "We paired off: that was much better," said Daisy. "But did you ever hear anything so cool as Mrs. Walker s wanting me to get into her carriage and drop poor Mr. Giovanelli, and under the pretext that it was proper? People have different ideas! It would have been most unkind; he had been talking about that walk for ten days." "He should not have talked about it at all," said Winterbourne; "he would never have proposed to a young lady of this country to walk about the streets with him." "About the streets?" cried Daisy with her pretty stare. "Where, then, would he have proposed to her to walk? The Pincio is not the streets, either; and I, thank goodness, am not a young lady of this country. The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne gravely. "Of course they are," she cried, giving him her little smiling stare again. "I m a fearful, frightful flirt! Did you ever hear of a nice girl that was not? But I suppose you will tell me now that I am not a nice girl." "You re a very nice girl; but I wish you would flirt with me, and me only," said Winterbourne. "Ah! thank you--thank you very much; you are the last man I should think of flirting with. As I have had the pleasure of informing you, you are too stiff." "You say that too often," said Winterbourne. Daisy gave a delighted laugh. "If I could have the sweet hope of making you angry, I should say it again." "Don t do that; when I am angry I m stiffer than ever. But if you won t flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the piano; they don t understand that sort of thing here." "I thought they understood nothing else!" exclaimed Daisy. "Not in young unmarried women." "It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women than in old married ones," Daisy declared. "Well," said Winterbourne, "when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn t exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!"<\|quote\|>interposed Daisy.</\|quote\|>"Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else." "He isn t preaching, at any rate," said Daisy with vivacity. "And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends." "Ah!" rejoined Winterbourne, "if you are in love with each other, it is another affair." She had allowed him up to this point to talk so frankly that he had no expectation of shocking her by this ejaculation; but she immediately got up, blushing visibly, and leaving him to exclaim mentally that little American flirts were the queerest creatures in the world. "Mr. Giovanelli, at least," she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance, "never says such very disagreeable things to me." Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy. "Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental smile. Daisy turned to Winterbourne, beginning to smile again. He was still more perplexed, for this inconsequent smile made nothing clear, though it seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice," Winterbourne rejoined. "I prefer weak tea!" cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the window, for the rest of the evening. There was an interesting performance at the piano, but neither of these young people gave heed to it. When Daisy came to take leave of Mrs. Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired the weakness of which she had been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her to depart with what grace she might. Winterbourne was standing near the door; he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly unconscious of any violation of the usual social forms. She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incongruous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said; "we ve had a beautiful evening. You see, if I let Daisy come to parties without me, I don t want her to go away without me." Daisy turned away, looking with a pale, grave face at the circle near the door; Winterbourne saw that, for the first moment, she was too much shocked and puzzled even for indignation. He on his side was greatly touched. "That was very cruel," he said to Mrs. Walker. "She never enters my drawing room again!" replied his hostess. Since Winterbourne was not to meet her in Mrs. Walker s drawing room, he went as often as possible to Mrs. Miller s hotel. The ladies	Daisy Miller
"I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again."	The Invisible Man	wreath of smoke and vanish."<\|quote\|>"I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again."</\|quote\|>"And then came a curious	watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish."<\|quote\|>"I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again."</\|quote\|>"And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow	worked with a cheap gas engine. My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish."<\|quote\|>"I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again."</\|quote\|>"And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window. A thought came into my head." Everything ready for you, "I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly.	between two radiating centres of a sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later. No, not those R ntgen vibrations I don t know that these others of mine have been described. Yet they are obvious enough. I needed two little dynamos, and these I worked with a cheap gas engine. My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish."<\|quote\|>"I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again."</\|quote\|>"And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window. A thought came into my head." Everything ready for you, "I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came in, purring the poor beast was starving and I gave her some milk. All my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she went smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself at home. The invisible rag upset her	There were the things I knew and loved. There stood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting. And now there was scarcely a difficulty left, beyond the planning of details." "I will tell you, Kemp, sooner or later, all the complicated processes. We need not go into that now. For the most part, saving certain gaps I chose to remember, they are written in cypher in those books that tramp has hidden. We must hunt him down. We must get those books again. But the essential phase was to place the transparent object whose refractive index was to be lowered between two radiating centres of a sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later. No, not those R ntgen vibrations I don t know that these others of mine have been described. Yet they are obvious enough. I needed two little dynamos, and these I worked with a cheap gas engine. My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish."<\|quote\|>"I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again."</\|quote\|>"And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window. A thought came into my head." Everything ready for you, "I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came in, purring the poor beast was starving and I gave her some milk. All my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she went smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself at home. The invisible rag upset her a bit; you should have seen her spit at it! But I made her comfortable on the pillow of my truckle-bed. And I gave her butter to get her to wash." "And you processed her?" "I processed her. But giving drugs to a cat is no joke, Kemp! And the process failed." "Failed!" "In two particulars. These were the claws and the pigment stuff, what is it? at the back of the eye in a cat. You know?" "_Tapetum_." "Yes, the _tapetum_. It didn t go. After I d given the stuff to bleach the blood and done certain other	of a town. Every way the roads ran out at last into the desecrated fields and ended in rubble heaps and rank wet weeds. I remember myself as a gaunt black figure, going along the slippery, shiny pavement, and the strange sense of detachment I felt from the squalid respectability, the sordid commercialism of the place." "I did not feel a bit sorry for my father. He seemed to me to be the victim of his own foolish sentimentality. The current cant required my attendance at his funeral, but it was really not my affair." "But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a space, for I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met." "Something moved me to turn back and talk to her. She was a very ordinary person." "It was all like a dream, that visit to the old places. I did not feel then that I was lonely, that I had come out from the world into a desolate place. I appreciated my loss of sympathy, but I put it down to the general inanity of things. Re-entering my room seemed like the recovery of reality. There were the things I knew and loved. There stood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting. And now there was scarcely a difficulty left, beyond the planning of details." "I will tell you, Kemp, sooner or later, all the complicated processes. We need not go into that now. For the most part, saving certain gaps I chose to remember, they are written in cypher in those books that tramp has hidden. We must hunt him down. We must get those books again. But the essential phase was to place the transparent object whose refractive index was to be lowered between two radiating centres of a sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later. No, not those R ntgen vibrations I don t know that these others of mine have been described. Yet they are obvious enough. I needed two little dynamos, and these I worked with a cheap gas engine. My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish."<\|quote\|>"I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again."</\|quote\|>"And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window. A thought came into my head." Everything ready for you, "I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came in, purring the poor beast was starving and I gave her some milk. All my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she went smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself at home. The invisible rag upset her a bit; you should have seen her spit at it! But I made her comfortable on the pillow of my truckle-bed. And I gave her butter to get her to wash." "And you processed her?" "I processed her. But giving drugs to a cat is no joke, Kemp! And the process failed." "Failed!" "In two particulars. These were the claws and the pigment stuff, what is it? at the back of the eye in a cat. You know?" "_Tapetum_." "Yes, the _tapetum_. It didn t go. After I d given the stuff to bleach the blood and done certain other things to her, I gave the beast opium, and put her and the pillow she was sleeping on, on the apparatus. And after all the rest had faded and vanished, there remained two little ghosts of her eyes." "Odd!" "I can t explain it. She was bandaged and clamped, of course so I had her safe; but she woke while she was still misty, and miaowed dismally, and someone came knocking. It was an old woman from downstairs, who suspected me of vivisecting a drink-sodden old creature, with only a white cat to care for in all the world. I whipped out some chloroform, applied it, and answered the door." Did I hear a cat? "she asked." My cat? "Not here, said I, very politely. She was a little doubtful and tried to peer past me into the room; strange enough to her no doubt bare walls, uncurtained windows, truckle-bed, with the gas engine vibrating, and the seethe of the radiant points, and that faint ghastly stinging of chloroform in the air. She had to be satisfied at last and went away again." "How long did it take?" asked Kemp. "Three or four hours the cat. The bones and sinews	I, a shabby, poverty-struck, hemmed-in demonstrator, teaching fools in a provincial college, might suddenly become this. I ask you, Kemp if _you_ ... Anyone, I tell you, would have flung himself upon that research. And I worked three years, and every mountain of difficulty I toiled over showed another from its summit. The infinite details! And the exasperation! A professor, a provincial professor, always prying." When are you going to publish this work of yours? "was his everlasting question. And the students, the cramped means! Three years I had of it" "And after three years of secrecy and exasperation, I found that to complete it was impossible impossible." "How?" asked Kemp. "Money," said the Invisible Man, and went again to stare out of the window. He turned around abruptly. "I robbed the old man robbed my father." "The money was not his, and he shot himself." CHAPTER XX. AT THE HOUSE IN GREAT PORTLAND STREET For a moment Kemp sat in silence, staring at the back of the headless figure at the window. Then he started, struck by a thought, rose, took the Invisible Man s arm, and turned him away from the outlook. "You are tired," he said, "and while I sit, you walk about. Have my chair." He placed himself between Griffin and the nearest window. For a space Griffin sat silent, and then he resumed abruptly: "I had left the Chesilstowe cottage already," he said, "when that happened. It was last December. I had taken a room in London, a large unfurnished room in a big ill-managed lodging-house in a slum near Great Portland Street. The room was soon full of the appliances I had bought with his money; the work was going on steadily, successfully, drawing near an end. I was like a man emerging from a thicket, and suddenly coming on some unmeaning tragedy. I went to bury him. My mind was still on this research, and I did not lift a finger to save his character. I remember the funeral, the cheap hearse, the scant ceremony, the windy frost-bitten hillside, and the old college friend of his who read the service over him a shabby, black, bent old man with a snivelling cold." "I remember walking back to the empty house, through the place that had once been a village and was now patched and tinkered by the jerry builders into the ugly likeness of a town. Every way the roads ran out at last into the desecrated fields and ended in rubble heaps and rank wet weeds. I remember myself as a gaunt black figure, going along the slippery, shiny pavement, and the strange sense of detachment I felt from the squalid respectability, the sordid commercialism of the place." "I did not feel a bit sorry for my father. He seemed to me to be the victim of his own foolish sentimentality. The current cant required my attendance at his funeral, but it was really not my affair." "But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a space, for I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met." "Something moved me to turn back and talk to her. She was a very ordinary person." "It was all like a dream, that visit to the old places. I did not feel then that I was lonely, that I had come out from the world into a desolate place. I appreciated my loss of sympathy, but I put it down to the general inanity of things. Re-entering my room seemed like the recovery of reality. There were the things I knew and loved. There stood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting. And now there was scarcely a difficulty left, beyond the planning of details." "I will tell you, Kemp, sooner or later, all the complicated processes. We need not go into that now. For the most part, saving certain gaps I chose to remember, they are written in cypher in those books that tramp has hidden. We must hunt him down. We must get those books again. But the essential phase was to place the transparent object whose refractive index was to be lowered between two radiating centres of a sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later. No, not those R ntgen vibrations I don t know that these others of mine have been described. Yet they are obvious enough. I needed two little dynamos, and these I worked with a cheap gas engine. My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish."<\|quote\|>"I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again."</\|quote\|>"And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window. A thought came into my head." Everything ready for you, "I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came in, purring the poor beast was starving and I gave her some milk. All my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she went smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself at home. The invisible rag upset her a bit; you should have seen her spit at it! But I made her comfortable on the pillow of my truckle-bed. And I gave her butter to get her to wash." "And you processed her?" "I processed her. But giving drugs to a cat is no joke, Kemp! And the process failed." "Failed!" "In two particulars. These were the claws and the pigment stuff, what is it? at the back of the eye in a cat. You know?" "_Tapetum_." "Yes, the _tapetum_. It didn t go. After I d given the stuff to bleach the blood and done certain other things to her, I gave the beast opium, and put her and the pillow she was sleeping on, on the apparatus. And after all the rest had faded and vanished, there remained two little ghosts of her eyes." "Odd!" "I can t explain it. She was bandaged and clamped, of course so I had her safe; but she woke while she was still misty, and miaowed dismally, and someone came knocking. It was an old woman from downstairs, who suspected me of vivisecting a drink-sodden old creature, with only a white cat to care for in all the world. I whipped out some chloroform, applied it, and answered the door." Did I hear a cat? "she asked." My cat? "Not here, said I, very politely. She was a little doubtful and tried to peer past me into the room; strange enough to her no doubt bare walls, uncurtained windows, truckle-bed, with the gas engine vibrating, and the seethe of the radiant points, and that faint ghastly stinging of chloroform in the air. She had to be satisfied at last and went away again." "How long did it take?" asked Kemp. "Three or four hours the cat. The bones and sinews and the fat were the last to go, and the tips of the coloured hairs. And, as I say, the back part of the eye, tough, iridescent stuff it is, wouldn t go at all." "It was night outside long before the business was over, and nothing was to be seen but the dim eyes and the claws. I stopped the gas engine, felt for and stroked the beast, which was still insensible, and then, being tired, left it sleeping on the invisible pillow and went to bed. I found it hard to sleep. I lay awake thinking weak aimless stuff, going over the experiment over and over again, or dreaming feverishly of things growing misty and vanishing about me, until everything, the ground I stood on, vanished, and so I came to that sickly falling nightmare one gets. About two, the cat began miaowing about the room. I tried to hush it by talking to it, and then I decided to turn it out. I remember the shock I had when striking a light there were just the round eyes shining green and nothing round them. I would have given it milk, but I hadn t any. It wouldn t be quiet, it just sat down and miaowed at the door. I tried to catch it, with an idea of putting it out of the window, but it wouldn t be caught, it vanished. Then it began miaowing in different parts of the room. At last I opened the window and made a bustle. I suppose it went out at last. I never saw any more of it." "Then Heaven knows why I fell thinking of my father s funeral again, and the dismal windy hillside, until the day had come. I found sleeping was hopeless, and, locking my door after me, wandered out into the morning streets." "You don t mean to say there s an invisible cat at large!" said Kemp. "If it hasn t been killed," said the Invisible Man. "Why not?" "Why not?" said Kemp. "I didn t mean to interrupt." "It s very probably been killed," said the Invisible Man. "It was alive four days after, I know, and down a grating in Great Titchfield Street; because I saw a crowd round the place, trying to see whence the miaowing came." He was silent for the best part of a minute. Then he resumed	going along the slippery, shiny pavement, and the strange sense of detachment I felt from the squalid respectability, the sordid commercialism of the place." "I did not feel a bit sorry for my father. He seemed to me to be the victim of his own foolish sentimentality. The current cant required my attendance at his funeral, but it was really not my affair." "But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a space, for I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met." "Something moved me to turn back and talk to her. She was a very ordinary person." "It was all like a dream, that visit to the old places. I did not feel then that I was lonely, that I had come out from the world into a desolate place. I appreciated my loss of sympathy, but I put it down to the general inanity of things. Re-entering my room seemed like the recovery of reality. There were the things I knew and loved. There stood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting. And now there was scarcely a difficulty left, beyond the planning of details." "I will tell you, Kemp, sooner or later, all the complicated processes. We need not go into that now. For the most part, saving certain gaps I chose to remember, they are written in cypher in those books that tramp has hidden. We must hunt him down. We must get those books again. But the essential phase was to place the transparent object whose refractive index was to be lowered between two radiating centres of a sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later. No, not those R ntgen vibrations I don t know that these others of mine have been described. Yet they are obvious enough. I needed two little dynamos, and these I worked with a cheap gas engine. My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish."<\|quote\|>"I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again."</\|quote\|>"And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window. A thought came into my head." Everything ready for you, "I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came in, purring the poor beast was starving and I gave her some milk. All my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she went smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself at home. The invisible rag upset her a bit; you should have seen her spit at it! But I made her comfortable on the pillow of my truckle-bed. And I gave her butter to get her to wash." "And you processed her?" "I processed her. But giving drugs to a cat is no joke, Kemp! And the process failed." "Failed!" "In two particulars. These were the claws and the pigment stuff, what is it? at the back of the eye in a cat. You know?" "_Tapetum_." "Yes, the _tapetum_. It didn t go. After I d given the stuff to bleach the blood and done certain other things to her, I gave the beast opium, and put her and the pillow she was sleeping on, on the apparatus. And after all the rest had faded and vanished, there remained two little ghosts of her eyes." "Odd!" "I can t explain it. She was bandaged and clamped, of course so I had her safe; but she woke while she was still misty, and miaowed dismally, and someone came knocking. It was an old woman from downstairs, who suspected me of vivisecting a drink-sodden old creature, with only a white cat to care for in all the world. I whipped out some chloroform, applied it, and answered the door." Did I hear a cat? "she asked." My cat? "Not here, said I, very politely. She was a little doubtful and tried to peer past me into the room; strange enough to her no doubt bare walls, uncurtained windows, truckle-bed, with the gas engine vibrating, and the seethe of the radiant points, and that faint ghastly stinging of chloroform in the air. She had to be satisfied at last and went away again." "How long did it take?" asked Kemp. "Three or four hours the cat. The bones and sinews and the fat were the last to go, and the tips of the coloured hairs. And, as I say, the back part of the eye, tough, iridescent stuff it is, wouldn t go at all." "It was night outside long before the business was over, and nothing was to be seen but the dim eyes and the claws. I stopped the gas engine, felt for and stroked the beast, which was still insensible, and then, being tired, left it sleeping on the invisible pillow and went to bed. I found it hard to sleep. I lay awake thinking weak aimless stuff, going over the experiment over and over again, or dreaming feverishly of things growing misty and vanishing about me, until everything, the ground I stood on, vanished, and so I came to that sickly falling nightmare one gets. About two, the cat began miaowing about the room. I tried to hush it by talking to it, and then I decided to turn it out. I remember the shock I had when striking a light there were just the	The Invisible Man
"Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."	Mr. Herriton	such an ass," he thought.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."</\|quote\|>"Isn t it disheartening?" said	t know I was still such an ass," he thought.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."</\|quote\|>"Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read	grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."</\|quote\|>"Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send	failed." Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."</\|quote\|>"Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not	was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said. "We have failed." Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."</\|quote\|>"Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perverse reason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poor Caroline. She will be equally distressed." She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Her face was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round her eyes. "The impudence!" she shouted. "The cursed impudence! Oh, I m swearing. I don t care. That beastly woman--how dare she interfere--I ll--Philip, dear, I m sorry. It s no good. You must go." "Go where? Do sit down. What s happened?" This outburst of violence from his elegant ladylike mother pained	be incidental expenses," said Philip cautiously. Then he turned to Miss Abbott and said, "Do you suppose we shall have difficulty with the man?" "It depends," she replied, with equal caution. "From what you saw of him, should you conclude that he would make an affectionate parent?" "I don t go by what I saw of him, but by what I know of him." "Well, what do you conclude from that?" "That he is a thoroughly wicked man." "Yet thoroughly wicked men have loved their children. Look at Rodrigo Borgia, for example." "I have also seen examples of that in my district." With this remark the admirable young woman rose, and returned to keep up her Italian. She puzzled Philip extremely. He could understand enthusiasm, but she did not seem the least enthusiastic. He could understand pure cussedness, but it did not seem to be that either. Apparently she was deriving neither amusement nor profit from the struggle. Why, then, had she undertaken it? Perhaps she was not sincere. Perhaps, on the whole, that was most likely. She must be professing one thing and aiming at another. What the other thing could be he did not stop to consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said. "We have failed." Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."</\|quote\|>"Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perverse reason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poor Caroline. She will be equally distressed." She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Her face was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round her eyes. "The impudence!" she shouted. "The cursed impudence! Oh, I m swearing. I don t care. That beastly woman--how dare she interfere--I ll--Philip, dear, I m sorry. It s no good. You must go." "Go where? Do sit down. What s happened?" This outburst of violence from his elegant ladylike mother pained him dreadfully. He had not known that it was in her. "She won t accept--won t accept the letter as final. You must go to Monteriano!" "I won t!" he shouted back. "I ve been and I ve failed. I ll never see the place again. I hate Italy." "If you don t go, she will." "Abbott?" "Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to write; she said it was too late! Too late! The child, if you please--Irma s brother--to live with her, to be brought up by her and her father at our very gates, to go to school like a gentleman, she paying. Oh, you re a man! It doesn t matter for you. You can laugh. But I know what people say; and that woman goes to Italy this evening." He seemed to be inspired. "Then let her go! Let her mess with Italy by herself. She ll come to grief somehow. Italy s too dangerous, too--" "Stop that nonsense, Philip. I will not be disgraced by her. I WILL have the child. Pay all we ve got for it. I will have it." "Let her go to Italy!" he cried. "Let her meddle	found it even contemptible. But it was not a place of sin, and at Sawston, either with the Herritons or with herself, the baby should grow up. As soon as it was inevitable, Mrs. Herriton wrote a letter for Waters and Adamson to send to Gino--the oddest letter; Philip saw a copy of it afterwards. Its ostensible purpose was to complain of the picture postcards. Right at the end, in a few nonchalant sentences, she offered to adopt the child, provided that Gino would undertake never to come near it, and would surrender some of Lilia s money for its education. "What do you think of it?" she asked her son. "It would not do to let him know that we are anxious for it." "Certainly he will never suppose that." "But what effect will the letter have on him?" "When he gets it he will do a sum. If it is less expensive in the long run to part with a little money and to be clear of the baby, he will part with it. If he would lose, he will adopt the tone of the loving father." "Dear, you re shockingly cynical." After a pause she added, "How would the sum work out?" "I don t know, I m sure. But if you wanted to ensure the baby being posted by return, you should have sent a little sum to HIM. Oh, I m not cynical--at least I only go by what I know of him. But I am weary of the whole show. Weary of Italy. Weary, weary, weary. Sawston s a kind, pitiful place, isn t it? I will go walk in it and seek comfort." He smiled as he spoke, for the sake of not appearing serious. When he had left her she began to smile also. It was to the Abbotts that he walked. Mr. Abbott offered him tea, and Caroline, who was keeping up her Italian in the next room, came in to pour it out. He told them that his mother had written to Signor Carella, and they both uttered fervent wishes for her success. "Very fine of Mrs. Herriton, very fine indeed," said Mr. Abbott, who, like every one else, knew nothing of his daughter s exasperating behaviour. "I m afraid it will mean a lot of expense. She will get nothing out of Italy without paying." "There are sure to be incidental expenses," said Philip cautiously. Then he turned to Miss Abbott and said, "Do you suppose we shall have difficulty with the man?" "It depends," she replied, with equal caution. "From what you saw of him, should you conclude that he would make an affectionate parent?" "I don t go by what I saw of him, but by what I know of him." "Well, what do you conclude from that?" "That he is a thoroughly wicked man." "Yet thoroughly wicked men have loved their children. Look at Rodrigo Borgia, for example." "I have also seen examples of that in my district." With this remark the admirable young woman rose, and returned to keep up her Italian. She puzzled Philip extremely. He could understand enthusiasm, but she did not seem the least enthusiastic. He could understand pure cussedness, but it did not seem to be that either. Apparently she was deriving neither amusement nor profit from the struggle. Why, then, had she undertaken it? Perhaps she was not sincere. Perhaps, on the whole, that was most likely. She must be professing one thing and aiming at another. What the other thing could be he did not stop to consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said. "We have failed." Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."</\|quote\|>"Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perverse reason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poor Caroline. She will be equally distressed." She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Her face was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round her eyes. "The impudence!" she shouted. "The cursed impudence! Oh, I m swearing. I don t care. That beastly woman--how dare she interfere--I ll--Philip, dear, I m sorry. It s no good. You must go." "Go where? Do sit down. What s happened?" This outburst of violence from his elegant ladylike mother pained him dreadfully. He had not known that it was in her. "She won t accept--won t accept the letter as final. You must go to Monteriano!" "I won t!" he shouted back. "I ve been and I ve failed. I ll never see the place again. I hate Italy." "If you don t go, she will." "Abbott?" "Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to write; she said it was too late! Too late! The child, if you please--Irma s brother--to live with her, to be brought up by her and her father at our very gates, to go to school like a gentleman, she paying. Oh, you re a man! It doesn t matter for you. You can laugh. But I know what people say; and that woman goes to Italy this evening." He seemed to be inspired. "Then let her go! Let her mess with Italy by herself. She ll come to grief somehow. Italy s too dangerous, too--" "Stop that nonsense, Philip. I will not be disgraced by her. I WILL have the child. Pay all we ve got for it. I will have it." "Let her go to Italy!" he cried. "Let her meddle with what she doesn t understand! Look at this letter! The man who wrote it will marry her, or murder her, or do for her somehow. He s a bounder, but he s not an English bounder. He s mysterious and terrible. He s got a country behind him that s upset people from the beginning of the world." "Harriet!" exclaimed his mother. "Harriet shall go too. Harriet, now, will be invaluable!" And before Philip had stopped talking nonsense, she had planned the whole thing and was looking out the trains. Chapter 6 Italy, Philip had always maintained, is only her true self in the height of the summer, when the tourists have left her, and her soul awakes under the beams of a vertical sun. He now had every opportunity of seeing her at her best, for it was nearly the middle of August before he went out to meet Harriet in the Tirol. He found his sister in a dense cloud five thousand feet above the sea, chilled to the bone, overfed, bored, and not at all unwilling to be fetched away. "It upsets one s plans terribly," she remarked, as she squeezed out her sponges, "but obviously it is my duty." "Did mother explain it all to you?" asked Philip. "Yes, indeed! Mother has written me a really beautiful letter. She describes how it was that she gradually got to feel that we must rescue the poor baby from its terrible surroundings, how she has tried by letter, and it is no good--nothing but insincere compliments and hypocrisy came back. Then she says, There is nothing like personal influence; you and Philip will succeed where I have failed. She says, too, that Caroline Abbott has been wonderful." Philip assented. "Caroline feels it as keenly almost as us. That is because she knows the man. Oh, he must be loathsome! Goodness me! I ve forgotten to pack the ammonia!... It has been a terrible lesson for Caroline, but I fancy it is her turning-point. I can t help liking to think that out of all this evil good will come." Philip saw no prospect of good, nor of beauty either. But the expedition promised to be highly comic. He was not averse to it any longer; he was simply indifferent to all in it except the humours. These would be wonderful. Harriet, worked by her mother; Mrs. Herriton,	"I don t go by what I saw of him, but by what I know of him." "Well, what do you conclude from that?" "That he is a thoroughly wicked man." "Yet thoroughly wicked men have loved their children. Look at Rodrigo Borgia, for example." "I have also seen examples of that in my district." With this remark the admirable young woman rose, and returned to keep up her Italian. She puzzled Philip extremely. He could understand enthusiasm, but she did not seem the least enthusiastic. He could understand pure cussedness, but it did not seem to be that either. Apparently she was deriving neither amusement nor profit from the struggle. Why, then, had she undertaken it? Perhaps she was not sincere. Perhaps, on the whole, that was most likely. She must be professing one thing and aiming at another. What the other thing could be he did not stop to consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said. "We have failed." Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought.<\|quote\|>"Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano."</\|quote\|>"Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perverse reason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poor Caroline. She will be equally distressed." She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Her face was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round her eyes. "The impudence!" she shouted. "The cursed impudence! Oh, I m swearing. I don t care. That beastly woman--how dare she interfere--I ll--Philip, dear, I m sorry. It s no good. You must go." "Go where? Do sit down. What s happened?" This outburst of violence from his elegant ladylike mother pained him dreadfully. He had not known that it was in her. "She won t accept--won t accept the letter as final. You must go to Monteriano!" "I won t!" he shouted back. "I ve been and I ve failed. I ll never see the place again. I hate Italy." "If you don t go, she will." "Abbott?" "Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to write; she said it was too late!	Where Angels Fear To Tread
can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes,	No speaker	How the devil, "said I,"<\|quote\|>can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes,</\|quote\|>"said I," an empty sleeve.	wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I,"<\|quote\|>can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes,</\|quote\|>"said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an	black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve." "Well?" "That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly." I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I,"<\|quote\|>can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes,</\|quote\|>"said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though	was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve." "Well?" "That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly." I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I,"<\|quote\|>can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes,</\|quote\|>"said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers, aren t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you." " You said it was an empty sleeve? "he said. Certainly, I said. At staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts scratch. Then very	paper. Swish, rustle. He was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a flicker, and there was the prescription burning and lifting chimneyward. Rushed towards it just as it whisked up the chimney. So! Just at that point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm." "Well?" "No hand just an empty sleeve." Lord! "I thought," _that s_ a deformity! Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, "I thought," there s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and open, if there s nothing in it? "There was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve." "Well?" "That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly." I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I,"<\|quote\|>can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes,</\|quote\|>"said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers, aren t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you." " You said it was an empty sleeve? "he said. Certainly, I said. At staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts scratch. Then very quietly he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket again, and raised his arm towards me as though he would show it to me again. He did it very, very slowly. I looked at it. Seemed an age. Well? said I, clearing my throat, there s nothing in it." "Had to say something. I was beginning to feel frightened. I could see right down it. He extended it straight towards me, slowly, slowly just like that until the cuff was six inches from my face. Queer thing to see an empty sleeve come at you like that! And then" "Well?"	to demand a subscription for that Nurse Fund. He d stuck his hands in his pockets as I came in, and he sat down lumpily in his chair. Sniffed. I told him I d heard he took an interest in scientific things. He said" yes. "Sniffed again. Kept on sniffing all the time; evidently recently caught an infernal cold. No wonder, wrapped up like that! I developed the nurse idea, and all the while kept my eyes open. Bottles chemicals everywhere. Balance, test-tubes in stands, and a smell of evening primrose. Would he subscribe? Said he d consider it. Asked him, point-blank, was he researching. Said he was. A long research? Got quite cross." A damnable long research, "said he, blowing the cork out, so to speak." Oh, "said I. And out came the grievance. The man was just on the boil, and my question boiled him over. He had been given a prescription, most valuable prescription what for he wouldn t say. Was it medical?" Damn you! What are you fishing after? "I apologised. Dignified sniff and cough. He resumed. He d read it. Five ingredients. Put it down; turned his head. Draught of air from window lifted the paper. Swish, rustle. He was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a flicker, and there was the prescription burning and lifting chimneyward. Rushed towards it just as it whisked up the chimney. So! Just at that point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm." "Well?" "No hand just an empty sleeve." Lord! "I thought," _that s_ a deformity! Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, "I thought," there s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and open, if there s nothing in it? "There was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve." "Well?" "That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly." I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I,"<\|quote\|>can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes,</\|quote\|>"said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers, aren t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you." " You said it was an empty sleeve? "he said. Certainly, I said. At staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts scratch. Then very quietly he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket again, and raised his arm towards me as though he would show it to me again. He did it very, very slowly. I looked at it. Seemed an age. Well? said I, clearing my throat, there s nothing in it." "Had to say something. I was beginning to feel frightened. I could see right down it. He extended it straight towards me, slowly, slowly just like that until the cuff was six inches from my face. Queer thing to see an empty sleeve come at you like that! And then" "Well?" "Something exactly like a finger and thumb it felt nipped my nose." Bunting began to laugh. "There wasn t anything there!" said Cuss, his voice running up into a shriek at the "there." "It s all very well for you to laugh, but I tell you I was so startled, I hit his cuff hard, and turned around, and cut out of the room I left him" Cuss stopped. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his panic. He turned round in a helpless way and took a second glass of the excellent vicar s very inferior sherry. "When I hit his cuff," said Cuss, "I tell you, it felt exactly like hitting an arm. And there wasn t an arm! There wasn t the ghost of an arm!" Mr. Bunting thought it over. He looked suspiciously at Cuss. "It s a most remarkable story," he said. He looked very wise and grave indeed. "It s really," said Mr. Bunting with judicial emphasis, "a most remarkable story." CHAPTER V. THE BURGLARY AT THE VICARAGE The facts of the burglary at the vicarage came to us chiefly through the medium of the vicar and his wife. It occurred in the small	was whistled in the midst of them. Also belated little children would call "Bogey Man!" after him, and make off tremulously elated. Cuss, the general practitioner, was devoured by curiosity. The bandages excited his professional interest, the report of the thousand and one bottles aroused his jealous regard. All through April and May he coveted an opportunity of talking to the stranger, and at last, towards Whitsuntide, he could stand it no longer, but hit upon the subscription-list for a village nurse as an excuse. He was surprised to find that Mr. Hall did not know his guest s name. "He give a name," said Mrs. Hall an assertion which was quite unfounded "but I didn t rightly hear it." She thought it seemed so silly not to know the man s name. Cuss rapped at the parlour door and entered. There was a fairly audible imprecation from within. "Pardon my intrusion," said Cuss, and then the door closed and cut Mrs. Hall off from the rest of the conversation. She could hear the murmur of voices for the next ten minutes, then a cry of surprise, a stirring of feet, a chair flung aside, a bark of laughter, quick steps to the door, and Cuss appeared, his face white, his eyes staring over his shoulder. He left the door open behind him, and without looking at her strode across the hall and went down the steps, and she heard his feet hurrying along the road. He carried his hat in his hand. She stood behind the door, looking at the open door of the parlour. Then she heard the stranger laughing quietly, and then his footsteps came across the room. She could not see his face where she stood. The parlour door slammed, and the place was silent again. Cuss went straight up the village to Bunting the vicar. "Am I mad?" Cuss began abruptly, as he entered the shabby little study. "Do I look like an insane person?" "What s happened?" said the vicar, putting the ammonite on the loose sheets of his forth-coming sermon. "That chap at the inn" "Well?" "Give me something to drink," said Cuss, and he sat down. When his nerves had been steadied by a glass of cheap sherry the only drink the good vicar had available he told him of the interview he had just had. "Went in," he gasped, "and began to demand a subscription for that Nurse Fund. He d stuck his hands in his pockets as I came in, and he sat down lumpily in his chair. Sniffed. I told him I d heard he took an interest in scientific things. He said" yes. "Sniffed again. Kept on sniffing all the time; evidently recently caught an infernal cold. No wonder, wrapped up like that! I developed the nurse idea, and all the while kept my eyes open. Bottles chemicals everywhere. Balance, test-tubes in stands, and a smell of evening primrose. Would he subscribe? Said he d consider it. Asked him, point-blank, was he researching. Said he was. A long research? Got quite cross." A damnable long research, "said he, blowing the cork out, so to speak." Oh, "said I. And out came the grievance. The man was just on the boil, and my question boiled him over. He had been given a prescription, most valuable prescription what for he wouldn t say. Was it medical?" Damn you! What are you fishing after? "I apologised. Dignified sniff and cough. He resumed. He d read it. Five ingredients. Put it down; turned his head. Draught of air from window lifted the paper. Swish, rustle. He was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a flicker, and there was the prescription burning and lifting chimneyward. Rushed towards it just as it whisked up the chimney. So! Just at that point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm." "Well?" "No hand just an empty sleeve." Lord! "I thought," _that s_ a deformity! Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, "I thought," there s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and open, if there s nothing in it? "There was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve." "Well?" "That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly." I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I,"<\|quote\|>can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes,</\|quote\|>"said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers, aren t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you." " You said it was an empty sleeve? "he said. Certainly, I said. At staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts scratch. Then very quietly he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket again, and raised his arm towards me as though he would show it to me again. He did it very, very slowly. I looked at it. Seemed an age. Well? said I, clearing my throat, there s nothing in it." "Had to say something. I was beginning to feel frightened. I could see right down it. He extended it straight towards me, slowly, slowly just like that until the cuff was six inches from my face. Queer thing to see an empty sleeve come at you like that! And then" "Well?" "Something exactly like a finger and thumb it felt nipped my nose." Bunting began to laugh. "There wasn t anything there!" said Cuss, his voice running up into a shriek at the "there." "It s all very well for you to laugh, but I tell you I was so startled, I hit his cuff hard, and turned around, and cut out of the room I left him" Cuss stopped. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his panic. He turned round in a helpless way and took a second glass of the excellent vicar s very inferior sherry. "When I hit his cuff," said Cuss, "I tell you, it felt exactly like hitting an arm. And there wasn t an arm! There wasn t the ghost of an arm!" Mr. Bunting thought it over. He looked suspiciously at Cuss. "It s a most remarkable story," he said. He looked very wise and grave indeed. "It s really," said Mr. Bunting with judicial emphasis, "a most remarkable story." CHAPTER V. THE BURGLARY AT THE VICARAGE The facts of the burglary at the vicarage came to us chiefly through the medium of the vicar and his wife. It occurred in the small hours of Whit Monday, the day devoted in Iping to the Club festivities. Mrs. Bunting, it seems, woke up suddenly in the stillness that comes before the dawn, with the strong impression that the door of their bedroom had opened and closed. She did not arouse her husband at first, but sat up in bed listening. She then distinctly heard the pad, pad, pad of bare feet coming out of the adjoining dressing-room and walking along the passage towards the staircase. As soon as she felt assured of this, she aroused the Rev. Mr. Bunting as quietly as possible. He did not strike a light, but putting on his spectacles, her dressing-gown and his bath slippers, he went out on the landing to listen. He heard quite distinctly a fumbling going on at his study desk down-stairs, and then a violent sneeze. At that he returned to his bedroom, armed himself with the most obvious weapon, the poker, and descended the staircase as noiselessly as possible. Mrs. Bunting came out on the landing. The hour was about four, and the ultimate darkness of the night was past. There was a faint shimmer of light in the hall, but the study doorway yawned impenetrably black. Everything was still except the faint creaking of the stairs under Mr. Bunting s tread, and the slight movements in the study. Then something snapped, the drawer was opened, and there was a rustle of papers. Then came an imprecation, and a match was struck and the study was flooded with yellow light. Mr. Bunting was now in the hall, and through the crack of the door he could see the desk and the open drawer and a candle burning on the desk. But the robber he could not see. He stood there in the hall undecided what to do, and Mrs. Bunting, her face white and intent, crept slowly downstairs after him. One thing kept Mr. Bunting s courage; the persuasion that this burglar was a resident in the village. They heard the chink of money, and realised that the robber had found the housekeeping reserve of gold two pounds ten in half sovereigns altogether. At that sound Mr. Bunting was nerved to abrupt action. Gripping the poker firmly, he rushed into the room, closely followed by Mrs. Bunting. "Surrender!" cried Mr. Bunting, fiercely, and then stooped amazed. Apparently the room was perfectly empty. Yet	feet hurrying along the road. He carried his hat in his hand. She stood behind the door, looking at the open door of the parlour. Then she heard the stranger laughing quietly, and then his footsteps came across the room. She could not see his face where she stood. The parlour door slammed, and the place was silent again. Cuss went straight up the village to Bunting the vicar. "Am I mad?" Cuss began abruptly, as he entered the shabby little study. "Do I look like an insane person?" "What s happened?" said the vicar, putting the ammonite on the loose sheets of his forth-coming sermon. "That chap at the inn" "Well?" "Give me something to drink," said Cuss, and he sat down. When his nerves had been steadied by a glass of cheap sherry the only drink the good vicar had available he told him of the interview he had just had. "Went in," he gasped, "and began to demand a subscription for that Nurse Fund. He d stuck his hands in his pockets as I came in, and he sat down lumpily in his chair. Sniffed. I told him I d heard he took an interest in scientific things. He said" yes. "Sniffed again. Kept on sniffing all the time; evidently recently caught an infernal cold. No wonder, wrapped up like that! I developed the nurse idea, and all the while kept my eyes open. Bottles chemicals everywhere. Balance, test-tubes in stands, and a smell of evening primrose. Would he subscribe? Said he d consider it. Asked him, point-blank, was he researching. Said he was. A long research? Got quite cross." A damnable long research, "said he, blowing the cork out, so to speak." Oh, "said I. And out came the grievance. The man was just on the boil, and my question boiled him over. He had been given a prescription, most valuable prescription what for he wouldn t say. Was it medical?" Damn you! What are you fishing after? "I apologised. Dignified sniff and cough. He resumed. He d read it. Five ingredients. Put it down; turned his head. Draught of air from window lifted the paper. Swish, rustle. He was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a flicker, and there was the prescription burning and lifting chimneyward. Rushed towards it just as it whisked up the chimney. So! Just at that point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm." "Well?" "No hand just an empty sleeve." Lord! "I thought," _that s_ a deformity! Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, "I thought," there s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and open, if there s nothing in it? "There was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve." "Well?" "That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly." I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I,"<\|quote\|>can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes,</\|quote\|>"said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers, aren t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you." " You said it was an empty sleeve? "he said. Certainly, I said. At staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts scratch. Then very quietly he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket again, and raised his arm towards me as though he would show it to me again. He did it very, very slowly. I looked at it. Seemed an age. Well? said I, clearing my throat, there s nothing in it." "Had to say something. I was beginning to feel frightened. I could see right down it. He extended it straight towards me, slowly, slowly just like that until the cuff was six inches from my face. Queer thing to see an empty sleeve come at you like that! And then" "Well?" "Something exactly like a finger and thumb it felt nipped my nose." Bunting began to laugh. "There wasn t anything there!" said Cuss, his voice running up into a shriek at the "there." "It s all very well for you to laugh, but I tell you I was so startled, I hit his cuff hard, and turned around, and cut out of the room I left him" Cuss stopped. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his panic. He turned round in a helpless way and took a second glass of the excellent vicar s very inferior sherry. "When I hit his cuff," said Cuss, "I tell you, it felt exactly like hitting an arm. And there wasn t an arm! There wasn t the ghost of an arm!" Mr. Bunting thought it over. He looked suspiciously at Cuss. "It s a most remarkable story," he said. He looked very wise and grave indeed. "It s really," said Mr. Bunting with judicial emphasis, "a most remarkable story." CHAPTER V. THE BURGLARY AT THE VICARAGE The facts of the burglary at the vicarage came to us chiefly through the medium of the vicar and his wife. It occurred in the small hours of Whit Monday, the day devoted in Iping to the Club festivities. Mrs. Bunting, it seems, woke up suddenly in the stillness that comes before the dawn, with the strong impression that the door of their bedroom had opened and closed. She did not arouse her husband at first, but sat up in bed listening. She then distinctly heard the pad, pad, pad of bare feet coming out of the adjoining dressing-room and walking along the passage towards the staircase. As soon as she felt assured of this, she aroused the Rev. Mr. Bunting as quietly as possible. He did not strike a light, but putting on his spectacles, her dressing-gown and his bath slippers, he went out on the landing to listen. He heard quite distinctly a fumbling going on at his study desk down-stairs, and then a violent sneeze. At that he returned to his bedroom, armed himself with the most obvious weapon, the poker, and descended the staircase as noiselessly as possible. Mrs. Bunting came out on the landing. The hour was about four, and the ultimate darkness of the night was past. There was a faint shimmer of light in the hall, but the	The Invisible Man
"Not one of them's all right,"	Major Callendar	new subject in low tones.<\|quote\|>"Not one of them's all right,"</\|quote\|>contradicted Major Callendar. "Das is,	right," said Ronny, starting a new subject in low tones.<\|quote\|>"Not one of them's all right,"</\|quote\|>contradicted Major Callendar. "Das is, really." "You mean he's more	for you?" Miss Derek said. "I don't think so, Nancy, and I seem able to do nothing for myself." "But you're strictly forbidden to talk like that; you're wonderful." "Yes indeed," came the reverent chorus. "My old Das is all right," said Ronny, starting a new subject in low tones.<\|quote\|>"Not one of them's all right,"</\|quote\|>contradicted Major Callendar. "Das is, really." "You mean he's more frightened of acquitting than convicting, because if he acquits he'll lose his job," said Lesley with a clever little laugh. Ronny did mean that, but he cherished "illusions" about his own subordinates (following the finer traditions of his service here),	done his country and the Empire incalculable disservice. While they denounced him, Miss Quested lay back with her hands on the arms of her chair and her eyes closed, reserving her strength. They noticed her after a time, and felt ashamed of making so much noise. "Can we do nothing for you?" Miss Derek said. "I don't think so, Nancy, and I seem able to do nothing for myself." "But you're strictly forbidden to talk like that; you're wonderful." "Yes indeed," came the reverent chorus. "My old Das is all right," said Ronny, starting a new subject in low tones.<\|quote\|>"Not one of them's all right,"</\|quote\|>contradicted Major Callendar. "Das is, really." "You mean he's more frightened of acquitting than convicting, because if he acquits he'll lose his job," said Lesley with a clever little laugh. Ronny did mean that, but he cherished "illusions" about his own subordinates (following the finer traditions of his service here), and he liked to maintain that his old Das really did possess moral courage of the Public School brand. He pointed out that from one point of view it was good that an Indian was taking the case. Conviction was inevitable; so better let an Indian pronounce it, there would	seemed dead already, nevertheless it was disquieting. A new spirit seemed abroad, a rearrangement, which no one in the stern little band of whites could explain. There was a tendency to see Fielding at the back of it: the idea that he was weak and cranky had been dropped. They abused Fielding vigorously: he had been seen driving up with the two counsels, Amritrao and Mahmoud Ali; he encouraged the Boy Scout movement for seditious reasons; he received letters with foreign stamps on them, and was probably a Japanese spy. This morning's verdict would break the renegade, but he had done his country and the Empire incalculable disservice. While they denounced him, Miss Quested lay back with her hands on the arms of her chair and her eyes closed, reserving her strength. They noticed her after a time, and felt ashamed of making so much noise. "Can we do nothing for you?" Miss Derek said. "I don't think so, Nancy, and I seem able to do nothing for myself." "But you're strictly forbidden to talk like that; you're wonderful." "Yes indeed," came the reverent chorus. "My old Das is all right," said Ronny, starting a new subject in low tones.<\|quote\|>"Not one of them's all right,"</\|quote\|>contradicted Major Callendar. "Das is, really." "You mean he's more frightened of acquitting than convicting, because if he acquits he'll lose his job," said Lesley with a clever little laugh. Ronny did mean that, but he cherished "illusions" about his own subordinates (following the finer traditions of his service here), and he liked to maintain that his old Das really did possess moral courage of the Public School brand. He pointed out that from one point of view it was good that an Indian was taking the case. Conviction was inevitable; so better let an Indian pronounce it, there would be less fuss in the long run. Interested in the argument, he let Adela become dim in his mind. "In fact, you disapprove of the appeal I forwarded to Lady Mellanby," said Mrs. Turton with considerable heat. "Pray don't apologize, Mr. Heaslop; I am accustomed to being in the wrong." "I didn't mean that . . ." "All right. I said don't apologize." "Those swine are always on the look-out for a grievance," said Lesley, to propitiate her. "Swine, I should think so," the Major echoed. "And what's more, I'll tell you what. What's happened is a damn good thing	who make everything more difficult out here," was his inmost thought, as he caught sight of some obscenities upon a long blank wall, and beneath his chivalry to Miss Quested resentment lurked, waiting its day perhaps there is a grain of resentment in all chivalry. Some students had gathered in front of the City Magistrate's Court hysterical boys whom he would have faced if alone, but he told the driver to work round to the rear of the building. The students jeered, and Rafi (hiding behind a comrade that he might not be identified) called out the English were cowards. They gained Ronny's private room, where a group of their own sort had collected. None were cowardly, all nervy, for queer reports kept coming in. The Sweepers had just struck, and half the commodes of Chandrapore remained desolate in consequence only half, and Sweepers from the District, who felt less strongly about the innocence of Dr. Aziz, would arrive in the afternoon, and break the strike, but why should the grotesque incident occur? And a number of Mohammedan ladies had sworn to take no food until the prisoner was acquitted; their death would make little difference, indeed, being invisible, they seemed dead already, nevertheless it was disquieting. A new spirit seemed abroad, a rearrangement, which no one in the stern little band of whites could explain. There was a tendency to see Fielding at the back of it: the idea that he was weak and cranky had been dropped. They abused Fielding vigorously: he had been seen driving up with the two counsels, Amritrao and Mahmoud Ali; he encouraged the Boy Scout movement for seditious reasons; he received letters with foreign stamps on them, and was probably a Japanese spy. This morning's verdict would break the renegade, but he had done his country and the Empire incalculable disservice. While they denounced him, Miss Quested lay back with her hands on the arms of her chair and her eyes closed, reserving her strength. They noticed her after a time, and felt ashamed of making so much noise. "Can we do nothing for you?" Miss Derek said. "I don't think so, Nancy, and I seem able to do nothing for myself." "But you're strictly forbidden to talk like that; you're wonderful." "Yes indeed," came the reverent chorus. "My old Das is all right," said Ronny, starting a new subject in low tones.<\|quote\|>"Not one of them's all right,"</\|quote\|>contradicted Major Callendar. "Das is, really." "You mean he's more frightened of acquitting than convicting, because if he acquits he'll lose his job," said Lesley with a clever little laugh. Ronny did mean that, but he cherished "illusions" about his own subordinates (following the finer traditions of his service here), and he liked to maintain that his old Das really did possess moral courage of the Public School brand. He pointed out that from one point of view it was good that an Indian was taking the case. Conviction was inevitable; so better let an Indian pronounce it, there would be less fuss in the long run. Interested in the argument, he let Adela become dim in his mind. "In fact, you disapprove of the appeal I forwarded to Lady Mellanby," said Mrs. Turton with considerable heat. "Pray don't apologize, Mr. Heaslop; I am accustomed to being in the wrong." "I didn't mean that . . ." "All right. I said don't apologize." "Those swine are always on the look-out for a grievance," said Lesley, to propitiate her. "Swine, I should think so," the Major echoed. "And what's more, I'll tell you what. What's happened is a damn good thing really, barring of course its application to present company. It'll make them squeal and it's time they did squeal. I've put the fear of God into them at the hospital anyhow. You should see the grandson of our so-called leading loyalist." He tittered brutally as he described poor Nureddin's present appearance. "His beauty's gone, five upper teeth, two lower and a nostril. . . . Old Panna Lal brought him the looking-glass yesterday and he blubbered. . . . I laughed; I laughed, I tell you, and so would you; that used to be one of these buck niggers, I thought, now he's all septic; damn him, blast his soul er I believe he was unspeakably immoral er" He subsided, nudged in the ribs, but added, "I wish I'd had the cutting up of my late assistant too; nothing's too bad for these people." "At last some sense is being talked," Mrs. Turton cried, much to her husband's discomfort. "That's what I say; I say there's not such a thing as cruelty after a thing like this." "Exactly, and remember it afterwards, you men. You're weak, weak, weak. Why, they ought to crawl from here to the caves on their	friends. "My echo has come back again badly," she told them. "How about aspirin?" "It is not a headache, it is an echo." Unable to dispel the buzzing in her ears, Major Callendar had diagnosed it as a fancy, which must not be encouraged. So the Turtons changed the subject. The cool little lick of the breeze was passing over the earth, dividing night from day; it would fail in ten minutes, but they might profit by it for their drive down into the city. "I am sure to break down," she repeated. "You won't," said the Collector, his voice full of tenderness. "Of course she won't, she's a real sport." "But Mrs. Turton . . ." "Yes, my dear child?" "If I do break down, it is of no consequence. It would matter in some trials, not in this. I put it to myself in the following way: I can really behave as I like, cry, be absurd, I am sure to get my verdict, unless Mr. Das is most frightfully unjust." "You're bound to win," he said calmly, and did not remind her that there was bound to be an appeal. The Nawab Bahadur had financed the defence, and would ruin himself sooner than let an "innocent Moslem perish," and other interests, less reputable, were in the background too. The case might go up from court to court, with consequences that no official could foresee. Under his very eyes, the temper of Chandrapore was altering. As his car turned out of the compound, there was a tap of silly anger on its paint a pebble thrown by a child. Some larger stones were dropped near the mosque. In the Maidan, a squad of native police on motor cycles waited to escort them through the bazaars. The Collector was irritated and muttered, "McBryde's an old woman" "; but Mrs. Turton said, "Really, after Mohurram a show of force will do no harm; it's ridiculous to pretend they don't hate us, do give up that farce." He replied in an odd, sad voice, "I don't hate them, I don't know why," and he didn't hate them; for if he did, he would have had to condemn his own career as a bad investment. He retained a contemptuous affection for the pawns he had moved about for so many years, they must be worth his pains. "After all, it's our women who make everything more difficult out here," was his inmost thought, as he caught sight of some obscenities upon a long blank wall, and beneath his chivalry to Miss Quested resentment lurked, waiting its day perhaps there is a grain of resentment in all chivalry. Some students had gathered in front of the City Magistrate's Court hysterical boys whom he would have faced if alone, but he told the driver to work round to the rear of the building. The students jeered, and Rafi (hiding behind a comrade that he might not be identified) called out the English were cowards. They gained Ronny's private room, where a group of their own sort had collected. None were cowardly, all nervy, for queer reports kept coming in. The Sweepers had just struck, and half the commodes of Chandrapore remained desolate in consequence only half, and Sweepers from the District, who felt less strongly about the innocence of Dr. Aziz, would arrive in the afternoon, and break the strike, but why should the grotesque incident occur? And a number of Mohammedan ladies had sworn to take no food until the prisoner was acquitted; their death would make little difference, indeed, being invisible, they seemed dead already, nevertheless it was disquieting. A new spirit seemed abroad, a rearrangement, which no one in the stern little band of whites could explain. There was a tendency to see Fielding at the back of it: the idea that he was weak and cranky had been dropped. They abused Fielding vigorously: he had been seen driving up with the two counsels, Amritrao and Mahmoud Ali; he encouraged the Boy Scout movement for seditious reasons; he received letters with foreign stamps on them, and was probably a Japanese spy. This morning's verdict would break the renegade, but he had done his country and the Empire incalculable disservice. While they denounced him, Miss Quested lay back with her hands on the arms of her chair and her eyes closed, reserving her strength. They noticed her after a time, and felt ashamed of making so much noise. "Can we do nothing for you?" Miss Derek said. "I don't think so, Nancy, and I seem able to do nothing for myself." "But you're strictly forbidden to talk like that; you're wonderful." "Yes indeed," came the reverent chorus. "My old Das is all right," said Ronny, starting a new subject in low tones.<\|quote\|>"Not one of them's all right,"</\|quote\|>contradicted Major Callendar. "Das is, really." "You mean he's more frightened of acquitting than convicting, because if he acquits he'll lose his job," said Lesley with a clever little laugh. Ronny did mean that, but he cherished "illusions" about his own subordinates (following the finer traditions of his service here), and he liked to maintain that his old Das really did possess moral courage of the Public School brand. He pointed out that from one point of view it was good that an Indian was taking the case. Conviction was inevitable; so better let an Indian pronounce it, there would be less fuss in the long run. Interested in the argument, he let Adela become dim in his mind. "In fact, you disapprove of the appeal I forwarded to Lady Mellanby," said Mrs. Turton with considerable heat. "Pray don't apologize, Mr. Heaslop; I am accustomed to being in the wrong." "I didn't mean that . . ." "All right. I said don't apologize." "Those swine are always on the look-out for a grievance," said Lesley, to propitiate her. "Swine, I should think so," the Major echoed. "And what's more, I'll tell you what. What's happened is a damn good thing really, barring of course its application to present company. It'll make them squeal and it's time they did squeal. I've put the fear of God into them at the hospital anyhow. You should see the grandson of our so-called leading loyalist." He tittered brutally as he described poor Nureddin's present appearance. "His beauty's gone, five upper teeth, two lower and a nostril. . . . Old Panna Lal brought him the looking-glass yesterday and he blubbered. . . . I laughed; I laughed, I tell you, and so would you; that used to be one of these buck niggers, I thought, now he's all septic; damn him, blast his soul er I believe he was unspeakably immoral er" He subsided, nudged in the ribs, but added, "I wish I'd had the cutting up of my late assistant too; nothing's too bad for these people." "At last some sense is being talked," Mrs. Turton cried, much to her husband's discomfort. "That's what I say; I say there's not such a thing as cruelty after a thing like this." "Exactly, and remember it afterwards, you men. You're weak, weak, weak. Why, they ought to crawl from here to the caves on their hands and knees whenever an Englishwoman's in sight, they oughtn't to be spoken to, they ought to be spat at, they ought to be ground into the dust, we've been far too kind with our Bridge Parties and the rest." She paused. Profiting by her wrath, the heat had invaded her. She subsided into a lemon squash, and continued between the sips to murmur, "Weak, weak." And the process was repeated. The issues Miss Quested had raised were so much more important than she was herself that people inevitably forgot her. Presently the case was called. Their chairs preceded them into the Court, for it was important that they should look dignified. And when the chuprassies had made all ready, they filed into the ramshackly room with a condescending air, as if it was a booth at a fair. The Collector made a small official joke as he sat down, at which his entourage smiled, and the Indians, who could not hear what he said, felt that some new cruelty was afoot, otherwise the sahibs would not chuckle. The Court was crowded and of course very hot, and the first person Adela noticed in it was the humblest of all who were present, a person who had no bearing officially upon the trial: the man who pulled the punkah. Almost naked, and splendidly formed, he sat on a raised platform near the back, in the middle of the central gangway, and he caught her attention as she came in, and he seemed to control the proceedings. He had the strength and beauty that sometimes come to flower in Indians of low birth. When that strange race nears the dust and is condemned as untouchable, then nature remembers the physical perfection that she accomplished elsewhere, and throws out a god not many, but one here and there, to prove to society how little its categories impress her. This man would have been notable anywhere: among the thin-hammed, flat-chested mediocrities of Chandrapore he stood out as divine, yet he was of the city, its garbage had nourished him, he would end on its rubbish heaps. Pulling the rope towards him, relaxing it rhythmically, sending swirls of air over others, receiving none himself, he seemed apart from human destinies, a male fate, a winnower of souls. Opposite him, also on a platform, sat the little assistant magistrate, cultivated, self-conscious, and conscientious. The punkah	had to condemn his own career as a bad investment. He retained a contemptuous affection for the pawns he had moved about for so many years, they must be worth his pains. "After all, it's our women who make everything more difficult out here," was his inmost thought, as he caught sight of some obscenities upon a long blank wall, and beneath his chivalry to Miss Quested resentment lurked, waiting its day perhaps there is a grain of resentment in all chivalry. Some students had gathered in front of the City Magistrate's Court hysterical boys whom he would have faced if alone, but he told the driver to work round to the rear of the building. The students jeered, and Rafi (hiding behind a comrade that he might not be identified) called out the English were cowards. They gained Ronny's private room, where a group of their own sort had collected. None were cowardly, all nervy, for queer reports kept coming in. The Sweepers had just struck, and half the commodes of Chandrapore remained desolate in consequence only half, and Sweepers from the District, who felt less strongly about the innocence of Dr. Aziz, would arrive in the afternoon, and break the strike, but why should the grotesque incident occur? And a number of Mohammedan ladies had sworn to take no food until the prisoner was acquitted; their death would make little difference, indeed, being invisible, they seemed dead already, nevertheless it was disquieting. A new spirit seemed abroad, a rearrangement, which no one in the stern little band of whites could explain. There was a tendency to see Fielding at the back of it: the idea that he was weak and cranky had been dropped. They abused Fielding vigorously: he had been seen driving up with the two counsels, Amritrao and Mahmoud Ali; he encouraged the Boy Scout movement for seditious reasons; he received letters with foreign stamps on them, and was probably a Japanese spy. This morning's verdict would break the renegade, but he had done his country and the Empire incalculable disservice. While they denounced him, Miss Quested lay back with her hands on the arms of her chair and her eyes closed, reserving her strength. They noticed her after a time, and felt ashamed of making so much noise. "Can we do nothing for you?" Miss Derek said. "I don't think so, Nancy, and I seem able to do nothing for myself." "But you're strictly forbidden to talk like that; you're wonderful." "Yes indeed," came the reverent chorus. "My old Das is all right," said Ronny, starting a new subject in low tones.<\|quote\|>"Not one of them's all right,"</\|quote\|>contradicted Major Callendar. "Das is, really." "You mean he's more frightened of acquitting than convicting, because if he acquits he'll lose his job," said Lesley with a clever little laugh. Ronny did mean that, but he cherished "illusions" about his own subordinates (following the finer traditions of his service here), and he liked to maintain that his old Das really did possess moral courage of the Public School brand. He pointed out that from one point of view it was good that an Indian was taking the case. Conviction was inevitable; so better let an Indian pronounce it, there would be less fuss in the long run. Interested in the argument, he let Adela become dim in his mind. "In fact, you disapprove of the appeal I forwarded to Lady Mellanby," said Mrs. Turton with considerable heat. "Pray don't apologize, Mr. Heaslop; I am accustomed to being in the wrong." "I didn't mean that . . ." "All right. I said don't apologize." "Those swine are always on the look-out for a grievance," said Lesley, to propitiate her. "Swine, I should think so," the Major echoed. "And what's more, I'll tell you what. What's happened is a damn good thing really, barring of course its application to present company. It'll make them squeal and it's time they did squeal. I've put the fear of God into them at the hospital anyhow. You should see the grandson of our so-called leading loyalist." He tittered brutally as he described poor Nureddin's present appearance. "His beauty's gone, five upper teeth, two lower and a nostril. . . . Old Panna Lal brought him the looking-glass yesterday and he blubbered. . . . I laughed; I laughed, I tell you, and so would you; that used to be one of these buck niggers, I thought, now he's all septic; damn him, blast his soul er I believe he was unspeakably immoral er" He subsided, nudged in the ribs, but added, "I wish I'd had the cutting up of my late assistant too; nothing's too bad for these people." "At last some sense is being talked," Mrs. Turton cried, much to her husband's discomfort. "That's what I say; I say there's not such a thing as cruelty	A Passage To India
"What a box to sweat in!"	Georgette	perspiring. "My God," Georgette said.<\|quote\|>"What a box to sweat in!"</\|quote\|>"It's hot." "Hot, my God!"	we came off the floor perspiring. "My God," Georgette said.<\|quote\|>"What a box to sweat in!"</\|quote\|>"It's hot." "Hot, my God!" "Take off your hat." "That's	on a high stool beside the dancing-floor and began to play the accordion. He had a string of bells around one of his ankles and beat time with his foot as he played. Every one danced. It was hot and we came off the floor perspiring. "My God," Georgette said.<\|quote\|>"What a box to sweat in!"</\|quote\|>"It's hot." "Hot, my God!" "Take off your hat." "That's a good idea." Some one asked Georgette to dance, and I went over to the bar. It was really very hot and the accordion music was pleasant in the hot night. I drank a beer, standing in the doorway and	of the house came downstairs as we went in. There were long benches, and tables ran across the room, and at the far end a dancing-floor. "I wish people would come earlier," Braddocks said. The daughter came up and wanted to know what we would drink. The proprietor got up on a high stool beside the dancing-floor and began to play the accordion. He had a string of bells around one of his ankles and beat time with his foot as he played. Every one danced. It was hot and we came off the floor perspiring. "My God," Georgette said.<\|quote\|>"What a box to sweat in!"</\|quote\|>"It's hot." "Hot, my God!" "Take off your hat." "That's a good idea." Some one asked Georgette to dance, and I went over to the bar. It was really very hot and the accordion music was pleasant in the hot night. I drank a beer, standing in the doorway and getting the cool breath of wind from the street. Two taxis were coming down the steep street. They both stopped in front of the Bal. A crowd of young men, some in jerseys and some in their shirt-sleeves, got out. I could see their hands and newly washed, wavy hair	liked to have kept it up but the coffee came, and Lavigne with the liqueurs, and after that we all went out and started for Braddocks's dancing-club. The dancing-club was a _bal musette_ in the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevi ve. Five nights a week the working people of the Pantheon quarter danced there. One night a week it was the dancing-club. On Monday nights it was closed. When we arrived it was quite empty, except for a policeman sitting near the door, the wife of the proprietor back of the zinc bar, and the proprietor himself. The daughter of the house came downstairs as we went in. There were long benches, and tables ran across the room, and at the far end a dancing-floor. "I wish people would come earlier," Braddocks said. The daughter came up and wanted to know what we would drink. The proprietor got up on a high stool beside the dancing-floor and began to play the accordion. He had a string of bells around one of his ankles and beat time with his foot as he played. Every one danced. It was hot and we came off the floor perspiring. "My God," Georgette said.<\|quote\|>"What a box to sweat in!"</\|quote\|>"It's hot." "Hot, my God!" "Take off your hat." "That's a good idea." Some one asked Georgette to dance, and I went over to the bar. It was really very hot and the accordion music was pleasant in the hot night. I drank a beer, standing in the doorway and getting the cool breath of wind from the street. Two taxis were coming down the steep street. They both stopped in front of the Bal. A crowd of young men, some in jerseys and some in their shirt-sleeves, got out. I could see their hands and newly washed, wavy hair in the light from the door. The policeman standing by the door looked at me and smiled. They came in. As they went in, under the light I saw white hands, wavy hair, white faces, grimacing, gesturing, talking. With them was Brett. She looked very lovely and she was very much with them. One of them saw Georgette and said: "I do declare. There is an actual harlot. I'm going to dance with her, Lett. You watch me." The tall dark one, called Lett, said: "Don't you be rash." The wavy blond one answered: "Don't you worry, dear." And with	said. "Yes," said Georgette. "To laugh at." "Did you hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called down the table to Braddocks. "Mr. Barnes introduced his fianc e as Mademoiselle Leblanc, and her name is actually Hobin." "Of course, darling. Mademoiselle Hobin, I've known her for a very long time." "Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin," Frances Clyne called, speaking French very rapidly and not seeming so proud and astonished as Mrs. Braddocks at its coming out really French. "Have you been in Paris long? Do you like it here? You love Paris, do you not?" "Who's she?" Georgette turned to me. "Do I have to talk to her?" She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed ready to start talking again. "No, I don't like Paris. It's expensive and dirty." "Really? I find it so extraordinarily clean. One of the cleanest cities in all Europe." "I find it dirty." "How strange! But perhaps you have not been here very long." "I've been here long enough." "But it does have nice people in it. One must grant that." Georgette turned to me. "You have nice friends." Frances was a little drunk and would have liked to have kept it up but the coffee came, and Lavigne with the liqueurs, and after that we all went out and started for Braddocks's dancing-club. The dancing-club was a _bal musette_ in the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevi ve. Five nights a week the working people of the Pantheon quarter danced there. One night a week it was the dancing-club. On Monday nights it was closed. When we arrived it was quite empty, except for a policeman sitting near the door, the wife of the proprietor back of the zinc bar, and the proprietor himself. The daughter of the house came downstairs as we went in. There were long benches, and tables ran across the room, and at the far end a dancing-floor. "I wish people would come earlier," Braddocks said. The daughter came up and wanted to know what we would drink. The proprietor got up on a high stool beside the dancing-floor and began to play the accordion. He had a string of bells around one of his ankles and beat time with his foot as he played. Every one danced. It was hot and we came off the floor perspiring. "My God," Georgette said.<\|quote\|>"What a box to sweat in!"</\|quote\|>"It's hot." "Hot, my God!" "Take off your hat." "That's a good idea." Some one asked Georgette to dance, and I went over to the bar. It was really very hot and the accordion music was pleasant in the hot night. I drank a beer, standing in the doorway and getting the cool breath of wind from the street. Two taxis were coming down the steep street. They both stopped in front of the Bal. A crowd of young men, some in jerseys and some in their shirt-sleeves, got out. I could see their hands and newly washed, wavy hair in the light from the door. The policeman standing by the door looked at me and smiled. They came in. As they went in, under the light I saw white hands, wavy hair, white faces, grimacing, gesturing, talking. With them was Brett. She looked very lovely and she was very much with them. One of them saw Georgette and said: "I do declare. There is an actual harlot. I'm going to dance with her, Lett. You watch me." The tall dark one, called Lett, said: "Don't you be rash." The wavy blond one answered: "Don't you worry, dear." And with them was Brett. I was very angry. Somehow they always made me angry. I know they are supposed to be amusing, and you should be tolerant, but I wanted to swing on one, any one, anything to shatter that superior, simpering composure. Instead, I walked down the street and had a beer at the bar at the next Bal. The beer was not good and I had a worse cognac to take the taste out of my mouth. When I came back to the Bal there was a crowd on the floor and Georgette was dancing with the tall blond youth, who danced big-hippily, carrying his head on one side, his eyes lifted as he danced. As soon as the music stopped another one of them asked her to dance. She had been taken up by them. I knew then that they would all dance with her. They are like that. I sat down at a table. Cohn was sitting there. Frances was dancing. Mrs. Braddocks brought up somebody and introduced him as Robert Prentiss. He was from New York by way of Chicago, and was a rising new novelist. He had some sort of an English accent. I asked	shame you're sick. We get on well. What's the matter with you, anyway?" "I got hurt in the war," I said. "Oh, that dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!" "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?" Mrs. Braddocks put in. "You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and had all their easy social graces. "Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went back to the small room. "Who are your friends?" Georgette asked. "Writers and artists." "There are lots of those on this side of the river." "Too many." "I think so. Still, some of them make money." "Oh, yes." We finished the meal and the wine. "Come on," I said. "We're going to have coffee with the others." Georgette opened her bag, made a few passes at her face as she looked in the little mirror, re-defined her lips with the lipstick, and straightened her hat. "Good," she said. We went into the room full of people and Braddocks and the men at his table stood up. "I wish to present my fianc e, Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc," I said. Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round. "Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the singer?" Mrs. Braddocks asked. "Connais pas," Georgette answered. "But you have the same name," Mrs. Braddocks insisted cordially. "No," said Georgette. "Not at all. My name is Hobin." "But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc. Surely he did," insisted Mrs. Braddocks, who in the excitement of talking French was liable to have no idea what she was saying. "He's a fool," Georgette said. "Oh, it was a joke, then," Mrs. Braddocks said. "Yes," said Georgette. "To laugh at." "Did you hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called down the table to Braddocks. "Mr. Barnes introduced his fianc e as Mademoiselle Leblanc, and her name is actually Hobin." "Of course, darling. Mademoiselle Hobin, I've known her for a very long time." "Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin," Frances Clyne called, speaking French very rapidly and not seeming so proud and astonished as Mrs. Braddocks at its coming out really French. "Have you been in Paris long? Do you like it here? You love Paris, do you not?" "Who's she?" Georgette turned to me. "Do I have to talk to her?" She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed ready to start talking again. "No, I don't like Paris. It's expensive and dirty." "Really? I find it so extraordinarily clean. One of the cleanest cities in all Europe." "I find it dirty." "How strange! But perhaps you have not been here very long." "I've been here long enough." "But it does have nice people in it. One must grant that." Georgette turned to me. "You have nice friends." Frances was a little drunk and would have liked to have kept it up but the coffee came, and Lavigne with the liqueurs, and after that we all went out and started for Braddocks's dancing-club. The dancing-club was a _bal musette_ in the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevi ve. Five nights a week the working people of the Pantheon quarter danced there. One night a week it was the dancing-club. On Monday nights it was closed. When we arrived it was quite empty, except for a policeman sitting near the door, the wife of the proprietor back of the zinc bar, and the proprietor himself. The daughter of the house came downstairs as we went in. There were long benches, and tables ran across the room, and at the far end a dancing-floor. "I wish people would come earlier," Braddocks said. The daughter came up and wanted to know what we would drink. The proprietor got up on a high stool beside the dancing-floor and began to play the accordion. He had a string of bells around one of his ankles and beat time with his foot as he played. Every one danced. It was hot and we came off the floor perspiring. "My God," Georgette said.<\|quote\|>"What a box to sweat in!"</\|quote\|>"It's hot." "Hot, my God!" "Take off your hat." "That's a good idea." Some one asked Georgette to dance, and I went over to the bar. It was really very hot and the accordion music was pleasant in the hot night. I drank a beer, standing in the doorway and getting the cool breath of wind from the street. Two taxis were coming down the steep street. They both stopped in front of the Bal. A crowd of young men, some in jerseys and some in their shirt-sleeves, got out. I could see their hands and newly washed, wavy hair in the light from the door. The policeman standing by the door looked at me and smiled. They came in. As they went in, under the light I saw white hands, wavy hair, white faces, grimacing, gesturing, talking. With them was Brett. She looked very lovely and she was very much with them. One of them saw Georgette and said: "I do declare. There is an actual harlot. I'm going to dance with her, Lett. You watch me." The tall dark one, called Lett, said: "Don't you be rash." The wavy blond one answered: "Don't you worry, dear." And with them was Brett. I was very angry. Somehow they always made me angry. I know they are supposed to be amusing, and you should be tolerant, but I wanted to swing on one, any one, anything to shatter that superior, simpering composure. Instead, I walked down the street and had a beer at the bar at the next Bal. The beer was not good and I had a worse cognac to take the taste out of my mouth. When I came back to the Bal there was a crowd on the floor and Georgette was dancing with the tall blond youth, who danced big-hippily, carrying his head on one side, his eyes lifted as he danced. As soon as the music stopped another one of them asked her to dance. She had been taken up by them. I knew then that they would all dance with her. They are like that. I sat down at a table. Cohn was sitting there. Frances was dancing. Mrs. Braddocks brought up somebody and introduced him as Robert Prentiss. He was from New York by way of Chicago, and was a rising new novelist. He had some sort of an English accent. I asked him to have a drink. "Thanks so much," he said, "I've just had one." "Have another." "Thanks, I will then." We got the daughter of the house over and each had a _fine l'eau_. "You're from Kansas City, they tell me," he said. "Yes." "Do you find Paris amusing?" "Yes." "Really?" I was a little drunk. Not drunk in any positive sense but just enough to be careless. "For God's sake," I said, "yes. Don't you?" "Oh, how charmingly you get angry," he said. "I wish I had that faculty." I got up and walked over toward the dancing-floor. Mrs. Braddocks followed me. "Don't be cross with Robert," she said. "He's still only a child, you know." "I wasn't cross," I said. "I just thought perhaps I was going to throw up." "Your fianc e is having a great success," Mrs. Braddocks looked out on the floor where Georgette was dancing in the arms of the tall, dark one, called Lett. "Isn't she?" I said. "Rather," said Mrs. Braddocks. Cohn came up. "Come on, Jake," he said, "have a drink." We walked over to the bar. "What's the matter with you? You seem all worked up over something?" "Nothing. This whole show makes me sick is all." Brett came up to the bar. "Hello, you chaps." "Hello, Brett," I said. "Why aren't you tight?" "Never going to get tight any more. I say, give a chap a brandy and soda." She stood holding the glass and I saw Robert Cohn looking at her. He looked a great deal as his compatriot must have looked when he saw the promised land. Cohn, of course, was much younger. But he had that look of eager, deserving expectation. Brett was damned good-looking. She wore a slipover jersey sweater and a tweed skirt, and her hair was brushed back like a boy's. She started all that. She was built with curves like the hull of a racing yacht, and you missed none of it with that wool jersey. "It's a fine crowd you're with, Brett," I said. "Aren't they lovely? And you, my dear. Where did you get it?" "At the Napolitain." "And have you had a lovely evening?" "Oh, priceless," I said. Brett laughed. "It's wrong of you, Jake. It's an insult to all of us. Look at Frances there, and Jo." This for Cohn's benefit. "It's in restraint of trade," Brett said.	Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round. "Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the singer?" Mrs. Braddocks asked. "Connais pas," Georgette answered. "But you have the same name," Mrs. Braddocks insisted cordially. "No," said Georgette. "Not at all. My name is Hobin." "But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc. Surely he did," insisted Mrs. Braddocks, who in the excitement of talking French was liable to have no idea what she was saying. "He's a fool," Georgette said. "Oh, it was a joke, then," Mrs. Braddocks said. "Yes," said Georgette. "To laugh at." "Did you hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called down the table to Braddocks. "Mr. Barnes introduced his fianc e as Mademoiselle Leblanc, and her name is actually Hobin." "Of course, darling. Mademoiselle Hobin, I've known her for a very long time." "Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin," Frances Clyne called, speaking French very rapidly and not seeming so proud and astonished as Mrs. Braddocks at its coming out really French. "Have you been in Paris long? Do you like it here? You love Paris, do you not?" "Who's she?" Georgette turned to me. "Do I have to talk to her?" She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed ready to start talking again. "No, I don't like Paris. It's expensive and dirty." "Really? I find it so extraordinarily clean. One of the cleanest cities in all Europe." "I find it dirty." "How strange! But perhaps you have not been here very long." "I've been here long enough." "But it does have nice people in it. One must grant that." Georgette turned to me. "You have nice friends." Frances was a little drunk and would have liked to have kept it up but the coffee came, and Lavigne with the liqueurs, and after that we all went out and started for Braddocks's dancing-club. The dancing-club was a _bal musette_ in the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevi ve. Five nights a week the working people of the Pantheon quarter danced there. One night a week it was the dancing-club. On Monday nights it was closed. When we arrived it was quite empty, except for a policeman sitting near the door, the wife of the proprietor back of the zinc bar, and the proprietor himself. The daughter of the house came downstairs as we went in. There were long benches, and tables ran across the room, and at the far end a dancing-floor. "I wish people would come earlier," Braddocks said. The daughter came up and wanted to know what we would drink. The proprietor got up on a high stool beside the dancing-floor and began to play the accordion. He had a string of bells around one of his ankles and beat time with his foot as he played. Every one danced. It was hot and we came off the floor perspiring. "My God," Georgette said.<\|quote\|>"What a box to sweat in!"</\|quote\|>"It's hot." "Hot, my God!" "Take off your hat." "That's a good idea." Some one asked Georgette to dance, and I went over to the bar. It was really very hot and the accordion music was pleasant in the hot night. I drank a beer, standing in the doorway and getting the cool breath of wind from the street. Two taxis were coming down the steep street. They both stopped in front of the Bal. A crowd of young men, some in jerseys and some in their shirt-sleeves, got out. I could see their hands and newly washed, wavy hair in the light from the door. The policeman standing by the door looked at me and smiled. They came in. As they went in, under the light I saw white hands, wavy hair, white faces, grimacing, gesturing, talking. With them was Brett. She looked very lovely and she was very much with them. One of them saw Georgette and said: "I do declare. There is an actual harlot. I'm going to dance with her, Lett. You watch me." The tall dark one, called Lett, said: "Don't you be rash." The wavy blond one answered: "Don't you worry, dear." And with them was Brett. I was very angry. Somehow they always made me angry. I know they are supposed to be amusing, and you should be tolerant, but I wanted to swing on one, any one, anything to shatter that superior, simpering composure. Instead, I walked down the street and had a beer at the bar at the next Bal. The beer was not good and I had a worse cognac to take the taste out of my mouth. When I came back to the Bal there was a crowd on the floor and Georgette was dancing with the tall blond youth, who danced big-hippily, carrying his head on one side, his eyes lifted as he danced. As soon as the music stopped another one of them asked her to dance. She had been taken up by them. I knew then that they would all dance with her. They are like that. I sat down at a table. Cohn was sitting there. Frances was dancing. Mrs. Braddocks brought up somebody and introduced him as Robert Prentiss. He was from New York by way of Chicago, and was a rising new novelist. He had some sort of an English accent. I asked him to have a drink. "Thanks so much," he said, "I've just had one." "Have another." "Thanks, I will then." We got the daughter of the house over and each had a _fine l'eau_. "You're from Kansas City, they tell me," he said. "Yes." "Do you find Paris amusing?" "Yes." "Really?" I was a little drunk. Not drunk in any positive sense but just	The Sun Also Rises
"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."	Mr. Frank Churchill	turning his eyes towards Jane.<\|quote\|>"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."</\|quote\|>But his spirits were soon	she looking well?" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.<\|quote\|>"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."</\|quote\|>But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing	I am particularly glad to see and shake hands with you--and to give you joy in person." He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness. "Is not she looking well?" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.<\|quote\|>"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."</\|quote\|>But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of Dixon.--Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing. "I can never think of it," she cried, "without extreme shame." "The shame," he answered, "is	to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message in one of Mrs. Weston's letters. I hope time has not made you less willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said." "No, indeed," cried Emma, most happy to begin, "not in the least. I am particularly glad to see and shake hands with you--and to give you joy in person." He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness. "Is not she looking well?" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.<\|quote\|>"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."</\|quote\|>But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of Dixon.--Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing. "I can never think of it," she cried, "without extreme shame." "The shame," he answered, "is all mine, or ought to be. But is it possible that you had no suspicion?--I mean of late. Early, I know, you had none." "I never had the smallest, I assure you." "That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near--and I wish I had--it would have been better. But	but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message in one of Mrs. Weston's letters. I hope time has not made you less willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said." "No, indeed," cried Emma, most happy to begin, "not in the least. I am particularly glad to see and shake hands with you--and to give you joy in person." He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness. "Is not she looking well?" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.<\|quote\|>"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."</\|quote\|>But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of Dixon.--Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing. "I can never think of it," she cried, "without extreme shame." "The shame," he answered, "is all mine, or ought to be. But is it possible that you had no suspicion?--I mean of late. Early, I know, you had none." "I never had the smallest, I assure you." "That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near--and I wish I had--it would have been better. But though I was always doing wrong things, they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no service.--It would have been a much better transgression had I broken the bond of secrecy and told you every thing." "It is not now worth a regret," said Emma. "I have some hope," resumed he, "of my uncle's being persuaded to pay a visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust, till we may carry her northward.--But now, I am at such a	be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message in one of Mrs. Weston's letters. I hope time has not made you less willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said." "No, indeed," cried Emma, most happy to begin, "not in the least. I am particularly glad to see and shake hands with you--and to give you joy in person." He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness. "Is not she looking well?" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.<\|quote\|>"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."</\|quote\|>But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of Dixon.--Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing. "I can never think of it," she cried, "without extreme shame." "The shame," he answered, "is all mine, or ought to be. But is it possible that you had no suspicion?--I mean of late. Early, I know, you had none." "I never had the smallest, I assure you." "That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near--and I wish I had--it would have been better. But though I was always doing wrong things, they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no service.--It would have been a much better transgression had I broken the bond of secrecy and told you every thing." "It is not now worth a regret," said Emma. "I have some hope," resumed he, "of my uncle's being persuaded to pay a visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust, till we may carry her northward.--But now, I am at such a distance from her--is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?--Till this morning, we have not once met since the day of reconciliation. Do not you pity me?" Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay thought, he cried, "Ah! by the bye," then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the moment--" "I hope Mr. Knightley is well?" He paused.--She coloured and laughed.--" "I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish in your favour. Let me return your congratulations.--I assure you that I have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction.--He is a man whom I cannot presume to praise." Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style; but his mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane, and his next words were, "Did you ever see such a skin?--such smoothness! such delicacy!--and yet without being actually fair.--One cannot call her fair. It is a most uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair--a most distinguishing complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.--Just colour enough for beauty." "I have always admired her complexion," replied Emma, archly; "but	get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--" "Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message in one of Mrs. Weston's letters. I hope time has not made you less willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said." "No, indeed," cried Emma, most happy to begin, "not in the least. I am particularly glad to see and shake hands with you--and to give you joy in person." He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness. "Is not she looking well?" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.<\|quote\|>"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."</\|quote\|>But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of Dixon.--Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing. "I can never think of it," she cried, "without extreme shame." "The shame," he answered, "is all mine, or ought to be. But is it possible that you had no suspicion?--I mean of late. Early, I know, you had none." "I never had the smallest, I assure you." "That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near--and I wish I had--it would have been better. But though I was always doing wrong things, they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no service.--It would have been a much better transgression had I broken the bond of secrecy and told you every thing." "It is not now worth a regret," said Emma. "I have some hope," resumed he, "of my uncle's being persuaded to pay a visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust, till we may carry her northward.--But now, I am at such a distance from her--is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?--Till this morning, we have not once met since the day of reconciliation. Do not you pity me?" Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay thought, he cried, "Ah! by the bye," then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the moment--" "I hope Mr. Knightley is well?" He paused.--She coloured and laughed.--" "I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish in your favour. Let me return your congratulations.--I assure you that I have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction.--He is a man whom I cannot presume to praise." Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style; but his mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane, and his next words were, "Did you ever see such a skin?--such smoothness! such delicacy!--and yet without being actually fair.--One cannot call her fair. It is a most uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair--a most distinguishing complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.--Just colour enough for beauty." "I have always admired her complexion," replied Emma, archly; "but do not I remember the time when you found fault with her for being so pale?--When we first began to talk of her.--Have you quite forgotten?" "Oh! no--what an impudent dog I was!--How could I dare--" But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not help saying, "I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that time, you had very great amusement in tricking us all.--I am sure you had.--I am sure it was a consolation to you." "Oh! no, no, no--how can you suspect me of such a thing? I was the most miserable wretch!" "Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth. I am sure it was a source of high entertainment to you, to feel that you were taking us all in.--Perhaps I am the readier to suspect, because, to tell you the truth, I think it might have been some amusement to myself in the same situation. I think there is a little likeness between us." He bowed. "If not in our dispositions," she presently added, with a look of true sensibility, "there is a likeness in our destiny; the destiny which bids fair to connect us with two characters so much superior to our own." "True, true," he answered, warmly. "No, not true on your side. You can have no superior, but most true on mine.--She is a complete angel. Look at her. Is not she an angel in every gesture? Observe the turn of her throat. Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father.--You will be glad to hear" (inclining his head, and whispering seriously) "that my uncle means to give her all my aunt's jewels. They are to be new set. I am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head. Will not it be beautiful in her dark hair?" "Very beautiful, indeed," replied Emma; and she spoke so kindly, that he gratefully burst out, "How delighted I am to see you again! and to see you in such excellent looks!--I would not have missed this meeting for the world. I should certainly have called at Hartfield, had you failed to come." The others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Weston giving an account of a little alarm she had been under, the evening before, from the infant's appearing not quite well. She believed she had been foolish, but	him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message in one of Mrs. Weston's letters. I hope time has not made you less willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said." "No, indeed," cried Emma, most happy to begin, "not in the least. I am particularly glad to see and shake hands with you--and to give you joy in person." He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness. "Is not she looking well?" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.<\|quote\|>"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."</\|quote\|>But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of Dixon.--Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing. "I can never think of it," she cried, "without extreme shame." "The shame," he answered, "is all mine, or ought to be. But is it possible that you had no suspicion?--I mean of late. Early, I know, you had none." "I never had the smallest, I assure you." "That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near--and I wish I had--it would have been better. But though I was always doing wrong things, they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no service.--It would have been a much better transgression had I broken the bond of secrecy and told you every thing." "It is not now worth a regret," said Emma. "I have some hope," resumed he, "of my uncle's being persuaded to pay a visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust, till we may carry her northward.--But now, I am at such a distance from her--is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?--Till this morning, we have not once met since the day of reconciliation. Do not you pity me?" Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay thought, he cried, "Ah! by the bye," then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the moment--" "I hope Mr. Knightley is well?" He paused.--She coloured and laughed.--" "I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish in your favour. Let me return your congratulations.--I assure you that I have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction.--He is a man whom I cannot presume to praise." Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style; but his mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane, and his next words were, "Did you ever see such a skin?--such smoothness! such delicacy!--and yet without being actually fair.--One cannot call her fair. It is a most uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair--a most distinguishing complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.--Just colour enough for beauty." "I have always admired her complexion," replied Emma, archly; "but do not I remember the time when you found fault with her for being so pale?--When we first began to talk of her.--Have you quite forgotten?" "Oh! no--what an impudent dog I was!--How could I dare--" But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not help saying, "I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that time, you had very great amusement in tricking us all.--I am sure you had.--I am sure it was a consolation to you." "Oh! no, no, no--how can you suspect me of such a thing? I was the most miserable wretch!" "Not quite so	Emma
"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man."	Lord Henry	is to be my wife."<\|quote\|>"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man."</\|quote\|>"Your letter? Oh, yes, I	my word to her. She is to be my wife."<\|quote\|>"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man."</\|quote\|>"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read	what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don t say it. Don t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife."<\|quote\|>"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man."</\|quote\|>"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and	soul being hideous." "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?" "By marrying Sibyl Vane." "Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian" "Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don t say it. Don t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife."<\|quote\|>"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man."</\|quote\|>"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian," he said, "my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet,	myself better." "Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours." "I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head and smiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don t sneer at it, Harry, any more at least not before me. I want to be good. I can t bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?" "By marrying Sibyl Vane." "Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian" "Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don t say it. Don t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife."<\|quote\|>"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man."</\|quote\|>"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian," he said, "my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry s grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?" "It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one s _d	me in at once. I can t bear your shutting yourself up like this." He made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking still continued and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the door. "I am so sorry for it all, Dorian," said Lord Henry as he entered. "But you must not think too much about it." "Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?" asked the lad. "Yes, of course," answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair and slowly pulling off his yellow gloves. "It is dreadful, from one point of view, but it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her, after the play was over?" "Yes." "I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?" "I was brutal, Harry perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know myself better." "Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours." "I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head and smiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don t sneer at it, Harry, any more at least not before me. I want to be good. I can t bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?" "By marrying Sibyl Vane." "Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian" "Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don t say it. Don t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife."<\|quote\|>"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man."</\|quote\|>"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian," he said, "my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry s grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?" "It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one s _d but_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one s old age. I suppose they don t know your name at the theatre? If they don t, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point." Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl ? Oh, Harry, I can t bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once." "I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead	That such a change should have taken place was incredible to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there some subtle affinity between the chemical atoms that shaped themselves into form and colour on the canvas and the soul that was within him? Could it be that what that soul thought, they realized? that what it dreamed, they made true? Or was there some other, more terrible reason? He shuddered, and felt afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the picture in sickened horror. One thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It had made him conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane. It was not too late to make reparation for that. She could still be his wife. His unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the fear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls. Three o clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double chime, but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness. He covered page after page with wild words of sorrow and wilder words of pain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian had finished the letter, he felt that he had been forgiven. Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry s voice outside. "My dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at once. I can t bear your shutting yourself up like this." He made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking still continued and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the door. "I am so sorry for it all, Dorian," said Lord Henry as he entered. "But you must not think too much about it." "Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?" asked the lad. "Yes, of course," answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair and slowly pulling off his yellow gloves. "It is dreadful, from one point of view, but it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her, after the play was over?" "Yes." "I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?" "I was brutal, Harry perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know myself better." "Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours." "I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head and smiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don t sneer at it, Harry, any more at least not before me. I want to be good. I can t bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?" "By marrying Sibyl Vane." "Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian" "Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don t say it. Don t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife."<\|quote\|>"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man."</\|quote\|>"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian," he said, "my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry s grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?" "It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one s _d but_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one s old age. I suppose they don t know your name at the theatre? If they don t, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point." Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl ? Oh, Harry, I can t bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once." "I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously." "Harry, Harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. "Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn t let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister s box. She has got some smart women with her." "So I have murdered Sibyl Vane," said Dorian Gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go on to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was everything to me. Then came that dreadful night was it really only last night? when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a bit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly something happened that made me afraid. I can t tell you what it was, but it was terrible. I said I would go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My God! My God! Harry, what shall I do? You don t know the danger I am in, and there	sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know myself better." "Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours." "I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head and smiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don t sneer at it, Harry, any more at least not before me. I want to be good. I can t bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?" "By marrying Sibyl Vane." "Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian" "Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don t say it. Don t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife."<\|quote\|>"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man."</\|quote\|>"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "You know nothing then?" "What do you mean?" Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian," he said, "my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead." A cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry s grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?" "It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one s _d but_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one s old age. I suppose they don t know your name at the theatre? If they don t, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point." Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl ? Oh, Harry, I can t bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once." "I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously." "Harry, Harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. "Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn t let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister s box. She has got some smart women with	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles.	No speaker	we don t want leave."<\|quote\|>But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles.</\|quote\|>"Charles may say no," grumbled	now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave."<\|quote\|>But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles.</\|quote\|>"Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult	that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave."<\|quote\|>But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles.</\|quote\|>"Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped	the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave."<\|quote\|>But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles.</\|quote\|>"Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in	say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little," said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave."<\|quote\|>But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles.</\|quote\|>"Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly,	in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little," said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave."<\|quote\|>But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles.</\|quote\|>"Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who had not been "told," ran out with offers of tea. He refused them, and ordered them to wheel baby s perambulator away, as they desired to be alone. "But the diddums can t listen; he isn t nine months old," she pleaded. "That s not what I was saying," retorted her father-in-law. Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear about the crisis till later years. It was now the turn of Margaret. "Is it what we feared?" he asked. "It is." "Dear girl," he began, "there is a troublesome business ahead of us, and nothing but the most absolute honesty and plain speech will see us through." Margaret bent her head. "I am obliged to question you on subjects we d both prefer to leave untouched. As you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who consider nothing sacred. To speak as I must will pain me, but there are occasions--We are husband and wife, not children. I am a man of the world, and you are a most exceptional woman." All Margaret s senses forsook her. She blushed, and looked past him at the Six Hills, covered with spring herbage. Noting her colour,	the stacks last week?" The child hung his head. "Well, run away and do it again." "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what s your name? Mine s Helen." "Tom." That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return. "Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we ve another called Tibby." "Mine are lop-eareds," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. "You re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.--Isn t he charming?" "Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers." "What do you mean?" "I don t know." "Because I probably agree with you." "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live." "I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago." "Meaning that I was dead. I felt it." "Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I ve a startling idea." "What is it?" "Drink some milk to steady you." Margaret obeyed. "No, I won t tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little," said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave."<\|quote\|>But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles.</\|quote\|>"Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who had not been "told," ran out with offers of tea. He refused them, and ordered them to wheel baby s perambulator away, as they desired to be alone. "But the diddums can t listen; he isn t nine months old," she pleaded. "That s not what I was saying," retorted her father-in-law. Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear about the crisis till later years. It was now the turn of Margaret. "Is it what we feared?" he asked. "It is." "Dear girl," he began, "there is a troublesome business ahead of us, and nothing but the most absolute honesty and plain speech will see us through." Margaret bent her head. "I am obliged to question you on subjects we d both prefer to leave untouched. As you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who consider nothing sacred. To speak as I must will pain me, but there are occasions--We are husband and wife, not children. I am a man of the world, and you are a most exceptional woman." All Margaret s senses forsook her. She blushed, and looked past him at the Six Hills, covered with spring herbage. Noting her colour, he grew still more kind. "I see that you feel as I felt when--My poor little wife! Oh, be brave! Just one or two questions, and I have done with you. Was your sister wearing a wedding-ring?" Margaret stammered a "No." There was an appalling silence. "Henry, I really came to ask a favour about Howards End." "One point at a time. I am now obliged to ask for the name of her seducer." She rose to her feet and held the chair between them. Her colour had ebbed, and she was grey. It did not displease him that she should receive his question thus. "Take your time," he counselled her. "Remember that this is far worse for me than for you." She swayed; he feared she was going to faint. Then speech came, and she said slowly: "Seducer? No; I do not know her seducer s name." "Would she not tell you?" "I never even asked her who seduced her," said Margaret, dwelling on the hateful word thoughtfully. "That is singular." Then he changed his mind. "Natural perhaps, dear girl, that you shouldn t ask. But until his name is known, nothing can be done. Sit down. How terrible it is to see you so upset! I knew you weren t fit for it. I wish I hadn t taken you." Margaret answered, "I like to stand, if you don t mind, for it gives me a pleasant view of the Six Hills." "As you like." "Have you anything else to ask me, Henry?" "Next you must tell me whether you have gathered anything. I have often noticed your insight, dear. I only wish my own was as good. You may have guessed something, even though your sister said nothing. The slightest hint would help us." "Who is we ?" "I thought it best to ring up Charles." "That was unnecessary," said Margaret, growing warmer. "This news will give Charles disproportionate pain." "He has at once gone to call on your brother." "That too was unnecessary." "Let me explain, dear, how the matter stands. You don t think that I and my son are other than gentlemen? It is in Helen s interests that we are acting. It is still not too late to save her name." Then Margaret hit out for the first time. "Are we to make her seducer marry her?" she asked. "If possible, yes." "But,	wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little," said Helen, taking fire. "I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave."<\|quote\|>But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles.</\|quote\|>"Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who had not been "told," ran out with offers of tea. He refused them, and ordered them to wheel baby s perambulator away, as they desired to be alone. "But the diddums can t listen; he isn t nine months old," she pleaded. "That s not what I was saying," retorted her father-in-law. Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear about the crisis till later years. It was now the turn of Margaret. "Is it what we feared?" he asked. "It is." "Dear girl," he began, "there is a troublesome business ahead of us, and nothing but the most absolute honesty and plain speech will see us through." Margaret bent her head. "I am obliged to question you on subjects we d both prefer to leave untouched. As you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who consider nothing	Howards End
said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes,	No speaker	nothing. Like a jar." "Well,"<\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes,</\|quote\|>"I shall go and look	don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well,"<\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes,</\|quote\|>"I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet	hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well,"<\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes,</\|quote\|>"I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against	"Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well,"<\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes,</\|quote\|>"I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the	tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down. "Help, help!" cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well,"<\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes,</\|quote\|>"I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water. "Pathetic," he said.	the trap, here he would be, in bed all the morning, simply wasting his time for nothing. What should he do? And then he had a Clever Idea. He would go up very quietly to the Six Pine Trees now, peep very cautiously into the Trap, and see if there _was_ a Heffalump there. And if there was, he would go back to bed, and if there wasn't, he wouldn't. So off he went. At first he thought that there wouldn't be a Heffalump in the Trap, and then he thought that there would, and as he got nearer he was _sure_ that there would, because he could hear it heffalumping about it like anything. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" said Piglet to himself. And he wanted to run away. But somehow, having got so near, he felt that he must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down. "Help, help!" cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well,"<\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes,</\|quote\|>"I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water. "Pathetic," he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from _this_ side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is." There was a crackling noise in the bracken behind him, and out came Pooh. "Good morning, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it _is_ a good morning," he said. "Which I doubt," said he. "Why, what's the matter?" "Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it." "Can't all _what_?" said Pooh, rubbing his nose. "Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush." "Oh!" said Pooh. He thought for a long time, and then asked, "What mulberry bush is that?" "Bon-hommy," went on Eeyore gloomily. "French word meaning bonhommy," he explained. "I'm not complaining, but There It Is." Pooh sat down on a large stone, and tried to think this out. It sounded to him like a riddle, and he was never much good at riddles, being a Bear	itself, "Very good honey this, I don't know when I've tasted better," Pooh could bear it no longer. He jumped out of bed, he ran out of the house, and he ran straight to the Six Pine Trees. The Sun was still in bed, but there was a lightness in the sky over the Hundred Acre Wood which seemed to show that it was waking up and would soon be kicking off the clothes. In the half-light the Pine Trees looked cold and lonely, and the Very Deep Pit seemed deeper than it was, and Pooh's jar of honey at the bottom was something mysterious, a shape and no more. But as he got nearer to it his nose told him that it was indeed honey, and his tongue came out and began to polish up his mouth, ready for it. "Bother!" said Pooh, as he got his nose inside the jar. "A Heffalump has been eating it!" And then he thought a little and said, "Oh, no, _I_ did. I forgot." Indeed, he had eaten most of it. But there was a little left at the very bottom of the jar, and he pushed his head right in, and began to lick.... By and by Piglet woke up. As soon as he woke he said to himself, "Oh!" Then he said bravely, "Yes," and then, still more bravely, "Quite so." But he didn't feel very brave, for the word which was really jiggeting about in his brain was "Heffalumps." What was a Heffalump like? Was it Fierce? _Did_ it come when you whistled? And _how_ did it come? Was it Fond of Pigs at all? If it was Fond of Pigs, did it make any difference _what sort of Pig_? Supposing it was Fierce with Pigs, would it make any difference _if the Pig had a grandfather called TRESPASSERS WILLIAM_? He didn't know the answer to any of these questions ... and he was going to see his first Heffalump in about an hour from now! Of course Pooh would be with him, and it was much more Friendly with two. But suppose Heffalumps were Very Fierce with Pigs _and_ Bears? Wouldn't it be better to pretend that he had a headache, and couldn't go up to the Six Pine Trees this morning? But then suppose that it was a very fine day, and there was no Heffalump in the trap, here he would be, in bed all the morning, simply wasting his time for nothing. What should he do? And then he had a Clever Idea. He would go up very quietly to the Six Pine Trees now, peep very cautiously into the Trap, and see if there _was_ a Heffalump there. And if there was, he would go back to bed, and if there wasn't, he wouldn't. So off he went. At first he thought that there wouldn't be a Heffalump in the Trap, and then he thought that there would, and as he got nearer he was _sure_ that there would, because he could hear it heffalumping about it like anything. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" said Piglet to himself. And he wanted to run away. But somehow, having got so near, he felt that he must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down. "Help, help!" cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well,"<\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes,</\|quote\|>"I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water. "Pathetic," he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from _this_ side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is." There was a crackling noise in the bracken behind him, and out came Pooh. "Good morning, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it _is_ a good morning," he said. "Which I doubt," said he. "Why, what's the matter?" "Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it." "Can't all _what_?" said Pooh, rubbing his nose. "Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush." "Oh!" said Pooh. He thought for a long time, and then asked, "What mulberry bush is that?" "Bon-hommy," went on Eeyore gloomily. "French word meaning bonhommy," he explained. "I'm not complaining, but There It Is." Pooh sat down on a large stone, and tried to think this out. It sounded to him like a riddle, and he was never much good at riddles, being a Bear of Very Little Brain. So he sang _Cottleston Pie_ instead: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, A fly can't bird, but a bird can fly. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie._"" That was the first verse. When he had finished it, Eeyore didn't actually say that he didn't like it, so Pooh very kindly sang the second verse to him: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, A fish can't whistle and neither can I. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie_."" Eeyore still said nothing at all, so Pooh hummed the third verse quietly to himself: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, Why does a chicken, I don't know why. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie_."" "That's right," said Eeyore. "Sing. Umty-tiddly, umty-too. Here we go gathering Nuts and May. Enjoy yourself." "I am," said Pooh. "Some can," said Eeyore. "Why, what's the matter?" "_Is_ anything the matter?" "You seem so sad, Eeyore." "Sad? Why should I be sad? It's my birthday. The happiest day of the year." "Your birthday?" said Pooh in great surprise. "Of course it is. Can't you see? Look at all the presents I have had." He waved a foot from side to side. "Look at the birthday cake. Candles and pink sugar." Pooh looked--first to the right and then to the left. "Presents?" said Pooh. "Birthday cake?" said Pooh. "_Where?_" "Can't you see them?" "No," said Pooh. "Neither can I," said Eeyore. "Joke," he explained. "Ha ha!" Pooh scratched his head, being a little puzzled by all this. "But is it really your birthday?" he asked. "It is." "Oh! Well, Many happy returns of the day, Eeyore." "And many happy returns to you, Pooh Bear." "But it isn't _my_ birthday." "No, it's mine." "But you said 'Many happy returns'----" "Well, why not? You don't always want to be miserable on my birthday, do you?" "Oh, I see," said Pooh. "It's bad enough," said Eeyore, almost breaking down, "being miserable myself, what with no presents and no cake and no candles, and no proper notice taken of me at all, but if everybody else is going to be miserable too----" This was too much for Pooh. "Stay there!" he called to Eeyore, as he turned and hurried back home as quick as he could; for he felt that he must get poor Eeyore a present of _some_ sort	did it make any difference _what sort of Pig_? Supposing it was Fierce with Pigs, would it make any difference _if the Pig had a grandfather called TRESPASSERS WILLIAM_? He didn't know the answer to any of these questions ... and he was going to see his first Heffalump in about an hour from now! Of course Pooh would be with him, and it was much more Friendly with two. But suppose Heffalumps were Very Fierce with Pigs _and_ Bears? Wouldn't it be better to pretend that he had a headache, and couldn't go up to the Six Pine Trees this morning? But then suppose that it was a very fine day, and there was no Heffalump in the trap, here he would be, in bed all the morning, simply wasting his time for nothing. What should he do? And then he had a Clever Idea. He would go up very quietly to the Six Pine Trees now, peep very cautiously into the Trap, and see if there _was_ a Heffalump there. And if there was, he would go back to bed, and if there wasn't, he wouldn't. So off he went. At first he thought that there wouldn't be a Heffalump in the Trap, and then he thought that there would, and as he got nearer he was _sure_ that there would, because he could hear it heffalumping about it like anything. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" said Piglet to himself. And he wanted to run away. But somehow, having got so near, he felt that he must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down. "Help, help!" cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well,"<\|quote\|>said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes,</\|quote\|>"I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water. "Pathetic," he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from _this_ side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is." There was a crackling noise	Winnie The Pooh
"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."	Mrs. Honeychurch	pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<\|quote\|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</\|quote\|>The explanation seemed plausible, and	Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<\|quote\|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</\|quote\|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it.	'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<\|quote\|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</\|quote\|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was	spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<\|quote\|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</\|quote\|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it,	he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<\|quote\|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</\|quote\|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat	"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<\|quote\|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</\|quote\|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a	but she can't have said" 'No' "properly before, or she wouldn't have to say it again now. Over the whole thing--I can't explain--I do feel so uncomfortable." "Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!" "I feel--never mind." He returned to his work. "Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'" "Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." "I said:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading, "I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded. "What do you mean?" "He asked me for my permission also." She exclaimed: "How very odd of him!" "Why so?" asked the son and heir. "Why shouldn't my permission be asked?" "What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?" "I said to Cecil," 'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'" "What a helpful answer!" But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect. "The bother is this," began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window. "Freddy, you must come. There they still are!" "I don't see you ought to go peeping like that." "Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?" But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, "Still page 322?" Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased. "The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully." He gave a nervous gulp. "Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said," 'I don't mind' "--well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn't off my head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn't it a splendid thing for Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have an answer--he said it would strengthen his hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<\|quote\|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</\|quote\|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'll stop at" 'because she tells me everything.' "Or shall I cross that out, too?" "Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in. "Then the whole thing runs:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know--'" "Look out!" cried Freddy. The curtains parted. Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world. Cecil entered. Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance. "Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--" "oh, Cecil, do tell me!" "I promessi sposi," said he. They stared at him anxiously. "She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. "I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences. "Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy." "I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling. "We mothers--" simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic--all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who	Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain."<\|quote\|>"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."</\|quote\|>The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' "Then I put in at the top," 'and I have told Lucy so.' "I must write the letter out again--" 'and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.' "I said that because I didn't want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--" "Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?" "Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--" 'Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.' "No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing.	A Room With A View
"Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?"	Katharine Hilbery	where I can see you."<\|quote\|>"Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?"</\|quote\|>she asked. "For ever, so	that I want to be where I can see you."<\|quote\|>"Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?"</\|quote\|>she asked. "For ever, so far as I m concerned,"	can t remember where it is oh, of course it s Oxford. Now, what about your cottage?" "I m not going to take it." "How you change your mind!" she smiled. "It s not that," he said impatiently. "It s that I want to be where I can see you."<\|quote\|>"Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?"</\|quote\|>she asked. "For ever, so far as I m concerned," he replied. "You re going to go on dreaming and imagining and making up stories about me as you walk along the street, and pretending that we re riding in a forest, or landing on an island" "No. I shall	put it off for some time in fact." "That s rather hard on him, isn t it?" Ralph asked. "He has his work," she replied. "He has lots of things that interest him.... I know I ve been to that place," she broke off, pointing to a photograph. "But I can t remember where it is oh, of course it s Oxford. Now, what about your cottage?" "I m not going to take it." "How you change your mind!" she smiled. "It s not that," he said impatiently. "It s that I want to be where I can see you."<\|quote\|>"Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?"</\|quote\|>she asked. "For ever, so far as I m concerned," he replied. "You re going to go on dreaming and imagining and making up stories about me as you walk along the street, and pretending that we re riding in a forest, or landing on an island" "No. I shall think of you ordering dinner, paying bills, doing the accounts, showing old ladies the relics" "That s better," she said. "You can think of me to-morrow morning looking up dates in the Dictionary of National Biography." "And forgetting your purse," Ralph added. At this she smiled, but in another moment	one or two cases where it seems to be true." He hoped that she would go on with the subject. But she made no reply. He had done his best to master himself, and his voice was sufficiently indifferent, but her silence tormented him. She would never speak to him of Rodney of her own accord, and her reserve left a whole continent of her soul in darkness. "It may be put off even longer than that," she said, as if by an afterthought. "Some one in the office is ill, and William has to take his place. We may put it off for some time in fact." "That s rather hard on him, isn t it?" Ralph asked. "He has his work," she replied. "He has lots of things that interest him.... I know I ve been to that place," she broke off, pointing to a photograph. "But I can t remember where it is oh, of course it s Oxford. Now, what about your cottage?" "I m not going to take it." "How you change your mind!" she smiled. "It s not that," he said impatiently. "It s that I want to be where I can see you."<\|quote\|>"Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?"</\|quote\|>she asked. "For ever, so far as I m concerned," he replied. "You re going to go on dreaming and imagining and making up stories about me as you walk along the street, and pretending that we re riding in a forest, or landing on an island" "No. I shall think of you ordering dinner, paying bills, doing the accounts, showing old ladies the relics" "That s better," she said. "You can think of me to-morrow morning looking up dates in the Dictionary of National Biography." "And forgetting your purse," Ralph added. At this she smiled, but in another moment her smile faded, either because of his words or of the way in which he spoke them. She was capable of forgetting things. He saw that. But what more did he see? Was he not looking at something she had never shown to anybody? Was it not something so profound that the notion of his seeing it almost shocked her? Her smile faded, and for a moment she seemed upon the point of speaking, but looking at him in silence, with a look that seemed to ask what she could not put into words, she turned and bade him good	suppose, being in love; as a matter of fact it s being in delusion. All romantic people are the same," she added. "My mother spends her life in making stories about the people she s fond of. But I won t have you do it about me, if I can help it." "You can t help it," he said. "I warn you it s the source of all evil." "And of all good," he added. "You ll find out that I m not what you think me." "Perhaps. But I shall gain more than I lose." "If such gain s worth having." They were silent for a space. "That may be what we have to face," he said. "There may be nothing else. Nothing but what we imagine." "The reason of our loneliness," she mused, and they were silent for a time. "When are you to be married?" he asked abruptly, with a change of tone. "Not till September, I think. It s been put off." "You won t be lonely then," he said. "According to what people say, marriage is a very queer business. They say it s different from anything else. It may be true. I ve known one or two cases where it seems to be true." He hoped that she would go on with the subject. But she made no reply. He had done his best to master himself, and his voice was sufficiently indifferent, but her silence tormented him. She would never speak to him of Rodney of her own accord, and her reserve left a whole continent of her soul in darkness. "It may be put off even longer than that," she said, as if by an afterthought. "Some one in the office is ill, and William has to take his place. We may put it off for some time in fact." "That s rather hard on him, isn t it?" Ralph asked. "He has his work," she replied. "He has lots of things that interest him.... I know I ve been to that place," she broke off, pointing to a photograph. "But I can t remember where it is oh, of course it s Oxford. Now, what about your cottage?" "I m not going to take it." "How you change your mind!" she smiled. "It s not that," he said impatiently. "It s that I want to be where I can see you."<\|quote\|>"Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?"</\|quote\|>she asked. "For ever, so far as I m concerned," he replied. "You re going to go on dreaming and imagining and making up stories about me as you walk along the street, and pretending that we re riding in a forest, or landing on an island" "No. I shall think of you ordering dinner, paying bills, doing the accounts, showing old ladies the relics" "That s better," she said. "You can think of me to-morrow morning looking up dates in the Dictionary of National Biography." "And forgetting your purse," Ralph added. At this she smiled, but in another moment her smile faded, either because of his words or of the way in which he spoke them. She was capable of forgetting things. He saw that. But what more did he see? Was he not looking at something she had never shown to anybody? Was it not something so profound that the notion of his seeing it almost shocked her? Her smile faded, and for a moment she seemed upon the point of speaking, but looking at him in silence, with a look that seemed to ask what she could not put into words, she turned and bade him good night. CHAPTER XXVIII Like a strain of music, the effect of Katharine s presence slowly died from the room in which Ralph sat alone. The music had ceased in the rapture of its melody. He strained to catch the faintest lingering echoes; for a moment the memory lulled him into peace; but soon it failed, and he paced the room so hungry for the sound to come again that he was conscious of no other desire left in life. She had gone without speaking; abruptly a chasm had been cut in his course, down which the tide of his being plunged in disorder; fell upon rocks; flung itself to destruction. The distress had an effect of physical ruin and disaster. He trembled; he was white; he felt exhausted, as if by a great physical effort. He sank at last into a chair standing opposite her empty one, and marked, mechanically, with his eye upon the clock, how she went farther and farther from him, was home now, and now, doubtless, again with Rodney. But it was long before he could realize these facts; the immense desire for her presence churned his senses into foam, into froth, into a haze of	him, and from his fixed stare she thought that he must be working out some theory, some argument. He had thought, perhaps, of some fresh point in his position, as to the bounds of personal liberty. She waited, silently, thinking about liberty. "You ve won again," he said at last, without moving. "I ve won?" she repeated, thinking of the argument. "I wish to God I hadn t asked you here," he burst out. "What do you mean?" "When you re here, it s different I m happy. You ve only to walk to the window you ve only to talk about liberty. When I saw you down there among them all" He stopped short. "You thought how ordinary I was." "I tried to think so. But I thought you more wonderful than ever." An immense relief, and a reluctance to enjoy that relief, conflicted in her heart. She slid down into the chair. "I thought you disliked me," she said. "God knows I tried," he replied. "I ve done my best to see you as you are, without any of this damned romantic nonsense. That was why I asked you here, and it s increased my folly. When you re gone I shall look out of that window and think of you. I shall waste the whole evening thinking of you. I shall waste my whole life, I believe." He spoke with such vehemence that her relief disappeared; she frowned; and her tone changed to one almost of severity. "This is what I foretold. We shall gain nothing but unhappiness. Look at me, Ralph." He looked at her. "I assure you that I m far more ordinary than I appear. Beauty means nothing whatever. In fact, the most beautiful women are generally the most stupid. I m not that, but I m a matter-of-fact, prosaic, rather ordinary character; I order the dinner, I pay the bills, I do the accounts, I wind up the clock, and I never look at a book." "You forget" he began, but she would not let him speak. "You come and see me among flowers and pictures, and think me mysterious, romantic, and all the rest of it. Being yourself very inexperienced and very emotional, you go home and invent a story about me, and now you can t separate me from the person you ve imagined me to be. You call that, I suppose, being in love; as a matter of fact it s being in delusion. All romantic people are the same," she added. "My mother spends her life in making stories about the people she s fond of. But I won t have you do it about me, if I can help it." "You can t help it," he said. "I warn you it s the source of all evil." "And of all good," he added. "You ll find out that I m not what you think me." "Perhaps. But I shall gain more than I lose." "If such gain s worth having." They were silent for a space. "That may be what we have to face," he said. "There may be nothing else. Nothing but what we imagine." "The reason of our loneliness," she mused, and they were silent for a time. "When are you to be married?" he asked abruptly, with a change of tone. "Not till September, I think. It s been put off." "You won t be lonely then," he said. "According to what people say, marriage is a very queer business. They say it s different from anything else. It may be true. I ve known one or two cases where it seems to be true." He hoped that she would go on with the subject. But she made no reply. He had done his best to master himself, and his voice was sufficiently indifferent, but her silence tormented him. She would never speak to him of Rodney of her own accord, and her reserve left a whole continent of her soul in darkness. "It may be put off even longer than that," she said, as if by an afterthought. "Some one in the office is ill, and William has to take his place. We may put it off for some time in fact." "That s rather hard on him, isn t it?" Ralph asked. "He has his work," she replied. "He has lots of things that interest him.... I know I ve been to that place," she broke off, pointing to a photograph. "But I can t remember where it is oh, of course it s Oxford. Now, what about your cottage?" "I m not going to take it." "How you change your mind!" she smiled. "It s not that," he said impatiently. "It s that I want to be where I can see you."<\|quote\|>"Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?"</\|quote\|>she asked. "For ever, so far as I m concerned," he replied. "You re going to go on dreaming and imagining and making up stories about me as you walk along the street, and pretending that we re riding in a forest, or landing on an island" "No. I shall think of you ordering dinner, paying bills, doing the accounts, showing old ladies the relics" "That s better," she said. "You can think of me to-morrow morning looking up dates in the Dictionary of National Biography." "And forgetting your purse," Ralph added. At this she smiled, but in another moment her smile faded, either because of his words or of the way in which he spoke them. She was capable of forgetting things. He saw that. But what more did he see? Was he not looking at something she had never shown to anybody? Was it not something so profound that the notion of his seeing it almost shocked her? Her smile faded, and for a moment she seemed upon the point of speaking, but looking at him in silence, with a look that seemed to ask what she could not put into words, she turned and bade him good night. CHAPTER XXVIII Like a strain of music, the effect of Katharine s presence slowly died from the room in which Ralph sat alone. The music had ceased in the rapture of its melody. He strained to catch the faintest lingering echoes; for a moment the memory lulled him into peace; but soon it failed, and he paced the room so hungry for the sound to come again that he was conscious of no other desire left in life. She had gone without speaking; abruptly a chasm had been cut in his course, down which the tide of his being plunged in disorder; fell upon rocks; flung itself to destruction. The distress had an effect of physical ruin and disaster. He trembled; he was white; he felt exhausted, as if by a great physical effort. He sank at last into a chair standing opposite her empty one, and marked, mechanically, with his eye upon the clock, how she went farther and farther from him, was home now, and now, doubtless, again with Rodney. But it was long before he could realize these facts; the immense desire for her presence churned his senses into foam, into froth, into a haze of emotion that removed all facts from his grasp, and gave him a strange sense of distance, even from the material shapes of wall and window by which he was surrounded. The prospect of the future, now that the strength of his passion was revealed to him, appalled him. The marriage would take place in September, she had said; that allowed him, then, six full months in which to undergo these terrible extremes of emotion. Six months of torture, and after that the silence of the grave, the isolation of the insane, the exile of the damned; at best, a life from which the chief good was knowingly and for ever excluded. An impartial judge might have assured him that his chief hope of recovery lay in this mystic temper, which identified a living woman with much that no human beings long possess in the eyes of each other; she would pass, and the desire for her vanish, but his belief in what she stood for, detached from her, would remain. This line of thought offered, perhaps, some respite, and possessed of a brain that had its station considerably above the tumult of the senses, he tried to reduce the vague and wandering incoherency of his emotions to order. The sense of self-preservation was strong in him, and Katharine herself had strangely revived it by convincing him that his family deserved and needed all his strength. She was right, and for their sake, if not for his own, this passion, which could bear no fruit, must be cut off, uprooted, shown to be as visionary and baseless as she had maintained. The best way of achieving this was not to run away from her, but to face her, and having steeped himself in her qualities, to convince his reason that they were, as she assured him, not those that he imagined. She was a practical woman, a domestic wife for an inferior poet, endowed with romantic beauty by some freak of unintelligent Nature. No doubt her beauty itself would not stand examination. He had the means of settling this point at least. He possessed a book of photographs from the Greek statues; the head of a goddess, if the lower part were concealed, had often given him the ecstasy of being in Katharine s presence. He took it down from the shelf and found the picture. To this he added a	it s different from anything else. It may be true. I ve known one or two cases where it seems to be true." He hoped that she would go on with the subject. But she made no reply. He had done his best to master himself, and his voice was sufficiently indifferent, but her silence tormented him. She would never speak to him of Rodney of her own accord, and her reserve left a whole continent of her soul in darkness. "It may be put off even longer than that," she said, as if by an afterthought. "Some one in the office is ill, and William has to take his place. We may put it off for some time in fact." "That s rather hard on him, isn t it?" Ralph asked. "He has his work," she replied. "He has lots of things that interest him.... I know I ve been to that place," she broke off, pointing to a photograph. "But I can t remember where it is oh, of course it s Oxford. Now, what about your cottage?" "I m not going to take it." "How you change your mind!" she smiled. "It s not that," he said impatiently. "It s that I want to be where I can see you."<\|quote\|>"Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?"</\|quote\|>she asked. "For ever, so far as I m concerned," he replied. "You re going to go on dreaming and imagining and making up stories about me as you walk along the street, and pretending that we re riding in a forest, or landing on an island" "No. I shall think of you ordering dinner, paying bills, doing the accounts, showing old ladies the relics" "That s better," she said. "You can think of me to-morrow morning looking up dates in the Dictionary of National Biography." "And forgetting your purse," Ralph added. At this she smiled, but in another moment her smile faded, either because of his words or of the way in which he spoke them. She was capable of forgetting things. He saw that. But what more did he see? Was he not looking at something she had never shown to anybody? Was it not something so profound that the notion of his seeing it almost shocked her? Her smile faded, and for a moment she seemed upon the point of speaking, but looking at him in silence, with a look that seemed to ask what she could not put into words, she turned and bade him good night. CHAPTER XXVIII Like a strain of music, the effect of Katharine s presence slowly died from the room in which Ralph sat alone. The music had ceased in the rapture of its melody. He strained to catch the faintest lingering echoes; for a moment the memory lulled him into peace; but soon it failed, and he paced the room so hungry for the sound to come again that he was conscious of no other desire left in life. She had gone without speaking; abruptly a chasm had been cut in his course, down which the tide of his being plunged in disorder; fell upon rocks; flung itself to destruction. The distress had an effect of physical ruin and disaster. He trembled; he was white; he felt exhausted, as if by a great physical effort. He sank at last into a chair standing opposite her empty one, and marked, mechanically, with his eye upon the clock, how she went farther and farther from him, was home now, and now, doubtless, again with Rodney. But it was long before he could realize these facts; the immense desire for her presence churned his senses into foam, into froth, into a haze of emotion that removed all facts from his grasp, and gave him a strange sense of distance, even from the material shapes of wall and window by which he was	Night And Day
said Louisa,	No speaker	very black and heavy. "Father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa,</\|quote\|>"do you think I love	very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa,</\|quote\|>"do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was	Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that you will take it into your favourable consideration." Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa,</\|quote\|>"do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child," he returned, "I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?" "My dear Louisa,	that he has long watched your progress with particular interest and pleasure, and has long hoped that the time might ultimately arrive when he should offer you his hand in marriage. That time, to which he has so long, and certainly with great constancy, looked forward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that you will take it into your favourable consideration." Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa,</\|quote\|>"do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child," he returned, "I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?" "My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing." "Father," she still pursued, "does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?" "Really, my dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "it is difficult to answer your question" "Difficult to answer it, Yes or No, father?" "Certainly, my dear. Because;" here was something to demonstrate, and it set	until I hear it. Prepared or unprepared, I wish to hear it all from you. I wish to hear you state it to me, father." Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind was not so collected at this moment as his daughter was. He took a paper-knife in his hand, turned it over, laid it down, took it up again, and even then had to look along the blade of it, considering how to go on. "What you say, my dear Louisa, is perfectly reasonable. I have undertaken then to let you know that in short, that Mr. Bounderby has informed me that he has long watched your progress with particular interest and pleasure, and has long hoped that the time might ultimately arrive when he should offer you his hand in marriage. That time, to which he has so long, and certainly with great constancy, looked forward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that you will take it into your favourable consideration." Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa,</\|quote\|>"do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child," he returned, "I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?" "My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing." "Father," she still pursued, "does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?" "Really, my dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "it is difficult to answer your question" "Difficult to answer it, Yes or No, father?" "Certainly, my dear. Because;" here was something to demonstrate, and it set him up again; "because the reply depends so materially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use the expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby does not do you the injustice, and does not do himself the injustice, of pretending to anything fanciful, fantastic, or (I am using synonymous terms) sentimental. Mr. Bounderby would have seen you grow up under his eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so far forget what is due to your good sense, not to say to his, as to address you from any such ground. Therefore, perhaps the expression itself I merely suggest this to you,	been so well trained, and you do, I am happy to say, so much justice to the education you have received, that I have perfect confidence in your good sense. You are not impulsive, you are not romantic, you are accustomed to view everything from the strong dispassionate ground of reason and calculation. From that ground alone, I know you will view and consider what I am going to communicate." He waited, as if he would have been glad that she said something. But she said never a word. "Louisa, my dear, you are the subject of a proposal of marriage that has been made to me." Again he waited, and again she answered not one word. This so far surprised him, as to induce him gently to repeat, "a proposal of marriage, my dear." To which she returned, without any visible emotion whatever: "I hear you, father. I am attending, I assure you." "Well!" said Mr. Gradgrind, breaking into a smile, after being for the moment at a loss, "you are even more dispassionate than I expected, Louisa. Or, perhaps, you are not unprepared for the announcement I have it in charge to make?" "I cannot say that, father, until I hear it. Prepared or unprepared, I wish to hear it all from you. I wish to hear you state it to me, father." Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind was not so collected at this moment as his daughter was. He took a paper-knife in his hand, turned it over, laid it down, took it up again, and even then had to look along the blade of it, considering how to go on. "What you say, my dear Louisa, is perfectly reasonable. I have undertaken then to let you know that in short, that Mr. Bounderby has informed me that he has long watched your progress with particular interest and pleasure, and has long hoped that the time might ultimately arrive when he should offer you his hand in marriage. That time, to which he has so long, and certainly with great constancy, looked forward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that you will take it into your favourable consideration." Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa,</\|quote\|>"do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child," he returned, "I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?" "My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing." "Father," she still pursued, "does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?" "Really, my dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "it is difficult to answer your question" "Difficult to answer it, Yes or No, father?" "Certainly, my dear. Because;" here was something to demonstrate, and it set him up again; "because the reply depends so materially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use the expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby does not do you the injustice, and does not do himself the injustice, of pretending to anything fanciful, fantastic, or (I am using synonymous terms) sentimental. Mr. Bounderby would have seen you grow up under his eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so far forget what is due to your good sense, not to say to his, as to address you from any such ground. Therefore, perhaps the expression itself I merely suggest this to you, my dear may be a little misplaced." "What would you advise me to use in its stead, father?" "Why, my dear Louisa," said Mr. Gradgrind, completely recovered by this time, "I would advise you (since you ask me) to consider this question, as you have been accustomed to consider every other question, simply as one of tangible Fact. The ignorant and the giddy may embarrass such subjects with irrelevant fancies, and other absurdities that have no existence, properly viewed really no existence but it is no compliment to you to say, that you know better. Now, what are the Facts of this case? You are, we will say in round numbers, twenty years of age; Mr. Bounderby is, we will say in round numbers, fifty. There is some disparity in your respective years, but in your means and positions there is none; on the contrary, there is a great suitability. Then the question arises, Is this one disparity sufficient to operate as a bar to such a marriage? In considering this question, it is not unimportant to take into account the statistics of marriage, so far as they have yet been obtained, in England and Wales. I find, on reference	You won't forget how fond you are of me?" "No, dear Tom, I won't forget." "That's a capital girl," said Tom. "Good-bye, Loo." She gave him an affectionate good-night, and went out with him to the door, whence the fires of Coketown could be seen, making the distance lurid. She stood there, looking steadfastly towards them, and listening to his departing steps. They retreated quickly, as glad to get away from Stone Lodge; and she stood there yet, when he was gone and all was quiet. It seemed as if, first in her own fire within the house, and then in the fiery haze without, she tried to discover what kind of woof Old Time, that greatest and longest-established Spinner of all, would weave from the threads he had already spun into a woman. But his factory is a secret place, his work is noiseless, and his Hands are mutes. CHAPTER XV FATHER AND DAUGHTER ALTHOUGH Mr. Gradgrind did not take after Blue Beard, his room was quite a blue chamber in its abundance of blue books. Whatever they could prove (which is usually anything you like), they proved there, in an army constantly strengthening by the arrival of new recruits. In that charmed apartment, the most complicated social questions were cast up, got into exact totals, and finally settled if those concerned could only have been brought to know it. As if an astronomical observatory should be made without any windows, and the astronomer within should arrange the starry universe solely by pen, ink, and paper, so Mr. Gradgrind, in _his_ Observatory (and there are many like it), had no need to cast an eye upon the teeming myriads of human beings around him, but could settle all their destinies on a slate, and wipe out all their tears with one dirty little bit of sponge. To this Observatory, then: a stern room, with a deadly statistical clock in it, which measured every second with a beat like a rap upon a coffin-lid; Louisa repaired on the appointed morning. A window looked towards Coketown; and when she sat down near her father's table, she saw the high chimneys and the long tracts of smoke looming in the heavy distance gloomily. "My dear Louisa," said her father, "I prepared you last night to give me your serious attention in the conversation we are now going to have together. You have been so well trained, and you do, I am happy to say, so much justice to the education you have received, that I have perfect confidence in your good sense. You are not impulsive, you are not romantic, you are accustomed to view everything from the strong dispassionate ground of reason and calculation. From that ground alone, I know you will view and consider what I am going to communicate." He waited, as if he would have been glad that she said something. But she said never a word. "Louisa, my dear, you are the subject of a proposal of marriage that has been made to me." Again he waited, and again she answered not one word. This so far surprised him, as to induce him gently to repeat, "a proposal of marriage, my dear." To which she returned, without any visible emotion whatever: "I hear you, father. I am attending, I assure you." "Well!" said Mr. Gradgrind, breaking into a smile, after being for the moment at a loss, "you are even more dispassionate than I expected, Louisa. Or, perhaps, you are not unprepared for the announcement I have it in charge to make?" "I cannot say that, father, until I hear it. Prepared or unprepared, I wish to hear it all from you. I wish to hear you state it to me, father." Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind was not so collected at this moment as his daughter was. He took a paper-knife in his hand, turned it over, laid it down, took it up again, and even then had to look along the blade of it, considering how to go on. "What you say, my dear Louisa, is perfectly reasonable. I have undertaken then to let you know that in short, that Mr. Bounderby has informed me that he has long watched your progress with particular interest and pleasure, and has long hoped that the time might ultimately arrive when he should offer you his hand in marriage. That time, to which he has so long, and certainly with great constancy, looked forward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that you will take it into your favourable consideration." Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa,</\|quote\|>"do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child," he returned, "I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?" "My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing." "Father," she still pursued, "does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?" "Really, my dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "it is difficult to answer your question" "Difficult to answer it, Yes or No, father?" "Certainly, my dear. Because;" here was something to demonstrate, and it set him up again; "because the reply depends so materially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use the expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby does not do you the injustice, and does not do himself the injustice, of pretending to anything fanciful, fantastic, or (I am using synonymous terms) sentimental. Mr. Bounderby would have seen you grow up under his eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so far forget what is due to your good sense, not to say to his, as to address you from any such ground. Therefore, perhaps the expression itself I merely suggest this to you, my dear may be a little misplaced." "What would you advise me to use in its stead, father?" "Why, my dear Louisa," said Mr. Gradgrind, completely recovered by this time, "I would advise you (since you ask me) to consider this question, as you have been accustomed to consider every other question, simply as one of tangible Fact. The ignorant and the giddy may embarrass such subjects with irrelevant fancies, and other absurdities that have no existence, properly viewed really no existence but it is no compliment to you to say, that you know better. Now, what are the Facts of this case? You are, we will say in round numbers, twenty years of age; Mr. Bounderby is, we will say in round numbers, fifty. There is some disparity in your respective years, but in your means and positions there is none; on the contrary, there is a great suitability. Then the question arises, Is this one disparity sufficient to operate as a bar to such a marriage? In considering this question, it is not unimportant to take into account the statistics of marriage, so far as they have yet been obtained, in England and Wales. I find, on reference to the figures, that a large proportion of these marriages are contracted between parties of very unequal ages, and that the elder of these contracting parties is, in rather more than three-fourths of these instances, the bridegroom. It is remarkable as showing the wide prevalence of this law, that among the natives of the British possessions in India, also in a considerable part of China, and among the Calmucks of Tartary, the best means of computation yet furnished us by travellers, yield similar results. The disparity I have mentioned, therefore, almost ceases to be disparity, and (virtually) all but disappears." "What do you recommend, father," asked Louisa, her reserved composure not in the least affected by these gratifying results, "that I should substitute for the term I used just now? For the misplaced expression?" "Louisa," returned her father, "it appears to me that nothing can be plainer. Confining yourself rigidly to Fact, the question of Fact you state to yourself is: Does Mr. Bounderby ask me to marry him? Yes, he does. The sole remaining question then is: Shall I marry him? I think nothing can be plainer than that?" "Shall I marry him?" repeated Louisa, with great deliberation. "Precisely. And it is satisfactory to me, as your father, my dear Louisa, to know that you do not come to the consideration of that question with the previous habits of mind, and habits of life, that belong to many young women." "No, father," she returned, "I do not." "I now leave you to judge for yourself," said Mr. Gradgrind. "I have stated the case, as such cases are usually stated among practical minds; I have stated it, as the case of your mother and myself was stated in its time. The rest, my dear Louisa, is for you to decide." From the beginning, she had sat looking at him fixedly. As he now leaned back in his chair, and bent his deep-set eyes upon her in his turn, perhaps he might have seen one wavering moment in her, when she was impelled to throw herself upon his breast, and give him the pent-up confidences of her heart. But, to see it, he must have overleaped at a bound the artificial barriers he had for many years been erecting, between himself and all those subtle essences of humanity which will elude the utmost cunning of algebra until the last trumpet ever	and finally settled if those concerned could only have been brought to know it. As if an astronomical observatory should be made without any windows, and the astronomer within should arrange the starry universe solely by pen, ink, and paper, so Mr. Gradgrind, in _his_ Observatory (and there are many like it), had no need to cast an eye upon the teeming myriads of human beings around him, but could settle all their destinies on a slate, and wipe out all their tears with one dirty little bit of sponge. To this Observatory, then: a stern room, with a deadly statistical clock in it, which measured every second with a beat like a rap upon a coffin-lid; Louisa repaired on the appointed morning. A window looked towards Coketown; and when she sat down near her father's table, she saw the high chimneys and the long tracts of smoke looming in the heavy distance gloomily. "My dear Louisa," said her father, "I prepared you last night to give me your serious attention in the conversation we are now going to have together. You have been so well trained, and you do, I am happy to say, so much justice to the education you have received, that I have perfect confidence in your good sense. You are not impulsive, you are not romantic, you are accustomed to view everything from the strong dispassionate ground of reason and calculation. From that ground alone, I know you will view and consider what I am going to communicate." He waited, as if he would have been glad that she said something. But she said never a word. "Louisa, my dear, you are the subject of a proposal of marriage that has been made to me." Again he waited, and again she answered not one word. This so far surprised him, as to induce him gently to repeat, "a proposal of marriage, my dear." To which she returned, without any visible emotion whatever: "I hear you, father. I am attending, I assure you." "Well!" said Mr. Gradgrind, breaking into a smile, after being for the moment at a loss, "you are even more dispassionate than I expected, Louisa. Or, perhaps, you are not unprepared for the announcement I have it in charge to make?" "I cannot say that, father, until I hear it. Prepared or unprepared, I wish to hear it all from you. I wish to hear you state it to me, father." Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind was not so collected at this moment as his daughter was. He took a paper-knife in his hand, turned it over, laid it down, took it up again, and even then had to look along the blade of it, considering how to go on. "What you say, my dear Louisa, is perfectly reasonable. I have undertaken then to let you know that in short, that Mr. Bounderby has informed me that he has long watched your progress with particular interest and pleasure, and has long hoped that the time might ultimately arrive when he should offer you his hand in marriage. That time, to which he has so long, and certainly with great constancy, looked forward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that you will take it into your favourable consideration." Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father,"<\|quote\|>said Louisa,</\|quote\|>"do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child," he returned, "I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?" "My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing." "Father," she still pursued, "does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?" "Really, my dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "it is difficult to answer your question" "Difficult to answer it, Yes or No, father?" "Certainly, my dear. Because;" here was something to demonstrate, and it set him up again; "because the reply depends so materially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use the expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby does not do you the injustice, and does not do himself the injustice, of pretending to anything fanciful, fantastic, or (I am using synonymous terms) sentimental. Mr. Bounderby would have seen you grow up under his eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so far forget what is due to your good sense, not to say to his, as to address you from any such ground. Therefore, perhaps the expression itself I merely suggest this to you, my dear may be a little misplaced." "What would you advise me to use in its stead, father?" "Why, my dear Louisa," said Mr. Gradgrind, completely recovered by this time, "I would advise you (since you ask me) to consider this question, as you have been accustomed to consider every other question, simply as one of tangible Fact. The ignorant and the giddy may embarrass such subjects with irrelevant fancies, and other absurdities that have no existence, properly viewed really no existence but it is no compliment to you to say, that you know better. Now, what are the Facts of this case? You are, we will say in round numbers, twenty years of age; Mr. Bounderby is, we will say in round numbers, fifty. There is some disparity in your respective years, but in your means and positions there is none; on the contrary, there is a great suitability. Then the question arises, Is this one disparity sufficient to operate as a bar to such a marriage? In considering this question, it is not unimportant to take into account the statistics of marriage, so far as they have yet been obtained, in England and Wales. I find, on reference to the figures, that a large proportion of these marriages are contracted between parties of very unequal ages, and that the elder of these contracting parties is, in rather more than three-fourths of these instances, the bridegroom. It is remarkable as showing the wide prevalence of this law, that among the natives of	Hard Times
the children murmured, looking pleased and interested. Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from his mother or father. Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up, Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of their	No speaker	the murder.” “Hurrah! The murder!”<\|quote\|>the children murmured, looking pleased and interested. Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from his mother or father. Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up, Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of their</\|quote\|>“property.” A new law was	is going to tell about the murder.” “Hurrah! The murder!”<\|quote\|>the children murmured, looking pleased and interested. Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from his mother or father. Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up, Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of their</\|quote\|>“property.” A new law was passed in the State, securing	I wonder if you’ve heard about the Cutters?” No, I had heard nothing at all about them. “Then you must tell him, son, though it’s a terrible thing to talk about at supper. Now, all you children be quiet, Rudolph is going to tell about the murder.” “Hurrah! The murder!”<\|quote\|>the children murmured, looking pleased and interested. Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from his mother or father. Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up, Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of their</\|quote\|>“property.” A new law was passed in the State, securing the surviving wife a third of her husband’s estate under all conditions. Cutter was tormented by the fear that Mrs. Cutter would live longer than he, and that eventually her “people,” whom he had always hated so violently, would inherit.	two brown geese, stuffed with apples, were put down sizzling before Ántonia. She began to carve, and Rudolph, who sat next his mother, started the plates on their way. When everybody was served, he looked across the table at me. “Have you been to Black Hawk lately, Mr. Burden? Then I wonder if you’ve heard about the Cutters?” No, I had heard nothing at all about them. “Then you must tell him, son, though it’s a terrible thing to talk about at supper. Now, all you children be quiet, Rudolph is going to tell about the murder.” “Hurrah! The murder!”<\|quote\|>the children murmured, looking pleased and interested. Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from his mother or father. Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up, Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of their</\|quote\|>“property.” A new law was passed in the State, securing the surviving wife a third of her husband’s estate under all conditions. Cutter was tormented by the fear that Mrs. Cutter would live longer than he, and that eventually her “people,” whom he had always hated so violently, would inherit. Their quarrels on this subject passed the boundary of the close-growing cedars, and were heard in the street by whoever wished to loiter and listen. One morning, two years ago, Cutter went into the hardware store and bought a pistol, saying he was going to shoot a dog, and adding	me about her looks, her popularity, her voice; but he particularly wanted to know whether I had noticed her tiny feet, and whether I thought she had saved much money. She was extravagant, of course, but he hoped she would n’t squander everything, and have nothing left when she was old. As a young man, working in Wienn, he had seen a good many artists who were old and poor, making one glass of beer last all evening, and “it was not very nice, that.” When the boys came in from milking and feeding, the long table was laid, and two brown geese, stuffed with apples, were put down sizzling before Ántonia. She began to carve, and Rudolph, who sat next his mother, started the plates on their way. When everybody was served, he looked across the table at me. “Have you been to Black Hawk lately, Mr. Burden? Then I wonder if you’ve heard about the Cutters?” No, I had heard nothing at all about them. “Then you must tell him, son, though it’s a terrible thing to talk about at supper. Now, all you children be quiet, Rudolph is going to tell about the murder.” “Hurrah! The murder!”<\|quote\|>the children murmured, looking pleased and interested. Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from his mother or father. Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up, Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of their</\|quote\|>“property.” A new law was passed in the State, securing the surviving wife a third of her husband’s estate under all conditions. Cutter was tormented by the fear that Mrs. Cutter would live longer than he, and that eventually her “people,” whom he had always hated so violently, would inherit. Their quarrels on this subject passed the boundary of the close-growing cedars, and were heard in the street by whoever wished to loiter and listen. One morning, two years ago, Cutter went into the hardware store and bought a pistol, saying he was going to shoot a dog, and adding that he “thought he would take a shot at an old cat while he was about it.” (Here the children interrupted Rudolph’s narrative by smothered giggles.) Cutter went out behind the hardware store, put up a target, practiced for an hour or so, and then went home. At six o’clock that evening, when several men were passing the Cutter house on their way home to supper, they heard a pistol shot. They paused and were looking doubtfully at one another, when another shot came crashing through an upstairs window. They ran into the house and found Wick Cutter lying on	a whistle. He beckoned to the little boy they called Jan, whispered to him, and presented him with a paper snake, gently, so as not to startle him. Looking over the boy’s head he said to me, “This one is bashful. He gets left.” Cuzak had brought home with him a roll of illustrated Bohemian papers. He opened them and began to tell his wife the news, much of which seemed to relate to one person. I heard the name Vasakova, Vasakova, repeated several times with lively interest, and presently I asked him whether he were talking about the singer, Maria Vasak. “You know? You have heard, maybe?” he asked incredulously. When I assured him that I had heard her, he pointed out her picture and told me that Vasak had broken her leg, climbing in the Austrian Alps, and would not be able to fill her engagements. He seemed delighted to find that I had heard her sing in London and in Vienna; got out his pipe and lit it to enjoy our talk the better. She came from his part of Prague. His father used to mend her shoes for her when she was a student. Cuzak questioned me about her looks, her popularity, her voice; but he particularly wanted to know whether I had noticed her tiny feet, and whether I thought she had saved much money. She was extravagant, of course, but he hoped she would n’t squander everything, and have nothing left when she was old. As a young man, working in Wienn, he had seen a good many artists who were old and poor, making one glass of beer last all evening, and “it was not very nice, that.” When the boys came in from milking and feeding, the long table was laid, and two brown geese, stuffed with apples, were put down sizzling before Ántonia. She began to carve, and Rudolph, who sat next his mother, started the plates on their way. When everybody was served, he looked across the table at me. “Have you been to Black Hawk lately, Mr. Burden? Then I wonder if you’ve heard about the Cutters?” No, I had heard nothing at all about them. “Then you must tell him, son, though it’s a terrible thing to talk about at supper. Now, all you children be quiet, Rudolph is going to tell about the murder.” “Hurrah! The murder!”<\|quote\|>the children murmured, looking pleased and interested. Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from his mother or father. Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up, Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of their</\|quote\|>“property.” A new law was passed in the State, securing the surviving wife a third of her husband’s estate under all conditions. Cutter was tormented by the fear that Mrs. Cutter would live longer than he, and that eventually her “people,” whom he had always hated so violently, would inherit. Their quarrels on this subject passed the boundary of the close-growing cedars, and were heard in the street by whoever wished to loiter and listen. One morning, two years ago, Cutter went into the hardware store and bought a pistol, saying he was going to shoot a dog, and adding that he “thought he would take a shot at an old cat while he was about it.” (Here the children interrupted Rudolph’s narrative by smothered giggles.) Cutter went out behind the hardware store, put up a target, practiced for an hour or so, and then went home. At six o’clock that evening, when several men were passing the Cutter house on their way home to supper, they heard a pistol shot. They paused and were looking doubtfully at one another, when another shot came crashing through an upstairs window. They ran into the house and found Wick Cutter lying on a sofa in his upstairs bedroom, with his throat torn open, bleeding on a roll of sheets he had placed beside his head. “Walk in, gentlemen,” he said weakly. “I am alive, you see, and competent. You are witnesses that I have survived my wife. You will find her in her own room. Please make your examination at once, so that there will be no mistake.” One of the neighbors telephoned for a doctor, while the others went into Mrs. Cutter’s room. She was lying on her bed, in her nightgown and wrapper, shot through the heart. Her husband must have come in while she was taking her afternoon nap and shot her, holding the revolver near her breast. Her nightgown was burned from the powder. The horrified neighbors rushed back to Cutter. He opened his eyes and said distinctly, “Mrs. Cutter is quite dead, gentlemen, and I am conscious. My affairs are in order.” Then, Rudolph said, “he let go and died.” On his desk the coroner found a letter, dated at five o’clock that afternoon. It stated that he had just shot his wife; that any will she might secretly have made would be invalid, as he survived	hall behind the saloon last night, mother, and I danced with all the girls, and so did father. I never saw so many pretty girls. It was a Bohunk crowd, for sure. We did n’t hear a word of English on the street, except from the show people, did we, papa?” Cuzak nodded. “And very many send word to you, Ántonia. You will excuse” —turning to me— “if I tell her.” While we walked toward the house he related incidents and delivered messages in the tongue he spoke fluently, and I dropped a little behind, curious to know what their relations had become—or remained. The two seemed to be on terms of easy friendliness, touched with humor. Clearly, she was the impulse, and he the corrective. As they went up the hill he kept glancing at her sidewise, to see whether she got his point, or how she received it. I noticed later that he always looked at people sidewise, as a work-horse does at its yoke-mate. Even when he sat opposite me in the kitchen, talking, he would turn his head a little toward the clock or the stove and look at me from the side, but with frankness and good-nature. This trick did not suggest duplicity or secretiveness, but merely long habit, as with the horse. He had brought a tintype of himself and Rudolph for Ántonia’s collection, and several paper bags of candy for the children. He looked a little disappointed when his wife showed him a big box of candy I had got in Denver—she had n’t let the children touch it the night before. He put his candy away in the cupboard, “for when she rains,” and glanced at the box, chuckling. “I guess you must have hear about how my family ain’t so small,” he said. Cuzak sat down behind the stove and watched his women-folk and the little children with equal amusement. He thought they were nice, and he thought they were funny, evidently. He had been off dancing with the girls and forgetting that he was an old fellow, and now his family rather surprised him; he seemed to think it a joke that all these children should belong to him. As the younger ones slipped up to him in his retreat, he kept taking things out of his pockets; penny dolls, a wooden clown, a balloon pig that was inflated by a whistle. He beckoned to the little boy they called Jan, whispered to him, and presented him with a paper snake, gently, so as not to startle him. Looking over the boy’s head he said to me, “This one is bashful. He gets left.” Cuzak had brought home with him a roll of illustrated Bohemian papers. He opened them and began to tell his wife the news, much of which seemed to relate to one person. I heard the name Vasakova, Vasakova, repeated several times with lively interest, and presently I asked him whether he were talking about the singer, Maria Vasak. “You know? You have heard, maybe?” he asked incredulously. When I assured him that I had heard her, he pointed out her picture and told me that Vasak had broken her leg, climbing in the Austrian Alps, and would not be able to fill her engagements. He seemed delighted to find that I had heard her sing in London and in Vienna; got out his pipe and lit it to enjoy our talk the better. She came from his part of Prague. His father used to mend her shoes for her when she was a student. Cuzak questioned me about her looks, her popularity, her voice; but he particularly wanted to know whether I had noticed her tiny feet, and whether I thought she had saved much money. She was extravagant, of course, but he hoped she would n’t squander everything, and have nothing left when she was old. As a young man, working in Wienn, he had seen a good many artists who were old and poor, making one glass of beer last all evening, and “it was not very nice, that.” When the boys came in from milking and feeding, the long table was laid, and two brown geese, stuffed with apples, were put down sizzling before Ántonia. She began to carve, and Rudolph, who sat next his mother, started the plates on their way. When everybody was served, he looked across the table at me. “Have you been to Black Hawk lately, Mr. Burden? Then I wonder if you’ve heard about the Cutters?” No, I had heard nothing at all about them. “Then you must tell him, son, though it’s a terrible thing to talk about at supper. Now, all you children be quiet, Rudolph is going to tell about the murder.” “Hurrah! The murder!”<\|quote\|>the children murmured, looking pleased and interested. Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from his mother or father. Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up, Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of their</\|quote\|>“property.” A new law was passed in the State, securing the surviving wife a third of her husband’s estate under all conditions. Cutter was tormented by the fear that Mrs. Cutter would live longer than he, and that eventually her “people,” whom he had always hated so violently, would inherit. Their quarrels on this subject passed the boundary of the close-growing cedars, and were heard in the street by whoever wished to loiter and listen. One morning, two years ago, Cutter went into the hardware store and bought a pistol, saying he was going to shoot a dog, and adding that he “thought he would take a shot at an old cat while he was about it.” (Here the children interrupted Rudolph’s narrative by smothered giggles.) Cutter went out behind the hardware store, put up a target, practiced for an hour or so, and then went home. At six o’clock that evening, when several men were passing the Cutter house on their way home to supper, they heard a pistol shot. They paused and were looking doubtfully at one another, when another shot came crashing through an upstairs window. They ran into the house and found Wick Cutter lying on a sofa in his upstairs bedroom, with his throat torn open, bleeding on a roll of sheets he had placed beside his head. “Walk in, gentlemen,” he said weakly. “I am alive, you see, and competent. You are witnesses that I have survived my wife. You will find her in her own room. Please make your examination at once, so that there will be no mistake.” One of the neighbors telephoned for a doctor, while the others went into Mrs. Cutter’s room. She was lying on her bed, in her nightgown and wrapper, shot through the heart. Her husband must have come in while she was taking her afternoon nap and shot her, holding the revolver near her breast. Her nightgown was burned from the powder. The horrified neighbors rushed back to Cutter. He opened his eyes and said distinctly, “Mrs. Cutter is quite dead, gentlemen, and I am conscious. My affairs are in order.” Then, Rudolph said, “he let go and died.” On his desk the coroner found a letter, dated at five o’clock that afternoon. It stated that he had just shot his wife; that any will she might secretly have made would be invalid, as he survived her. He meant to shoot himself at six o’clock and would, if he had strength, fire a shot through the window in the hope that passers-by might come in and see him “before life was extinct,” as he wrote. “Now, would you have thought that man had such a cruel heart?” Ántonia turned to me after the story was told. “To go and do that poor woman out of any comfort she might have from his money after he was gone!” “Did you ever hear of anybody else that killed himself for spite, Mr. Burden?” asked Rudolph. I admitted that I had n’t. Every lawyer learns over and over how strong a motive hate can be, but in my collection of legal anecdotes I had nothing to match this one. When I asked how much the estate amounted to, Rudolph said it was a little over a hundred thousand dollars. Cuzak gave me a twinkling, sidelong glance. “The lawyers, they got a good deal of it, sure,” he said merrily. A hundred thousand dollars; so that was the fortune that had been scraped together by such hard dealing, and that Cutter himself had died for in the end! After supper Cuzak and I took a stroll in the orchard and sat down by the windmill to smoke. He told me his story as if it were my business to know it. His father was a shoemaker, his uncle a furrier, and he, being a younger son, was apprenticed to the latter’s trade. You never got anywhere working for your relatives, he said, so when he was a journeyman he went to Vienna and worked in a big fur shop, earning good money. But a young fellow who liked a good time did n’t save anything in Vienna; there were too many pleasant ways of spending every night what he’d made in the day. After three years there, he came to New York. He was badly advised and went to work on furs during a strike, when the factories were offering big wages. The strikers won, and Cuzak was blacklisted. As he had a few hundred dollars ahead, he decided to go to Florida and raise oranges. He had always thought he would like to raise oranges! The second year a hard frost killed his young grove, and he fell ill with malaria. He came to Nebraska to visit his cousin,	to him. As the younger ones slipped up to him in his retreat, he kept taking things out of his pockets; penny dolls, a wooden clown, a balloon pig that was inflated by a whistle. He beckoned to the little boy they called Jan, whispered to him, and presented him with a paper snake, gently, so as not to startle him. Looking over the boy’s head he said to me, “This one is bashful. He gets left.” Cuzak had brought home with him a roll of illustrated Bohemian papers. He opened them and began to tell his wife the news, much of which seemed to relate to one person. I heard the name Vasakova, Vasakova, repeated several times with lively interest, and presently I asked him whether he were talking about the singer, Maria Vasak. “You know? You have heard, maybe?” he asked incredulously. When I assured him that I had heard her, he pointed out her picture and told me that Vasak had broken her leg, climbing in the Austrian Alps, and would not be able to fill her engagements. He seemed delighted to find that I had heard her sing in London and in Vienna; got out his pipe and lit it to enjoy our talk the better. She came from his part of Prague. His father used to mend her shoes for her when she was a student. Cuzak questioned me about her looks, her popularity, her voice; but he particularly wanted to know whether I had noticed her tiny feet, and whether I thought she had saved much money. She was extravagant, of course, but he hoped she would n’t squander everything, and have nothing left when she was old. As a young man, working in Wienn, he had seen a good many artists who were old and poor, making one glass of beer last all evening, and “it was not very nice, that.” When the boys came in from milking and feeding, the long table was laid, and two brown geese, stuffed with apples, were put down sizzling before Ántonia. She began to carve, and Rudolph, who sat next his mother, started the plates on their way. When everybody was served, he looked across the table at me. “Have you been to Black Hawk lately, Mr. Burden? Then I wonder if you’ve heard about the Cutters?” No, I had heard nothing at all about them. “Then you must tell him, son, though it’s a terrible thing to talk about at supper. Now, all you children be quiet, Rudolph is going to tell about the murder.” “Hurrah! The murder!”<\|quote\|>the children murmured, looking pleased and interested. Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from his mother or father. Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up, Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of their</\|quote\|>“property.” A new law was passed in the State, securing the surviving wife a third of her husband’s estate under all conditions. Cutter was tormented by the fear that Mrs. Cutter would live longer than he, and that eventually her “people,” whom he had always hated so violently, would inherit. Their quarrels on this subject passed the boundary of the close-growing cedars, and were heard in the street by whoever wished to loiter and listen. One morning, two years ago, Cutter went into the hardware store and bought a pistol, saying he was going to shoot a dog, and adding that he “thought he would take a shot at an old cat while he was about it.” (Here the children interrupted Rudolph’s narrative by smothered giggles.) Cutter went out behind the hardware store, put up a target, practiced for an hour or so, and then went home. At six o’clock that evening, when several men were passing the Cutter house on their way home to supper, they heard a pistol shot. They paused and were looking doubtfully at one another, when another shot came crashing through an upstairs window. They ran into the house and found Wick Cutter lying on a sofa in his upstairs bedroom, with his throat torn open, bleeding on a roll of sheets he had placed beside his head. “Walk in, gentlemen,” he said weakly. “I am alive, you see, and competent. You are witnesses that I have survived my wife. You will find her in her own room. Please make your examination at once, so that there will be no mistake.” One of the neighbors telephoned for a doctor, while the others went into Mrs. Cutter’s room. She was lying on her bed, in her nightgown and wrapper, shot through the heart. Her husband must have come in while she was taking her afternoon nap and shot her, holding the revolver near her breast. Her nightgown was burned from the powder. The horrified neighbors rushed back to Cutter. He opened his eyes and said distinctly, “Mrs. Cutter is quite dead, gentlemen, and I am conscious. My affairs are in order.” Then, Rudolph said, “he let go and died.” On his desk the coroner found a letter, dated at five o’clock that afternoon. It stated that he had just shot his wife; that any will she might secretly have made would be invalid, as he survived her. He meant to shoot himself at six o’clock and would, if he had strength, fire a shot through the window in the hope that passers-by might come in and see him “before life was extinct,” as he wrote. “Now, would you have thought that man had such a cruel heart?” Ántonia turned to me after the story was told. “To go and do that poor woman out of any comfort she might have from his money after he was gone!” “Did you ever hear of anybody else that killed himself for spite, Mr. Burden?” asked Rudolph. I admitted that I had n’t. Every lawyer learns over and over how strong a motive hate can be, but in my collection of legal anecdotes I had nothing to match this one. When I asked how	My Antonia
said Helen, taking fire.	No speaker	great and theirs are little,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, taking fire.</\|quote\|>"I know of things they	"Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, taking fire.</\|quote\|>"I know of things they can t know of, and	run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, taking fire.</\|quote\|>"I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the	Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, taking fire.</\|quote\|>"I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that	course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, taking fire.</\|quote\|>"I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say	angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, taking fire.</\|quote\|>"I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who had not	the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. "Little boy, what do you want?" "Please, I am the milk." "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply. "Yes, please." "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to Helen, "No, it s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one." "But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?" "Do you? Oh, very well. But we ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the can." "Please, I m to call in the morning for the can," said the boy. "The house will be locked up then." "In the morning would I bring eggs too?" "Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?" The child hung his head. "Well, run away and do it again." "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what s your name? Mine s Helen." "Tom." That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return. "Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we ve another called Tibby." "Mine are lop-eareds," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. "You re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.--Isn t he charming?" "Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers." "What do you mean?" "I don t know." "Because I probably agree with you." "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live." "I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago." "Meaning that I was dead. I felt it." "Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I ve a startling idea." "What is it?" "Drink some milk to steady you." Margaret obeyed. "No, I won t tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, taking fire.</\|quote\|>"I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen s character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. "Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing." "Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. CHAPTER XXXVIII The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the man s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who had not been "told," ran out with offers of tea. He refused them, and ordered them to wheel baby s perambulator away, as they desired to be alone. "But the diddums can t listen; he isn t nine months old," she pleaded. "That s not what I was saying," retorted her father-in-law. Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear about the crisis till later years. It was now the turn of Margaret. "Is it what we feared?" he asked. "It is." "Dear girl," he began, "there is a troublesome business ahead of us, and nothing but the most absolute honesty and plain speech will see us through." Margaret bent her head. "I am obliged to question you on subjects we d both prefer to leave untouched. As you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who consider nothing sacred. To speak as I must will pain me, but there are occasions--We are husband and wife, not children. I am a man of the world, and you are a most exceptional woman." All Margaret s senses forsook her. She blushed, and looked past him at the Six Hills, covered with spring herbage. Noting her colour, he grew still more kind. "I see that you feel as I felt when--My poor little wife! Oh, be brave! Just one or two questions, and I have done with you. Was your sister wearing a wedding-ring?" Margaret stammered a "No." There was an appalling silence. "Henry, I really came to ask a favour about Howards End." "One point at a time. I am now obliged to ask for the name of her seducer." She rose to her feet and held the chair between them. Her colour had ebbed, and she was grey. It did not displease him that she should receive his question thus. "Take your time," he counselled her. "Remember that this is far worse for me than for you." She swayed; he feared she was going to faint. Then speech came, and she said slowly: "Seducer? No; I do not know her seducer s name." "Would she not tell you?" "I never even asked her who seduced her," said Margaret, dwelling on the hateful word thoughtfully. "That is singular." Then he changed his mind. "Natural perhaps, dear girl, that you shouldn t ask. But until his name is known, nothing can be done. Sit down. How terrible it is to	do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago." "Meaning that I was dead. I felt it." "Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I ve a startling idea." "What is it?" "Drink some milk to steady you." Margaret obeyed. "No, I won t tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it s his mother s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could answer for--not Charles." "I know he won t like it," said Helen. "But I am going to pass out of their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, And she even spent the night at Howards End ?" "How do you know you ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice before." "Because my plans--" "--which you change in a moment." "Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"<\|quote\|>said Helen, taking fire.</\|quote\|>"I know of things they can t know of, and so do you. We know that there s poetry. We know that there s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at home." "It would be lovely to have you once more alone," said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand." "Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It won t be a very glorious story. But under that wych-elm--honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?" "I needn t say how much it would mean to me." "Then let us." "It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?" "Oh, we don t want leave." But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry--perhaps on account of them--she could sympathise with the technical attitude that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night s lodging--and they demanded no more--need not involve the discussion of general principles. "Charles may say no," grumbled Helen. "We shan t consult him." "Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave." It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen	Howards End
he cried in great astonishment.	No speaker	reply. "What? You cannot say?"<\|quote\|>he cried in great astonishment.</\|quote\|>"No; I have never noticed	really cannot say," was my reply. "What? You cannot say?"<\|quote\|>he cried in great astonishment.</\|quote\|>"No; I have never noticed whether she does so or	me meaningly in the face. What he meant I did not know, but to my glance of inquiry he returned only a dry nod, and a reiterated "It is so." Presently, however, he resumed: "Does Mlle. Polina like flowers?" "I really cannot say," was my reply. "What? You cannot say?"<\|quote\|>he cried in great astonishment.</\|quote\|>"No; I have never noticed whether she does so or not," I repeated with a smile. "Hm! Then I have an idea in my mind," he concluded. Lastly, with a nod, he walked away with a pleased expression on his face. The conversation had been carried on in execrable French.	speaking to myself; and, one morning when we had met, and exchanged a couple of words, he burst out in his usual abrupt way, without saying "Good-morning." "That Mlle. Blanche," he said. "Well, I have seen a good many women like her." After that he was silent as he looked me meaningly in the face. What he meant I did not know, but to my glance of inquiry he returned only a dry nod, and a reiterated "It is so." Presently, however, he resumed: "Does Mlle. Polina like flowers?" "I really cannot say," was my reply. "What? You cannot say?"<\|quote\|>he cried in great astonishment.</\|quote\|>"No; I have never noticed whether she does so or not," I repeated with a smile. "Hm! Then I have an idea in my mind," he concluded. Lastly, with a nod, he walked away with a pleased expression on his face. The conversation had been carried on in execrable French. IV Today has been a day of folly, stupidity, and ineptness. The time is now eleven o clock in the evening, and I am sitting in my room and thinking. It all began, this morning, with my being forced to go and play roulette for Polina Alexandrovna. When she handed	I knew he was dying to join us. Even when invited to do so, he would refuse. Again, in places of amusement in the Casino, at concerts, or near the fountain he was never far from the spot where we were sitting. In fact, _wherever_ we were in the Park, in the forest, or on the Shlangenberg one needed but to raise one s eyes and glance around to catch sight of at least a _portion_ of Mr. Astley s frame sticking out whether on an adjacent path or behind a bush. Yet never did he lose any chance of speaking to myself; and, one morning when we had met, and exchanged a couple of words, he burst out in his usual abrupt way, without saying "Good-morning." "That Mlle. Blanche," he said. "Well, I have seen a good many women like her." After that he was silent as he looked me meaningly in the face. What he meant I did not know, but to my glance of inquiry he returned only a dry nod, and a reiterated "It is so." Presently, however, he resumed: "Does Mlle. Polina like flowers?" "I really cannot say," was my reply. "What? You cannot say?"<\|quote\|>he cried in great astonishment.</\|quote\|>"No; I have never noticed whether she does so or not," I repeated with a smile. "Hm! Then I have an idea in my mind," he concluded. Lastly, with a nod, he walked away with a pleased expression on his face. The conversation had been carried on in execrable French. IV Today has been a day of folly, stupidity, and ineptness. The time is now eleven o clock in the evening, and I am sitting in my room and thinking. It all began, this morning, with my being forced to go and play roulette for Polina Alexandrovna. When she handed me over her store of six hundred g lden I exacted two conditions namely, that I should not go halves with her in her winnings, if any (that is to say, I should not take anything for myself), and that she should explain to me, that same evening, why it was so necessary for her to win, and how much was the sum which she needed. For, I could not suppose that she was doing all this merely for the sake of money. Yet clearly she _did_ need some money, and that as soon as possible, and for a special	and the General. Everything seemed to depend upon our means upon whether the General would be able to flourish sufficient money in her face. If ever the news should arrive that the grandmother was not dead, Mlle. Blanche, I felt sure, would disappear in a twinkling. Indeed, it surprised and amused me to observe what a passion for intrigue I was developing. But how I loathed it all! With what pleasure would I have given everybody and everything the go-by! Only I could not leave Polina. How, then, could I show contempt for those who surrounded her? Espionage is a base thing, but what have I to do with that? Mr. Astley, too, I found a curious person. I was only sure that he had fallen in love with Polina. A remarkable and diverting circumstance is the amount which may lie in the mien of a shy and painfully modest man who has been touched with the divine passion especially when he would rather sink into the earth than betray himself by a single word or look. Though Mr. Astley frequently met us when we were out walking, he would merely take off his hat and pass us by, though I knew he was dying to join us. Even when invited to do so, he would refuse. Again, in places of amusement in the Casino, at concerts, or near the fountain he was never far from the spot where we were sitting. In fact, _wherever_ we were in the Park, in the forest, or on the Shlangenberg one needed but to raise one s eyes and glance around to catch sight of at least a _portion_ of Mr. Astley s frame sticking out whether on an adjacent path or behind a bush. Yet never did he lose any chance of speaking to myself; and, one morning when we had met, and exchanged a couple of words, he burst out in his usual abrupt way, without saying "Good-morning." "That Mlle. Blanche," he said. "Well, I have seen a good many women like her." After that he was silent as he looked me meaningly in the face. What he meant I did not know, but to my glance of inquiry he returned only a dry nod, and a reiterated "It is so." Presently, however, he resumed: "Does Mlle. Polina like flowers?" "I really cannot say," was my reply. "What? You cannot say?"<\|quote\|>he cried in great astonishment.</\|quote\|>"No; I have never noticed whether she does so or not," I repeated with a smile. "Hm! Then I have an idea in my mind," he concluded. Lastly, with a nod, he walked away with a pleased expression on his face. The conversation had been carried on in execrable French. IV Today has been a day of folly, stupidity, and ineptness. The time is now eleven o clock in the evening, and I am sitting in my room and thinking. It all began, this morning, with my being forced to go and play roulette for Polina Alexandrovna. When she handed me over her store of six hundred g lden I exacted two conditions namely, that I should not go halves with her in her winnings, if any (that is to say, I should not take anything for myself), and that she should explain to me, that same evening, why it was so necessary for her to win, and how much was the sum which she needed. For, I could not suppose that she was doing all this merely for the sake of money. Yet clearly she _did_ need some money, and that as soon as possible, and for a special purpose. Well, she promised to explain matters, and I departed. There was a tremendous crowd in the gaming-rooms. What an arrogant, greedy crowd it was! I pressed forward towards the middle of the room until I had secured a seat at a croupier s elbow. Then I began to play in timid fashion, venturing only twenty or thirty g lden at a time. Meanwhile, I observed and took notes. It seemed to me that calculation was superfluous, and by no means possessed of the importance which certain other players attached to it, even though they sat with ruled papers in their hands, whereon they set down the coups, calculated the chances, reckoned, staked, and lost exactly as we more simple mortals did who played without any reckoning at all. However, I deduced from the scene one conclusion which seemed to me reliable namely, that in the flow of fortuitous chances there is, if not a system, at all events a sort of order. This, of course, is a very strange thing. For instance, after a dozen middle figures there would always occur a dozen or so outer ones. Suppose the ball stopped twice at a dozen outer figures; it would	air; for I felt pretty certain that it would not be long before she herself approached me. For two days, therefore, I devoted my attention to Mlle. Blanche. The poor General was in despair! To fall in love at fifty-five, and with such vehemence, is indeed a misfortune! And add to that his widowerhood, his children, his ruined property, his debts, and the woman with whom he had fallen in love! Though Mlle. Blanche was extremely good-looking, I may or may not be understood when I say that she had one of those faces which one is afraid of. At all events, I myself have always feared such women. Apparently about twenty-five years of age, she was tall and broad-shouldered, with shoulders that sloped; yet though her neck and bosom were ample in their proportions, her skin was dull yellow in colour, while her hair (which was extremely abundant sufficient to make two coiffures) was as black as Indian ink. Add to that a pair of black eyes with yellowish whites, a proud glance, gleaming teeth, and lips which were perennially pomaded and redolent of musk. As for her dress, it was invariably rich, effective, and chic, yet in good taste. Lastly, her feet and hands were astonishing, and her voice a deep contralto. Sometimes, when she laughed, she displayed her teeth, but at ordinary times her air was taciturn and haughty especially in the presence of Polina and Maria Philipovna. Yet she seemed to me almost destitute of education, and even of wits, though cunning and suspicious. This, apparently, was not because her life had been lacking in incident. Perhaps, if all were known, the Marquis was not her kinsman at all, nor her mother, her mother; but there was evidence that, in Berlin, where we had first come across the pair, they had possessed acquaintances of good standing. As for the Marquis himself, I doubt to this day if he was a Marquis although about the fact that he had formerly belonged to high society (for instance, in Moscow and Germany) there could be no doubt whatever. What he had formerly been in France I had not a notion. All I knew was that he was said to possess a ch teau. During the last two weeks I had looked for much to transpire, but am still ignorant whether at that time anything decisive ever passed between Mademoiselle and the General. Everything seemed to depend upon our means upon whether the General would be able to flourish sufficient money in her face. If ever the news should arrive that the grandmother was not dead, Mlle. Blanche, I felt sure, would disappear in a twinkling. Indeed, it surprised and amused me to observe what a passion for intrigue I was developing. But how I loathed it all! With what pleasure would I have given everybody and everything the go-by! Only I could not leave Polina. How, then, could I show contempt for those who surrounded her? Espionage is a base thing, but what have I to do with that? Mr. Astley, too, I found a curious person. I was only sure that he had fallen in love with Polina. A remarkable and diverting circumstance is the amount which may lie in the mien of a shy and painfully modest man who has been touched with the divine passion especially when he would rather sink into the earth than betray himself by a single word or look. Though Mr. Astley frequently met us when we were out walking, he would merely take off his hat and pass us by, though I knew he was dying to join us. Even when invited to do so, he would refuse. Again, in places of amusement in the Casino, at concerts, or near the fountain he was never far from the spot where we were sitting. In fact, _wherever_ we were in the Park, in the forest, or on the Shlangenberg one needed but to raise one s eyes and glance around to catch sight of at least a _portion_ of Mr. Astley s frame sticking out whether on an adjacent path or behind a bush. Yet never did he lose any chance of speaking to myself; and, one morning when we had met, and exchanged a couple of words, he burst out in his usual abrupt way, without saying "Good-morning." "That Mlle. Blanche," he said. "Well, I have seen a good many women like her." After that he was silent as he looked me meaningly in the face. What he meant I did not know, but to my glance of inquiry he returned only a dry nod, and a reiterated "It is so." Presently, however, he resumed: "Does Mlle. Polina like flowers?" "I really cannot say," was my reply. "What? You cannot say?"<\|quote\|>he cried in great astonishment.</\|quote\|>"No; I have never noticed whether she does so or not," I repeated with a smile. "Hm! Then I have an idea in my mind," he concluded. Lastly, with a nod, he walked away with a pleased expression on his face. The conversation had been carried on in execrable French. IV Today has been a day of folly, stupidity, and ineptness. The time is now eleven o clock in the evening, and I am sitting in my room and thinking. It all began, this morning, with my being forced to go and play roulette for Polina Alexandrovna. When she handed me over her store of six hundred g lden I exacted two conditions namely, that I should not go halves with her in her winnings, if any (that is to say, I should not take anything for myself), and that she should explain to me, that same evening, why it was so necessary for her to win, and how much was the sum which she needed. For, I could not suppose that she was doing all this merely for the sake of money. Yet clearly she _did_ need some money, and that as soon as possible, and for a special purpose. Well, she promised to explain matters, and I departed. There was a tremendous crowd in the gaming-rooms. What an arrogant, greedy crowd it was! I pressed forward towards the middle of the room until I had secured a seat at a croupier s elbow. Then I began to play in timid fashion, venturing only twenty or thirty g lden at a time. Meanwhile, I observed and took notes. It seemed to me that calculation was superfluous, and by no means possessed of the importance which certain other players attached to it, even though they sat with ruled papers in their hands, whereon they set down the coups, calculated the chances, reckoned, staked, and lost exactly as we more simple mortals did who played without any reckoning at all. However, I deduced from the scene one conclusion which seemed to me reliable namely, that in the flow of fortuitous chances there is, if not a system, at all events a sort of order. This, of course, is a very strange thing. For instance, after a dozen middle figures there would always occur a dozen or so outer ones. Suppose the ball stopped twice at a dozen outer figures; it would then pass to a dozen of the first ones, and then, again, to a dozen of the middle ciphers, and fall upon them three or four times, and then revert to a dozen outers; whence, after another couple of rounds, the ball would again pass to the first figures, strike upon them once, and then return thrice to the middle series continuing thus for an hour and a half, or two hours. One, three, two: one, three, two. It was all very curious. Again, for the whole of a day or a morning the red would alternate with the black, but almost without any order, and from moment to moment, so that scarcely two consecutive rounds would end upon either the one or the other. Yet, next day, or, perhaps, the next evening, the red alone would turn up, and attain a run of over two score, and continue so for quite a length of time say, for a whole day. Of these circumstances the majority were pointed out to me by Mr. Astley, who stood by the gaming-table the whole morning, yet never once staked in person. For myself, I lost all that I had on me, and with great speed. To begin with, I staked two hundred g lden on "even," and won. Then I staked the same amount again, and won: and so on some two or three times. At one moment I must have had in my hands gathered there within a space of five minutes about 4000 g lden. That, of course, was the proper moment for me to have departed, but there arose in me a strange sensation as of a challenge to Fate as of a wish to deal her a blow on the cheek, and to put out my tongue at her. Accordingly I set down the largest stake allowed by the rules namely, 4000 g lden and lost. Fired by this mishap, I pulled out all the money left to me, staked it all on the same venture, and again lost! Then I rose from the table, feeling as though I were stupefied. What had happened to me I did not know; but, before luncheon I told Polina of my losses until which time I walked about the Park. At luncheon I was as excited as I had been at the meal three days ago. Mlle. Blanche and the Frenchman were	especially when he would rather sink into the earth than betray himself by a single word or look. Though Mr. Astley frequently met us when we were out walking, he would merely take off his hat and pass us by, though I knew he was dying to join us. Even when invited to do so, he would refuse. Again, in places of amusement in the Casino, at concerts, or near the fountain he was never far from the spot where we were sitting. In fact, _wherever_ we were in the Park, in the forest, or on the Shlangenberg one needed but to raise one s eyes and glance around to catch sight of at least a _portion_ of Mr. Astley s frame sticking out whether on an adjacent path or behind a bush. Yet never did he lose any chance of speaking to myself; and, one morning when we had met, and exchanged a couple of words, he burst out in his usual abrupt way, without saying "Good-morning." "That Mlle. Blanche," he said. "Well, I have seen a good many women like her." After that he was silent as he looked me meaningly in the face. What he meant I did not know, but to my glance of inquiry he returned only a dry nod, and a reiterated "It is so." Presently, however, he resumed: "Does Mlle. Polina like flowers?" "I really cannot say," was my reply. "What? You cannot say?"<\|quote\|>he cried in great astonishment.</\|quote\|>"No; I have never noticed whether she does so or not," I repeated with a smile. "Hm! Then I have an idea in my mind," he concluded. Lastly, with a nod, he walked away with a pleased expression on his face. The conversation had been carried on in execrable French. IV Today has been a day of folly, stupidity, and ineptness. The time is now eleven o clock in the evening, and I am sitting in my room and thinking. It all began, this morning, with my being forced to go and play roulette for Polina Alexandrovna. When she handed me over her store of six hundred g lden I exacted two conditions namely, that I should not go halves with her in her winnings, if any (that is to say, I should not take anything for myself), and that she should explain to me, that same evening, why it was so necessary for her to win, and how much was the sum which she needed. For, I could not suppose that she was doing all this merely for the sake of money. Yet clearly she _did_ need some money, and that as soon as possible, and for a special purpose. Well, she promised to explain matters, and I departed. There was a tremendous crowd in the gaming-rooms. What an arrogant, greedy crowd it was! I pressed forward towards the middle of the room until I had secured a seat at a croupier s elbow. Then I began to play in timid fashion, venturing only twenty or thirty g lden at a time. Meanwhile, I observed and took notes. It seemed to me that calculation was superfluous, and by no means possessed of the importance which certain other players attached to it, even though they sat with ruled papers in their hands, whereon they set down the coups, calculated the chances, reckoned, staked, and lost exactly as we more simple mortals did who played without any reckoning at all. However, I deduced from the	The Gambler
"What nonsense--listen!"	Margaret	Wilcoxes are beginning the siege."<\|quote\|>"What nonsense--listen!"</\|quote\|>And the triviality faded from	that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege."<\|quote\|>"What nonsense--listen!"</\|quote\|>And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left	every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege."<\|quote\|>"What nonsense--listen!"</\|quote\|>And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time	that greengage-tree," cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege."<\|quote\|>"What nonsense--listen!"</\|quote\|>And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other	given coffee at that time." "Was father alive?" "Yes." "Then you re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley s, when she didn t realise that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it." "Ah, that greengage-tree," cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege."<\|quote\|>"What nonsense--listen!"</\|quote\|>And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other s eyes. The inner life had paid. Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. "Little boy, what do you want?" "Please, I am the milk." "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply. "Yes, please." "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to Helen, "No, it s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one." "But I like milk," cried	They went in, and each minute their talk became more natural. "Oh, WHAT a place for mother s chiffonier!" cried Helen. "Look at the chairs, though." "Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn t it?" "North-west." "Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs have felt the sun. Feel. Their dear little backs are quite warm." "But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? I shall just--" "Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn." Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it. "Ye--es. The window s too high." "Try a drawing-room chair." "No, I don t like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been match-boarded. It would have been so beautiful otherwise." "Helen, what a memory you have for some things! You re perfectly right. It s a room that men have spoilt through trying to make it nice for women. Men don t know what we want--" "And never will." "I don t agree. In two thousand years they ll know. Look where Tibby spilt the soup." "Coffee. It was coffee surely." Helen shook her head. "Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given coffee at that time." "Was father alive?" "Yes." "Then you re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley s, when she didn t realise that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it." "Ah, that greengage-tree," cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege."<\|quote\|>"What nonsense--listen!"</\|quote\|>And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other s eyes. The inner life had paid. Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. "Little boy, what do you want?" "Please, I am the milk." "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply. "Yes, please." "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to Helen, "No, it s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one." "But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?" "Do you? Oh, very well. But we ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the can." "Please, I m to call in the morning for the can," said the boy. "The house will be locked up then." "In the morning would I bring eggs too?" "Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?" The child hung his head. "Well, run away and do it again." "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what s your name? Mine s Helen." "Tom." That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return. "Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we ve another called Tibby." "Mine are lop-eareds," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. "You re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.--Isn t he charming?" "Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers." "What do you mean?" "I don t know." "Because I probably agree with you." "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is	the things." She looked at the bookcase lovingly, as if she was saying farewell to the past. Margaret unbolted the door. She remarked: "The car has gone, and here s your cab." She led the way to it, glancing at the leaves and the sky. The spring had never seemed more beautiful. The driver, who was leaning on the gate, called out, "Please, lady, a message," and handed her Henry s visiting-card through the bars. "How did this come?" she asked. Crane had returned with it almost at once. She read the card with annoyance. It was covered with instructions in domestic French. When she and her sister had talked she was to come back for the night to Dolly s. "Il faut dormir sur ce sujet." while Helen was to be found une comfortable chambre a l hotel. The final sentence displeased her greatly until she remembered that the Charles s had only one spare room, and so could not invite a third guest. "Henry would have done what he could," she interpreted. Helen had not followed her into the garden. The door once open, she lost her inclination to fly. She remained in the hall, going from bookcase to table. She grew more like the old Helen, irresponsible and charming. "This IS Mr. Wilcox s house?" she inquired. "Surely you remember Howards End?" "Remember? I who remember everything! But it looks to be ours now." "Miss Avery was extraordinary," said Margaret, her own spirits lightening a little. Again she was invaded by a slight feeling of disloyalty. But it brought her relief, and she yielded to it. "She loved Mrs. Wilcox, and would rather furnish her home with our things than think of it empty. In consequence here are all the library books." "Not all the books. She hasn t unpacked the Art books, in which she may show her sense. And we never used to have the sword here." "The sword looks well, though." "Magnificent." "Yes, doesn t it?" "Where s the piano, Meg?" "I warehoused that in London. Why?" "Nothing." "Curious, too, that the carpet fits." "The carpet s a mistake," announced Helen. "I know that we had it in London, but this floor ought to be bare. It is far too beautiful." "You still have a mania for under-furnishing. Would you care to come into the dining-room before you start? There s no carpet there." They went in, and each minute their talk became more natural. "Oh, WHAT a place for mother s chiffonier!" cried Helen. "Look at the chairs, though." "Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn t it?" "North-west." "Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs have felt the sun. Feel. Their dear little backs are quite warm." "But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? I shall just--" "Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn." Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it. "Ye--es. The window s too high." "Try a drawing-room chair." "No, I don t like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been match-boarded. It would have been so beautiful otherwise." "Helen, what a memory you have for some things! You re perfectly right. It s a room that men have spoilt through trying to make it nice for women. Men don t know what we want--" "And never will." "I don t agree. In two thousand years they ll know. Look where Tibby spilt the soup." "Coffee. It was coffee surely." Helen shook her head. "Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given coffee at that time." "Was father alive?" "Yes." "Then you re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley s, when she didn t realise that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it." "Ah, that greengage-tree," cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege."<\|quote\|>"What nonsense--listen!"</\|quote\|>And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other s eyes. The inner life had paid. Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. "Little boy, what do you want?" "Please, I am the milk." "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply. "Yes, please." "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to Helen, "No, it s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one." "But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?" "Do you? Oh, very well. But we ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the can." "Please, I m to call in the morning for the can," said the boy. "The house will be locked up then." "In the morning would I bring eggs too?" "Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?" The child hung his head. "Well, run away and do it again." "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what s your name? Mine s Helen." "Tom." That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return. "Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we ve another called Tibby." "Mine are lop-eareds," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. "You re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.--Isn t he charming?" "Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers." "What do you mean?" "I don t know." "Because I probably agree with you." "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live." "I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago." "Meaning that I was dead. I felt it." "Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I ve a startling idea." "What is it?" "Drink some milk to steady you." Margaret obeyed. "No, I won t tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one would see really." She admired the view. She was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said: "About my idea. Couldn t you and I camp out in this house for the night?" "I don t think we could well do that," said Margaret. "Here are beds, tables, towels--" "I know; but the house isn t supposed to be slept in, and Henry s suggestion was--" "I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let s!" "But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can t without getting Henry s leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate." "Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It s a moon." Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn t like it," she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt	come into the dining-room before you start? There s no carpet there." They went in, and each minute their talk became more natural. "Oh, WHAT a place for mother s chiffonier!" cried Helen. "Look at the chairs, though." "Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn t it?" "North-west." "Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs have felt the sun. Feel. Their dear little backs are quite warm." "But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? I shall just--" "Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn." Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it. "Ye--es. The window s too high." "Try a drawing-room chair." "No, I don t like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been match-boarded. It would have been so beautiful otherwise." "Helen, what a memory you have for some things! You re perfectly right. It s a room that men have spoilt through trying to make it nice for women. Men don t know what we want--" "And never will." "I don t agree. In two thousand years they ll know. Look where Tibby spilt the soup." "Coffee. It was coffee surely." Helen shook her head. "Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given coffee at that time." "Was father alive?" "Yes." "Then you re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later--that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley s, when she didn t realise that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme, Tea, coffee--coffee tea, that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute--how did it go?" "I know--no, I don t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!" "But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it." "Ah, that greengage-tree," cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers." Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she announced. " Tea, tea, coffee, tea, Or chocolaritee.'" "That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild." "Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen. "There! I knew you d say that in the end. Of course he s a dear." A bell rang. "Listen! what s that?" Helen said, "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege."<\|quote\|>"What nonsense--listen!"</\|quote\|>And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind--the knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation was lying round them--the past sanctifying the present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, "It is always Meg." They looked into each other s eyes. The inner life had paid. Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. "Little boy, what do you want?" "Please, I am the milk." "Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather sharply. "Yes, please." "Then take it back and say we require no milk." While she called to Helen, "No, it s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one." "But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?" "Do you? Oh, very well. But we ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the can." "Please, I m to call in the morning for the can," said the boy. "The house will be locked up then." "In the morning would I bring eggs too?" "Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?" The child hung his head. "Well, run away and do it again." "Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what s your name? Mine s Helen." "Tom." That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return. "Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we ve another called Tibby." "Mine are lop-eareds," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. "You re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.--Isn t he charming?" "Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers." "What do you mean?" "I don t know." "Because I probably agree with you." "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live." "I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago." "Meaning that I was dead. I felt it." "Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I ve a startling idea." "What is it?" "Drink some milk to steady you." Margaret obeyed. "No, I won t tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing." They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling	Howards End
"I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?"	Winnie-the-pooh	had winked at him twice,<\|quote\|>"I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?"</\|quote\|>"Hardly at all," said Kanga.	Kanga," said Pooh, after Rabbit had winked at him twice,<\|quote\|>"I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?"</\|quote\|>"Hardly at all," said Kanga. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Roo, dear,	Rabbit and Piglet, who had now come up from the other side of the hill, said "Good afternoon," and "Hallo, Roo," and Roo asked them to look at him jumping, so they stayed and looked. And Kanga looked too.... "Oh, Kanga," said Pooh, after Rabbit had winked at him twice,<\|quote\|>"I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?"</\|quote\|>"Hardly at all," said Kanga. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Roo, dear, just one more jump and then we must go home." There was a short silence while Roo fell down another mouse-hole. "Go on," said Rabbit in a loud whisper behind his paw. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh, "I made up	go home." And at that moment who should come stumping up the hill but Pooh. "Good afternoon, Kanga." "Good afternoon, Pooh." "Look at me jumping," squeaked Roo, and fell into another mouse-hole. "Hallo, Roo, my little fellow!" "We were just going home," said Kanga. "Good afternoon, Rabbit. Good afternoon, Piglet." Rabbit and Piglet, who had now come up from the other side of the hill, said "Good afternoon," and "Hallo, Roo," and Roo asked them to look at him jumping, so they stayed and looked. And Kanga looked too.... "Oh, Kanga," said Pooh, after Rabbit had winked at him twice,<\|quote\|>"I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?"</\|quote\|>"Hardly at all," said Kanga. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Roo, dear, just one more jump and then we must go home." There was a short silence while Roo fell down another mouse-hole. "Go on," said Rabbit in a loud whisper behind his paw. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh, "I made up a little piece as I was coming along. It went like this. Er--now let me see----" "Fancy!" said Kanga. "Now Roo, dear----" "You'll like this piece of poetry," said Rabbit. "You'll love it," said Piglet. "You must listen very carefully," said Rabbit. "So as not to miss any of it,"	you just have to talk very hard to Kanga so as she doesn't notice anything." "Oh! What about?" "Anything you like." "You mean like telling her a little bit of poetry or something?" "That's it," said Rabbit. "Splendid. Now come along." So they all went out to look for Kanga. Kanga and Roo were spending a quiet afternoon in a sandy part of the Forest. Baby Roo was practising very small jumps in the sand, and falling down mouse-holes and climbing out of them, and Kanga was fidgeting about and saying "Just one more jump, dear, and then we must go home." And at that moment who should come stumping up the hill but Pooh. "Good afternoon, Kanga." "Good afternoon, Pooh." "Look at me jumping," squeaked Roo, and fell into another mouse-hole. "Hallo, Roo, my little fellow!" "We were just going home," said Kanga. "Good afternoon, Rabbit. Good afternoon, Piglet." Rabbit and Piglet, who had now come up from the other side of the hill, said "Good afternoon," and "Hallo, Roo," and Roo asked them to look at him jumping, so they stayed and looked. And Kanga looked too.... "Oh, Kanga," said Pooh, after Rabbit had winked at him twice,<\|quote\|>"I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?"</\|quote\|>"Hardly at all," said Kanga. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Roo, dear, just one more jump and then we must go home." There was a short silence while Roo fell down another mouse-hole. "Go on," said Rabbit in a loud whisper behind his paw. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh, "I made up a little piece as I was coming along. It went like this. Er--now let me see----" "Fancy!" said Kanga. "Now Roo, dear----" "You'll like this piece of poetry," said Rabbit. "You'll love it," said Piglet. "You must listen very carefully," said Rabbit. "So as not to miss any of it," said Piglet. "Oh, yes," said Kanga, but she still looked at Baby Roo. "_How_ did it go, Pooh?" said Rabbit. Pooh gave a little cough and began. "LINES WRITTEN BY A BEAR OF VERY LITTLE BRAIN On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: "Now is it true, or is it not," "That what is which and which is what?" On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I	if Pooh was talking to her very excitedly, she _might_ look the other way for a moment. 9. And then I could run away with Roo. 10. Quickly. 11. _And Kanga wouldn't discover the difference until Afterwards._ Well, Rabbit read this out proudly, and for a little while after he had read it nobody said anything. And then Piglet, who had been opening and shutting his mouth without making any noise, managed to say very huskily: "And--Afterwards?" "How do you mean?" "When Kanga _does_ Discover the Difference?" "Then we all say '_Aha!_'" "All three of us?" "Yes." "Oh!" "Why, what's the trouble, Piglet?" "Nothing," said Piglet, "as long as _we all three_ say it. As long as we all three say it," said Piglet, "I don't mind," he said, "but I shouldn't care to say '_Aha!_' by myself. It wouldn't sound _nearly_ so well. By the way," he said, "you _are_ quite sure about what you said about the winter months?" "The winter months?" "Yes, only being Fierce in the Winter Months." "Oh, yes, yes, that's all right. Well, Pooh? You see what you have to do?" "No," said Pooh Bear. "Not yet," he said. "What _do_ I do?" "Well, you just have to talk very hard to Kanga so as she doesn't notice anything." "Oh! What about?" "Anything you like." "You mean like telling her a little bit of poetry or something?" "That's it," said Rabbit. "Splendid. Now come along." So they all went out to look for Kanga. Kanga and Roo were spending a quiet afternoon in a sandy part of the Forest. Baby Roo was practising very small jumps in the sand, and falling down mouse-holes and climbing out of them, and Kanga was fidgeting about and saying "Just one more jump, dear, and then we must go home." And at that moment who should come stumping up the hill but Pooh. "Good afternoon, Kanga." "Good afternoon, Pooh." "Look at me jumping," squeaked Roo, and fell into another mouse-hole. "Hallo, Roo, my little fellow!" "We were just going home," said Kanga. "Good afternoon, Rabbit. Good afternoon, Piglet." Rabbit and Piglet, who had now come up from the other side of the hill, said "Good afternoon," and "Hallo, Roo," and Roo asked them to look at him jumping, so they stayed and looked. And Kanga looked too.... "Oh, Kanga," said Pooh, after Rabbit had winked at him twice,<\|quote\|>"I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?"</\|quote\|>"Hardly at all," said Kanga. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Roo, dear, just one more jump and then we must go home." There was a short silence while Roo fell down another mouse-hole. "Go on," said Rabbit in a loud whisper behind his paw. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh, "I made up a little piece as I was coming along. It went like this. Er--now let me see----" "Fancy!" said Kanga. "Now Roo, dear----" "You'll like this piece of poetry," said Rabbit. "You'll love it," said Piglet. "You must listen very carefully," said Rabbit. "So as not to miss any of it," said Piglet. "Oh, yes," said Kanga, but she still looked at Baby Roo. "_How_ did it go, Pooh?" said Rabbit. Pooh gave a little cough and began. "LINES WRITTEN BY A BEAR OF VERY LITTLE BRAIN On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: "Now is it true, or is it not," "That what is which and which is what?" On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it's true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose--but whose are these? On Friday---" - "Yes, it is, isn't it?" said Kanga, not waiting to hear what happened on Friday. "Just one more jump, Roo, dear, and then we really _must_ be going." Rabbit gave Pooh a hurrying-up sort of nudge. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh quickly, "have you ever noticed that tree right over there?" "Where?" said Kanga. "Now, Roo----" "Right over there," said Pooh, pointing behind Kanga's back. "No," said Kanga. "Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll go home." "You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Rabbit. "Shall I lift you in, Roo?" And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is," said Rabbit. "Is it a starling or a	Kanga was Generally Regarded as One of the Fiercer Animals. I am not frightened of Fierce Animals in the ordinary way, but it is well known that, if One of the Fiercer Animals is Deprived of Its Young, it becomes as fierce as Two of the Fiercer Animals. In which case '_Aha!_' is perhaps a _foolish_ thing to say." "Piglet," said Rabbit, taking out a pencil, and licking the end of it, "you haven't any pluck." "It is hard to be brave," said Piglet, sniffing slightly, "when you're only a Very Small Animal." Rabbit, who had begun to write very busily, looked up and said: "It is because you are a very small animal that you will be Useful in the adventure before us." Piglet was so excited at the idea of being Useful, that he forgot to be frightened any more, and when Rabbit went on to say that Kangas were only Fierce during the winter months, being at other times of an Affectionate Disposition, he could hardly sit still, he was so eager to begin being useful at once. "What about me?" said Pooh sadly. "I suppose _I_ shan't be useful?" "Never mind, Pooh," said Piglet comfortingly. "Another time perhaps." "Without Pooh," said Rabbit solemnly as he sharpened his pencil, "the adventure would be impossible." "Oh!" said Piglet, and tried not to look disappointed. But Pooh went into a corner of the room and said proudly to himself, "Impossible without Me! _That_ sort of Bear." "Now listen all of you," said Rabbit when he had finished writing, and Pooh and Piglet sat listening very eagerly with their mouths open. This was what Rabbit read out: PLAN TO CAPTURE BABY ROO 1. _General Remarks._ Kanga runs faster than any of Us, even Me. 2. _More General Remarks._ Kanga never takes her eye off Baby Roo, except when he's safely buttoned up in her pocket. 3. _Therefore._ If we are to capture Baby Roo, we must get a Long Start, because Kanga runs faster than any of Us, even Me. (_See_ 1.) 4. _A Thought._ If Roo had jumped out of Kanga's pocket and Piglet had jumped in, Kanga wouldn't know the difference, because Piglet is a Very Small Animal. 5. Like Roo. 6. But Kanga would have to be looking the other way first, so as not to see Piglet jumping in. 7. See 2. 8. _Another Thought._ But if Pooh was talking to her very excitedly, she _might_ look the other way for a moment. 9. And then I could run away with Roo. 10. Quickly. 11. _And Kanga wouldn't discover the difference until Afterwards._ Well, Rabbit read this out proudly, and for a little while after he had read it nobody said anything. And then Piglet, who had been opening and shutting his mouth without making any noise, managed to say very huskily: "And--Afterwards?" "How do you mean?" "When Kanga _does_ Discover the Difference?" "Then we all say '_Aha!_'" "All three of us?" "Yes." "Oh!" "Why, what's the trouble, Piglet?" "Nothing," said Piglet, "as long as _we all three_ say it. As long as we all three say it," said Piglet, "I don't mind," he said, "but I shouldn't care to say '_Aha!_' by myself. It wouldn't sound _nearly_ so well. By the way," he said, "you _are_ quite sure about what you said about the winter months?" "The winter months?" "Yes, only being Fierce in the Winter Months." "Oh, yes, yes, that's all right. Well, Pooh? You see what you have to do?" "No," said Pooh Bear. "Not yet," he said. "What _do_ I do?" "Well, you just have to talk very hard to Kanga so as she doesn't notice anything." "Oh! What about?" "Anything you like." "You mean like telling her a little bit of poetry or something?" "That's it," said Rabbit. "Splendid. Now come along." So they all went out to look for Kanga. Kanga and Roo were spending a quiet afternoon in a sandy part of the Forest. Baby Roo was practising very small jumps in the sand, and falling down mouse-holes and climbing out of them, and Kanga was fidgeting about and saying "Just one more jump, dear, and then we must go home." And at that moment who should come stumping up the hill but Pooh. "Good afternoon, Kanga." "Good afternoon, Pooh." "Look at me jumping," squeaked Roo, and fell into another mouse-hole. "Hallo, Roo, my little fellow!" "We were just going home," said Kanga. "Good afternoon, Rabbit. Good afternoon, Piglet." Rabbit and Piglet, who had now come up from the other side of the hill, said "Good afternoon," and "Hallo, Roo," and Roo asked them to look at him jumping, so they stayed and looked. And Kanga looked too.... "Oh, Kanga," said Pooh, after Rabbit had winked at him twice,<\|quote\|>"I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?"</\|quote\|>"Hardly at all," said Kanga. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Roo, dear, just one more jump and then we must go home." There was a short silence while Roo fell down another mouse-hole. "Go on," said Rabbit in a loud whisper behind his paw. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh, "I made up a little piece as I was coming along. It went like this. Er--now let me see----" "Fancy!" said Kanga. "Now Roo, dear----" "You'll like this piece of poetry," said Rabbit. "You'll love it," said Piglet. "You must listen very carefully," said Rabbit. "So as not to miss any of it," said Piglet. "Oh, yes," said Kanga, but she still looked at Baby Roo. "_How_ did it go, Pooh?" said Rabbit. Pooh gave a little cough and began. "LINES WRITTEN BY A BEAR OF VERY LITTLE BRAIN On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: "Now is it true, or is it not," "That what is which and which is what?" On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it's true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose--but whose are these? On Friday---" - "Yes, it is, isn't it?" said Kanga, not waiting to hear what happened on Friday. "Just one more jump, Roo, dear, and then we really _must_ be going." Rabbit gave Pooh a hurrying-up sort of nudge. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh quickly, "have you ever noticed that tree right over there?" "Where?" said Kanga. "Now, Roo----" "Right over there," said Pooh, pointing behind Kanga's back. "No," said Kanga. "Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll go home." "You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Rabbit. "Shall I lift you in, Roo?" And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is," said Rabbit. "Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh. "I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly." "And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought. "Some can and some can't. That's how it is." But there were moments when Piglet wished that Kanga couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the Forest, he had wished that he were a bird; but now he thought jerkily to himself at the bottom of Kanga's pocket, "this take "If is shall really to flying I never it."" And as he went up in the air he said, "_Ooooooo!_" and as he came down he said, "_Ow!_" And he was saying, "_Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow_" all the way to Kanga's house. Of course as soon as Kanga unbuttoned her pocket, she saw what had happened. Just for a moment, she thought she was frightened, and then she knew she wasn't; for she felt quite sure that Christopher Robin would never let any harm happen to Roo. So she said to herself, "If they are having a joke with me, I will have a joke with them." "Now then, Roo, dear," she said, as she took Piglet out of her pocket. "Bed-time." "_Aha!_" said Piglet, as well as he could after his Terrifying Journey. But it wasn't a very good "_Aha!_" and Kanga didn't seem to understand what it meant. "Bath first," said Kanga in a cheerful voice. "_Aha!_" said Piglet again, looking round anxiously for the others. But the others weren't there. Rabbit was playing with Baby Roo in his own house, and feeling more fond of	Long Start, because Kanga runs faster than any of Us, even Me. (_See_ 1.) 4. _A Thought._ If Roo had jumped out of Kanga's pocket and Piglet had jumped in, Kanga wouldn't know the difference, because Piglet is a Very Small Animal. 5. Like Roo. 6. But Kanga would have to be looking the other way first, so as not to see Piglet jumping in. 7. See 2. 8. _Another Thought._ But if Pooh was talking to her very excitedly, she _might_ look the other way for a moment. 9. And then I could run away with Roo. 10. Quickly. 11. _And Kanga wouldn't discover the difference until Afterwards._ Well, Rabbit read this out proudly, and for a little while after he had read it nobody said anything. And then Piglet, who had been opening and shutting his mouth without making any noise, managed to say very huskily: "And--Afterwards?" "How do you mean?" "When Kanga _does_ Discover the Difference?" "Then we all say '_Aha!_'" "All three of us?" "Yes." "Oh!" "Why, what's the trouble, Piglet?" "Nothing," said Piglet, "as long as _we all three_ say it. As long as we all three say it," said Piglet, "I don't mind," he said, "but I shouldn't care to say '_Aha!_' by myself. It wouldn't sound _nearly_ so well. By the way," he said, "you _are_ quite sure about what you said about the winter months?" "The winter months?" "Yes, only being Fierce in the Winter Months." "Oh, yes, yes, that's all right. Well, Pooh? You see what you have to do?" "No," said Pooh Bear. "Not yet," he said. "What _do_ I do?" "Well, you just have to talk very hard to Kanga so as she doesn't notice anything." "Oh! What about?" "Anything you like." "You mean like telling her a little bit of poetry or something?" "That's it," said Rabbit. "Splendid. Now come along." So they all went out to look for Kanga. Kanga and Roo were spending a quiet afternoon in a sandy part of the Forest. Baby Roo was practising very small jumps in the sand, and falling down mouse-holes and climbing out of them, and Kanga was fidgeting about and saying "Just one more jump, dear, and then we must go home." And at that moment who should come stumping up the hill but Pooh. "Good afternoon, Kanga." "Good afternoon, Pooh." "Look at me jumping," squeaked Roo, and fell into another mouse-hole. "Hallo, Roo, my little fellow!" "We were just going home," said Kanga. "Good afternoon, Rabbit. Good afternoon, Piglet." Rabbit and Piglet, who had now come up from the other side of the hill, said "Good afternoon," and "Hallo, Roo," and Roo asked them to look at him jumping, so they stayed and looked. And Kanga looked too.... "Oh, Kanga," said Pooh, after Rabbit had winked at him twice,<\|quote\|>"I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?"</\|quote\|>"Hardly at all," said Kanga. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Roo, dear, just one more jump and then we must go home." There was a short silence while Roo fell down another mouse-hole. "Go on," said Rabbit in a loud whisper behind his paw. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh, "I made up a little piece as I was coming along. It went like this. Er--now let me see----" "Fancy!" said Kanga. "Now Roo, dear----" "You'll like this piece of poetry," said Rabbit. "You'll love it," said Piglet. "You must listen very carefully," said Rabbit. "So as not to miss any of it," said Piglet. "Oh, yes," said Kanga, but she still looked at Baby Roo. "_How_ did it go, Pooh?" said Rabbit. Pooh gave a little cough and began. "LINES WRITTEN BY A BEAR OF VERY LITTLE BRAIN On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: "Now is it true, or is it not," "That what is which and which is what?" On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it's true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose--but whose are these? On Friday---" - "Yes, it is, isn't it?" said Kanga, not waiting to hear what happened on Friday. "Just one more jump, Roo, dear, and then we really _must_ be going." Rabbit gave Pooh a hurrying-up sort of nudge. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh quickly, "have you ever noticed that tree right over there?" "Where?" said Kanga. "Now, Roo----" "Right over there," said Pooh, pointing behind Kanga's back. "No," said Kanga. "Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll go home." "You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Rabbit. "Shall I lift you in, Roo?" And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is," said Rabbit. "Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh. "I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly." "And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought. "Some can and some can't. That's how it is." But there were	Winnie The Pooh
She sighed.	No speaker	disgusting business. To think that--"<\|quote\|>She sighed.</\|quote\|>"To think that because you	but it has been a disgusting business. To think that--"<\|quote\|>She sighed.</\|quote\|>"To think that because you and a young man meet	along, I think." "Oh, she must have overheard you." "I suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When Charles and Aunt Juley drove up, calling each other names, Mrs. Wilcox stepped in from the garden and made everything less terrible. Ugh! but it has been a disgusting business. To think that--"<\|quote\|>She sighed.</\|quote\|>"To think that because you and a young man meet for a moment, there must be all these telegrams and anger," supplied Margaret. Helen nodded. "I ve often thought about it, Helen. It s one of the most interesting things in the world. The truth is that there is a	father started for the station, and then came your telegram warning me that Aunt Juley was coming by that train, and Paul--oh, rather horrible--said that I had muddled it. But Mrs. Wilcox knew." "Knew what?" "Everything; though we neither of us told her a word, and she had known all along, I think." "Oh, she must have overheard you." "I suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When Charles and Aunt Juley drove up, calling each other names, Mrs. Wilcox stepped in from the garden and made everything less terrible. Ugh! but it has been a disgusting business. To think that--"<\|quote\|>She sighed.</\|quote\|>"To think that because you and a young man meet for a moment, there must be all these telegrams and anger," supplied Margaret. Helen nodded. "I ve often thought about it, Helen. It s one of the most interesting things in the world. The truth is that there is a great outer life that you and I have never touched--a life in which telegrams and anger count. Personal relations, that we think supreme, are not supreme there. There love means marriage settlements, death, death duties. So far I m clear. But here my difficulty. This outer life, though obviously horrid;	that the telegram was of no consequence, for Paul said Charles might read it, and though I wrote it out several times, he always said people would suspect something. He took it himself at last, pretending that he must walk down to get cartridges, and, what with one thing and the other, it was not handed in at the post-office until too late. It was the most terrible morning. Paul disliked me more and more, and Evie talked cricket averages till I nearly screamed. I cannot think how I stood her all the other days. At last Charles and his father started for the station, and then came your telegram warning me that Aunt Juley was coming by that train, and Paul--oh, rather horrible--said that I had muddled it. But Mrs. Wilcox knew." "Knew what?" "Everything; though we neither of us told her a word, and she had known all along, I think." "Oh, she must have overheard you." "I suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When Charles and Aunt Juley drove up, calling each other names, Mrs. Wilcox stepped in from the garden and made everything less terrible. Ugh! but it has been a disgusting business. To think that--"<\|quote\|>She sighed.</\|quote\|>"To think that because you and a young man meet for a moment, there must be all these telegrams and anger," supplied Margaret. Helen nodded. "I ve often thought about it, Helen. It s one of the most interesting things in the world. The truth is that there is a great outer life that you and I have never touched--a life in which telegrams and anger count. Personal relations, that we think supreme, are not supreme there. There love means marriage settlements, death, death duties. So far I m clear. But here my difficulty. This outer life, though obviously horrid; often seems the real one--there s grit in it. It does breed character. Do personal relations lead to sloppiness in the end?" "Oh, Meg--, that s what I felt, only not so clearly, when the Wilcoxes were so competent, and seemed to have their hands on all the ropes." "Don t you feel it now?" "I remember Paul at breakfast," said Helen quietly. "I shall never forget him. He had nothing to fall back upon. I know that personal relations are the real life, for ever and ever." "Amen!" So the Wilcox episode fell into the background, leaving behind it	t think that. The Wilcoxes struck me as being genuine people, particularly the wife." "No, I don t really think that. But Paul was so broad-shouldered; all kinds of extraordinary things made it worse, and I knew that it would never do--never. I said to him after breakfast, when the others were practising strokes," We rather lost our heads, "and he looked better at once, though frightfully ashamed. He began a speech about having no money to marry on, but it hurt him to make it, and I stopped him. Then he said," I must beg your pardon over this, Miss Schlegel; I can t think what came over me last night. "And I said," Nor what over me; never mind. "And then we parted--at least, until I remembered that I had written straight off to tell you the night before, and that frightened him again. I asked him to send a telegram for me, for he knew you would be coming or something; and he tried to get hold of the motor, but Charles and Mr. Wilcox wanted it to go to the station; and Charles offered to send the telegram for me, and then I had to say that the telegram was of no consequence, for Paul said Charles might read it, and though I wrote it out several times, he always said people would suspect something. He took it himself at last, pretending that he must walk down to get cartridges, and, what with one thing and the other, it was not handed in at the post-office until too late. It was the most terrible morning. Paul disliked me more and more, and Evie talked cricket averages till I nearly screamed. I cannot think how I stood her all the other days. At last Charles and his father started for the station, and then came your telegram warning me that Aunt Juley was coming by that train, and Paul--oh, rather horrible--said that I had muddled it. But Mrs. Wilcox knew." "Knew what?" "Everything; though we neither of us told her a word, and she had known all along, I think." "Oh, she must have overheard you." "I suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When Charles and Aunt Juley drove up, calling each other names, Mrs. Wilcox stepped in from the garden and made everything less terrible. Ugh! but it has been a disgusting business. To think that--"<\|quote\|>She sighed.</\|quote\|>"To think that because you and a young man meet for a moment, there must be all these telegrams and anger," supplied Margaret. Helen nodded. "I ve often thought about it, Helen. It s one of the most interesting things in the world. The truth is that there is a great outer life that you and I have never touched--a life in which telegrams and anger count. Personal relations, that we think supreme, are not supreme there. There love means marriage settlements, death, death duties. So far I m clear. But here my difficulty. This outer life, though obviously horrid; often seems the real one--there s grit in it. It does breed character. Do personal relations lead to sloppiness in the end?" "Oh, Meg--, that s what I felt, only not so clearly, when the Wilcoxes were so competent, and seemed to have their hands on all the ropes." "Don t you feel it now?" "I remember Paul at breakfast," said Helen quietly. "I shall never forget him. He had nothing to fall back upon. I know that personal relations are the real life, for ever and ever." "Amen!" So the Wilcox episode fell into the background, leaving behind it memories of sweetness and horror that mingled, and the sisters pursued the life that Helen had commended. They talked to each other and to other people, they filled the tall thin house at Wickham Place with those whom they liked or could befriend. They even attended public meetings. In their own fashion they cared deeply about politics, though not as politicians would have us care; they desired that public life should mirror whatever is good in the life within. Temperance, tolerance, and sexual equality were intelligible cries to them; whereas they did not follow our Forward Policy in Tibet with the keen attention that it merits, and would at times dismiss the whole British Empire with a puzzled, if reverent, sigh. Not out of them are the shows of history erected: the world would be a grey, bloodless place were it composed entirely of Miss Schlegels. But the world being what it is, perhaps they shine out in it like stars. A word on their origin. They were not "English to the back-bone," as their aunt had piously asserted. But, on the other hand, they were not "Germans of the dreadful sort." Their father had belonged to a type that	It is so easy to talk of "passing emotion," and to forget how vivid the emotion was ere it passed. Our impulse to sneer, to forget, is at root a good one. We recognise that emotion is not enough, and that men and women are personalities capable of sustained relations, not mere opportunities for an electrical discharge. Yet we rate the impulse too highly. We do not admit that by collisions of this trivial sort the doors of heaven may be shaken open. To Helen, at all events, her life was to bring nothing more intense than the embrace of this boy who played no part in it. He had drawn her out of the house, where there was danger of surprise and light; he had led her by a path he knew, until they stood under the column of the vast wych-elm. A man in the darkness, he had whispered "I love you" when she was desiring love. In time his slender personality faded, the scene that he had evoked endured. In all the variable years that followed she never saw the like of it again. "I understand," said Margaret-- "at least, I understand as much as ever is understood of these things. Tell me now what happened on the Monday morning." "It was over at once." "How, Helen?" "I was still happy while I dressed, but as I came downstairs I got nervous, and when I went into the dining-room I knew it was no good. There was Evie--I can t explain--managing the tea-urn, and Mr. Wilcox reading the Times." "Was Paul there?" "Yes; and Charles was talking to him about stocks and shares, and he looked frightened." By slight indications the sisters could convey much to each other. Margaret saw horror latent in the scene, and Helen s next remark did not surprise her. "Somehow, when that kind of man looks frightened it is too awful. It is all right for us to be frightened, or for men of another sort--father, for instance; but for men like that! When I saw all the others so placid, and Paul mad with terror in case I said the wrong thing, I felt for a moment that the whole Wilcox family was a fraud, just a wall of newspapers and motor-cars and golf-clubs, and that if it fell I should find nothing behind it but panic and emptiness." "I don t think that. The Wilcoxes struck me as being genuine people, particularly the wife." "No, I don t really think that. But Paul was so broad-shouldered; all kinds of extraordinary things made it worse, and I knew that it would never do--never. I said to him after breakfast, when the others were practising strokes," We rather lost our heads, "and he looked better at once, though frightfully ashamed. He began a speech about having no money to marry on, but it hurt him to make it, and I stopped him. Then he said," I must beg your pardon over this, Miss Schlegel; I can t think what came over me last night. "And I said," Nor what over me; never mind. "And then we parted--at least, until I remembered that I had written straight off to tell you the night before, and that frightened him again. I asked him to send a telegram for me, for he knew you would be coming or something; and he tried to get hold of the motor, but Charles and Mr. Wilcox wanted it to go to the station; and Charles offered to send the telegram for me, and then I had to say that the telegram was of no consequence, for Paul said Charles might read it, and though I wrote it out several times, he always said people would suspect something. He took it himself at last, pretending that he must walk down to get cartridges, and, what with one thing and the other, it was not handed in at the post-office until too late. It was the most terrible morning. Paul disliked me more and more, and Evie talked cricket averages till I nearly screamed. I cannot think how I stood her all the other days. At last Charles and his father started for the station, and then came your telegram warning me that Aunt Juley was coming by that train, and Paul--oh, rather horrible--said that I had muddled it. But Mrs. Wilcox knew." "Knew what?" "Everything; though we neither of us told her a word, and she had known all along, I think." "Oh, she must have overheard you." "I suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When Charles and Aunt Juley drove up, calling each other names, Mrs. Wilcox stepped in from the garden and made everything less terrible. Ugh! but it has been a disgusting business. To think that--"<\|quote\|>She sighed.</\|quote\|>"To think that because you and a young man meet for a moment, there must be all these telegrams and anger," supplied Margaret. Helen nodded. "I ve often thought about it, Helen. It s one of the most interesting things in the world. The truth is that there is a great outer life that you and I have never touched--a life in which telegrams and anger count. Personal relations, that we think supreme, are not supreme there. There love means marriage settlements, death, death duties. So far I m clear. But here my difficulty. This outer life, though obviously horrid; often seems the real one--there s grit in it. It does breed character. Do personal relations lead to sloppiness in the end?" "Oh, Meg--, that s what I felt, only not so clearly, when the Wilcoxes were so competent, and seemed to have their hands on all the ropes." "Don t you feel it now?" "I remember Paul at breakfast," said Helen quietly. "I shall never forget him. He had nothing to fall back upon. I know that personal relations are the real life, for ever and ever." "Amen!" So the Wilcox episode fell into the background, leaving behind it memories of sweetness and horror that mingled, and the sisters pursued the life that Helen had commended. They talked to each other and to other people, they filled the tall thin house at Wickham Place with those whom they liked or could befriend. They even attended public meetings. In their own fashion they cared deeply about politics, though not as politicians would have us care; they desired that public life should mirror whatever is good in the life within. Temperance, tolerance, and sexual equality were intelligible cries to them; whereas they did not follow our Forward Policy in Tibet with the keen attention that it merits, and would at times dismiss the whole British Empire with a puzzled, if reverent, sigh. Not out of them are the shows of history erected: the world would be a grey, bloodless place were it composed entirely of Miss Schlegels. But the world being what it is, perhaps they shine out in it like stars. A word on their origin. They were not "English to the back-bone," as their aunt had piously asserted. But, on the other hand, they were not "Germans of the dreadful sort." Their father had belonged to a type that was more prominent in Germany fifty years ago than now. He was not the aggressive German, so dear to the English journalist, nor the domestic German, so dear to the English wit. If one classed him at all it would be as the countryman of Hegel and Kant, as the idealist, inclined to be dreamy, whose Imperialism was the Imperialism of the air. Not that his life had been inactive. He had fought like blazes against Denmark, Austria, France. But he had fought without visualising the results of victory. A hint of the truth broke on him after Sedan, when he saw the dyed moustaches of Napoleon going grey; another when he entered Paris, and saw the smashed windows of the Tuileries. Peace came--it was all very immense, one had turned into an Empire--but he knew that some quality had vanished for which not all Alsace-Lorraine could compensate him. Germany a commercial Power, Germany a naval Power, Germany with colonies here and a Forward Policy there, and legitimate aspirations in the other place, might appeal to others, and be fitly served by them; for his own part, he abstained from the fruits of victory, and naturalised himself in England. The more earnest members of his family never forgave him, and knew that his children, though scarcely English of the dreadful sort, would never be German to the back-bone. He had obtained work in one of our provincial universities, and there married Poor Emily (or Die Englanderin, as the case may be), and as she had money, they proceeded to London, and came to know a good many people. But his gaze was always fixed beyond the sea. It was his hope that the clouds of materialism obscuring the Fatherland would part in time, and the mild intellectual light re-emerge. "Do you imply that we Germans are stupid, Uncle Ernst?" exclaimed a haughty and magnificent nephew. Uncle Ernst replied, "To my mind. You use the intellect, but you no longer care about it. That I call stupidity." As the haughty nephew did not follow, he continued, "You only care about the things that you can use, and therefore arrange them in the following order: Money, supremely useful; intellect, rather useful; imagination, of no use at all. No" "--for the other had protested--" "your Pan-Germanism is no more imaginative than is our Imperialism over here. It is the vice of a vulgar	for me, and then I had to say that the telegram was of no consequence, for Paul said Charles might read it, and though I wrote it out several times, he always said people would suspect something. He took it himself at last, pretending that he must walk down to get cartridges, and, what with one thing and the other, it was not handed in at the post-office until too late. It was the most terrible morning. Paul disliked me more and more, and Evie talked cricket averages till I nearly screamed. I cannot think how I stood her all the other days. At last Charles and his father started for the station, and then came your telegram warning me that Aunt Juley was coming by that train, and Paul--oh, rather horrible--said that I had muddled it. But Mrs. Wilcox knew." "Knew what?" "Everything; though we neither of us told her a word, and she had known all along, I think." "Oh, she must have overheard you." "I suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When Charles and Aunt Juley drove up, calling each other names, Mrs. Wilcox stepped in from the garden and made everything less terrible. Ugh! but it has been a disgusting business. To think that--"<\|quote\|>She sighed.</\|quote\|>"To think that because you and a young man meet for a moment, there must be all these telegrams and anger," supplied Margaret. Helen nodded. "I ve often thought about it, Helen. It s one of the most interesting things in the world. The truth is that there is a great outer life that you and I have never touched--a life in which telegrams and anger count. Personal relations, that we think supreme, are not supreme there. There love means marriage settlements, death, death duties. So far I m clear. But here my difficulty. This outer life, though obviously horrid; often seems the real one--there s grit in it. It does breed character. Do personal relations lead to sloppiness in the end?" "Oh, Meg--, that s what I felt, only not so clearly, when the Wilcoxes were so competent, and seemed to have their hands on all the ropes." "Don t you feel it now?" "I remember Paul at breakfast," said Helen quietly. "I shall never forget him. He had nothing to fall back upon. I know that personal relations are the real life, for ever and ever." "Amen!" So the Wilcox episode fell into the background, leaving behind it memories of sweetness and horror that mingled, and the sisters pursued the life that Helen had commended. They talked	Howards End
"Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."	Catherine Morland	for her friend, and said,<\|quote\|>"Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."</\|quote\|>"I understand: she is in	it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said,<\|quote\|>"Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."</\|quote\|>"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts	that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said,<\|quote\|>"Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."</\|quote\|>"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must	he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable." "And are you sure it is my brother s doing?" "Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe s admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said,<\|quote\|>"Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."</\|quote\|>"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" "I can have no opinion on that subject." "But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his	will in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it is only staying to be miserable." Henry smiled and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that." "Then you will persuade him to go away?" "Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master." "No, he does not know what he is about," cried Catherine; "he does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable." "And are you sure it is my brother s doing?" "Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe s admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said,<\|quote\|>"Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."</\|quote\|>"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" "I can have no opinion on that subject." "But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour?" "You are a very close questioner." "Am I? I only ask what I want to be told." "But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?" "Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother s heart." "My brother s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at." "Well?" "Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless	this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either opportunity or comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest a hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the Tilney family became her chief consolation; their journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney s removal would at least restore peace to every heart but his own. But Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing; he was not to be of the party to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother s evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her prior engagement. "My brother does know it," was Henry s answer. "Does he? Then why does he stay here?" He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she eagerly continued, "Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his own sake, and for everybody s sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it is only staying to be miserable." Henry smiled and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that." "Then you will persuade him to go away?" "Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master." "No, he does not know what he is about," cried Catherine; "he does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable." "And are you sure it is my brother s doing?" "Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe s admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said,<\|quote\|>"Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."</\|quote\|>"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" "I can have no opinion on that subject." "But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour?" "You are a very close questioner." "Am I? I only ask what I want to be told." "But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?" "Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother s heart." "My brother s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at." "Well?" "Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had about a week s acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her." "Well," said Catherine, after some moments consideration, "_you_ may be able to guess at your brother s intentions from all this; but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to him, he would go." "My dear Miss Morland," said Henry, "in this amiable solicitude for your brother s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or Miss Thorpe s, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good behaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this and you may be sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, Do not be uneasy, because I know that you are so,	in love with her was a matter of lively astonishment. Isabella talked of his attentions; _she_ had never been sensible of any; but Isabella had said many things which she hoped had been spoken in haste, and would never be said again; and upon this she was glad to rest altogether for present ease and comfort. CHAPTER 19 A few days passed away, and Catherine, though not allowing herself to suspect her friend, could not help watching her closely. The result of her observations was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered creature. When she saw her, indeed, surrounded only by their immediate friends in Edgar s Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners was so trifling that, had it gone no farther, it might have passed unnoticed. A something of languid indifference, or of that boasted absence of mind which Catherine had never heard of before, would occasionally come across her; but had nothing worse appeared, _that_ might only have spread a new grace and inspired a warmer interest. But when Catherine saw her in public, admitting Captain Tilney s attentions as readily as they were offered, and allowing him almost an equal share with James in her notice and smiles, the alteration became too positive to be passed over. What could be meant by such unsteady conduct, what her friend could be at, was beyond her comprehension. Isabella could not be aware of the pain she was inflicting; but it was a degree of wilful thoughtlessness which Catherine could not but resent. James was the sufferer. She saw him grave and uneasy; and however careless of his present comfort the woman might be who had given him her heart, to _her_ it was always an object. For poor Captain Tilney too she was greatly concerned. Though his looks did not please her, his name was a passport to her goodwill, and she thought with sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment; for, in spite of what she had believed herself to overhear in the pump-room, his behaviour was so incompatible with a knowledge of Isabella s engagement that she could not, upon reflection, imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but if more had seemed implied, the fault must have been in her misapprehension. She wished, by a gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation, and make her aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either opportunity or comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest a hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the Tilney family became her chief consolation; their journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney s removal would at least restore peace to every heart but his own. But Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing; he was not to be of the party to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother s evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her prior engagement. "My brother does know it," was Henry s answer. "Does he? Then why does he stay here?" He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she eagerly continued, "Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his own sake, and for everybody s sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it is only staying to be miserable." Henry smiled and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that." "Then you will persuade him to go away?" "Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master." "No, he does not know what he is about," cried Catherine; "he does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable." "And are you sure it is my brother s doing?" "Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe s admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said,<\|quote\|>"Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."</\|quote\|>"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" "I can have no opinion on that subject." "But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour?" "You are a very close questioner." "Am I? I only ask what I want to be told." "But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?" "Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother s heart." "My brother s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at." "Well?" "Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had about a week s acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her." "Well," said Catherine, after some moments consideration, "_you_ may be able to guess at your brother s intentions from all this; but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to him, he would go." "My dear Miss Morland," said Henry, "in this amiable solicitude for your brother s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or Miss Thorpe s, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good behaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this and you may be sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, Do not be uneasy, because I know that you are so, at this moment; but be as little uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of the mutual attachment of your brother and your friend; depend upon it, therefore, that real jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it that no disagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are open to each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know exactly what is required and what can be borne; and you may be certain that one will never tease the other beyond what is known to be pleasant." Perceiving her still to look doubtful and grave, he added, "Though Frederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a very short time, perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of absence will soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. And what will then be their acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella Thorpe for a fortnight, and she will laugh with your brother over poor Tilney s passion for a month." Catherine would contend no longer against comfort. She had resisted its approaches during the whole length of a speech, but it now carried her captive. Henry Tilney must know best. She blamed herself for the extent of her fears, and resolved never to think so seriously on the subject again. Her resolution was supported by Isabella s behaviour in their parting interview. The Thorpes spent the last evening of Catherine s stay in Pulteney Street, and nothing passed between the lovers to excite her uneasiness, or make her quit them in apprehension. James was in excellent spirits, and Isabella most engagingly placid. Her tenderness for her friend seemed rather the first feeling of her heart; but that at such a moment was allowable; and once she gave her lover a flat contradiction, and once she drew back her hand; but Catherine remembered Henry s instructions, and placed it all to judicious affection. The embraces, tears, and promises of the parting fair ones may be fancied. CHAPTER 20 Mr. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young friend, whose good humour and cheerfulness had made her a valuable companion, and in the promotion of whose enjoyment their own had been gently increased. Her happiness in going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishing it otherwise; and, as they were to remain only one more week in Bath	positive to be passed over. What could be meant by such unsteady conduct, what her friend could be at, was beyond her comprehension. Isabella could not be aware of the pain she was inflicting; but it was a degree of wilful thoughtlessness which Catherine could not but resent. James was the sufferer. She saw him grave and uneasy; and however careless of his present comfort the woman might be who had given him her heart, to _her_ it was always an object. For poor Captain Tilney too she was greatly concerned. Though his looks did not please her, his name was a passport to her goodwill, and she thought with sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment; for, in spite of what she had believed herself to overhear in the pump-room, his behaviour was so incompatible with a knowledge of Isabella s engagement that she could not, upon reflection, imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but if more had seemed implied, the fault must have been in her misapprehension. She wished, by a gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation, and make her aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either opportunity or comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest a hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the Tilney family became her chief consolation; their journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney s removal would at least restore peace to every heart but his own. But Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing; he was not to be of the party to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother s evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her prior engagement. "My brother does know it," was Henry s answer. "Does he? Then why does he stay here?" He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she eagerly continued, "Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his own sake, and for everybody s sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it is only staying to be miserable." Henry smiled and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that." "Then you will persuade him to go away?" "Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master." "No, he does not know what he is about," cried Catherine; "he does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable." "And are you sure it is my brother s doing?" "Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe s admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said,<\|quote\|>"Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him."</\|quote\|>"I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" "I can have no opinion on that subject." "But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour?" "You are a very close questioner." "Am I? I only ask what I want to be told." "But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?" "Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother s heart." "My brother s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at." "Well?" "Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had about a week s acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her." "Well," said Catherine, after some moments consideration, "_you_ may be able to guess at your brother s intentions from all this; but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to him, he would go." "My dear Miss Morland," said Henry, "in this amiable solicitude for your brother s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or Miss Thorpe s, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good behaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this and you may be sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, Do not be uneasy, because I know that you are so, at this moment; but be as little uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of the mutual attachment of your brother and	Northanger Abbey
"We have failed."	Mrs. Herriton	"Read the letters," she said.<\|quote\|>"We have failed."</\|quote\|>Gino wrote in his own	him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said.<\|quote\|>"We have failed."</\|quote\|>Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had	that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said.<\|quote\|>"We have failed."</\|quote\|>Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque	consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said.<\|quote\|>"We have failed."</\|quote\|>Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought. "Why	that in my district." With this remark the admirable young woman rose, and returned to keep up her Italian. She puzzled Philip extremely. He could understand enthusiasm, but she did not seem the least enthusiastic. He could understand pure cussedness, but it did not seem to be that either. Apparently she was deriving neither amusement nor profit from the struggle. Why, then, had she undertaken it? Perhaps she was not sincere. Perhaps, on the whole, that was most likely. She must be professing one thing and aiming at another. What the other thing could be he did not stop to consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said.<\|quote\|>"We have failed."</\|quote\|>Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought. "Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano." "Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The	began to smile also. It was to the Abbotts that he walked. Mr. Abbott offered him tea, and Caroline, who was keeping up her Italian in the next room, came in to pour it out. He told them that his mother had written to Signor Carella, and they both uttered fervent wishes for her success. "Very fine of Mrs. Herriton, very fine indeed," said Mr. Abbott, who, like every one else, knew nothing of his daughter s exasperating behaviour. "I m afraid it will mean a lot of expense. She will get nothing out of Italy without paying." "There are sure to be incidental expenses," said Philip cautiously. Then he turned to Miss Abbott and said, "Do you suppose we shall have difficulty with the man?" "It depends," she replied, with equal caution. "From what you saw of him, should you conclude that he would make an affectionate parent?" "I don t go by what I saw of him, but by what I know of him." "Well, what do you conclude from that?" "That he is a thoroughly wicked man." "Yet thoroughly wicked men have loved their children. Look at Rodrigo Borgia, for example." "I have also seen examples of that in my district." With this remark the admirable young woman rose, and returned to keep up her Italian. She puzzled Philip extremely. He could understand enthusiasm, but she did not seem the least enthusiastic. He could understand pure cussedness, but it did not seem to be that either. Apparently she was deriving neither amusement nor profit from the struggle. Why, then, had she undertaken it? Perhaps she was not sincere. Perhaps, on the whole, that was most likely. She must be professing one thing and aiming at another. What the other thing could be he did not stop to consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said.<\|quote\|>"We have failed."</\|quote\|>Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought. "Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano." "Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perverse reason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poor Caroline. She will be equally distressed." She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Her face was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round her eyes. "The impudence!" she shouted. "The cursed impudence! Oh, I m swearing. I don t care. That beastly woman--how dare she interfere--I ll--Philip, dear, I m sorry. It s no good. You must go." "Go where? Do sit down. What s happened?" This outburst of violence from his elegant ladylike mother pained him dreadfully. He had not known that it was in her. "She won t accept--won t accept the letter as final. You must go to Monteriano!" "I won t!" he shouted back. "I ve been and I ve failed. I ll never see the place again. I hate Italy." "If you don t go, she will." "Abbott?" "Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to write; she said it was too late! Too late! The	have come to nothing definite." Miss Abbott was equally civil, but not to be appeased by good intentions. The child s welfare was a sacred duty to her, not a matter of pride or even of sentiment. By it alone, she felt, could she undo a little of the evil that she had permitted to come into the world. To her imagination Monteriano had become a magic city of vice, beneath whose towers no person could grow up happy or pure. Sawston, with its semi-detached houses and snobby schools, its book teas and bazaars, was certainly petty and dull; at times she found it even contemptible. But it was not a place of sin, and at Sawston, either with the Herritons or with herself, the baby should grow up. As soon as it was inevitable, Mrs. Herriton wrote a letter for Waters and Adamson to send to Gino--the oddest letter; Philip saw a copy of it afterwards. Its ostensible purpose was to complain of the picture postcards. Right at the end, in a few nonchalant sentences, she offered to adopt the child, provided that Gino would undertake never to come near it, and would surrender some of Lilia s money for its education. "What do you think of it?" she asked her son. "It would not do to let him know that we are anxious for it." "Certainly he will never suppose that." "But what effect will the letter have on him?" "When he gets it he will do a sum. If it is less expensive in the long run to part with a little money and to be clear of the baby, he will part with it. If he would lose, he will adopt the tone of the loving father." "Dear, you re shockingly cynical." After a pause she added, "How would the sum work out?" "I don t know, I m sure. But if you wanted to ensure the baby being posted by return, you should have sent a little sum to HIM. Oh, I m not cynical--at least I only go by what I know of him. But I am weary of the whole show. Weary of Italy. Weary, weary, weary. Sawston s a kind, pitiful place, isn t it? I will go walk in it and seek comfort." He smiled as he spoke, for the sake of not appearing serious. When he had left her she began to smile also. It was to the Abbotts that he walked. Mr. Abbott offered him tea, and Caroline, who was keeping up her Italian in the next room, came in to pour it out. He told them that his mother had written to Signor Carella, and they both uttered fervent wishes for her success. "Very fine of Mrs. Herriton, very fine indeed," said Mr. Abbott, who, like every one else, knew nothing of his daughter s exasperating behaviour. "I m afraid it will mean a lot of expense. She will get nothing out of Italy without paying." "There are sure to be incidental expenses," said Philip cautiously. Then he turned to Miss Abbott and said, "Do you suppose we shall have difficulty with the man?" "It depends," she replied, with equal caution. "From what you saw of him, should you conclude that he would make an affectionate parent?" "I don t go by what I saw of him, but by what I know of him." "Well, what do you conclude from that?" "That he is a thoroughly wicked man." "Yet thoroughly wicked men have loved their children. Look at Rodrigo Borgia, for example." "I have also seen examples of that in my district." With this remark the admirable young woman rose, and returned to keep up her Italian. She puzzled Philip extremely. He could understand enthusiasm, but she did not seem the least enthusiastic. He could understand pure cussedness, but it did not seem to be that either. Apparently she was deriving neither amusement nor profit from the struggle. Why, then, had she undertaken it? Perhaps she was not sincere. Perhaps, on the whole, that was most likely. She must be professing one thing and aiming at another. What the other thing could be he did not stop to consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said.<\|quote\|>"We have failed."</\|quote\|>Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought. "Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano." "Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perverse reason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poor Caroline. She will be equally distressed." She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Her face was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round her eyes. "The impudence!" she shouted. "The cursed impudence! Oh, I m swearing. I don t care. That beastly woman--how dare she interfere--I ll--Philip, dear, I m sorry. It s no good. You must go." "Go where? Do sit down. What s happened?" This outburst of violence from his elegant ladylike mother pained him dreadfully. He had not known that it was in her. "She won t accept--won t accept the letter as final. You must go to Monteriano!" "I won t!" he shouted back. "I ve been and I ve failed. I ll never see the place again. I hate Italy." "If you don t go, she will." "Abbott?" "Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to write; she said it was too late! Too late! The child, if you please--Irma s brother--to live with her, to be brought up by her and her father at our very gates, to go to school like a gentleman, she paying. Oh, you re a man! It doesn t matter for you. You can laugh. But I know what people say; and that woman goes to Italy this evening." He seemed to be inspired. "Then let her go! Let her mess with Italy by herself. She ll come to grief somehow. Italy s too dangerous, too--" "Stop that nonsense, Philip. I will not be disgraced by her. I WILL have the child. Pay all we ve got for it. I will have it." "Let her go to Italy!" he cried. "Let her meddle with what she doesn t understand! Look at this letter! The man who wrote it will marry her, or murder her, or do for her somehow. He s a bounder, but he s not an English bounder. He s mysterious and terrible. He s got a country behind him that s upset people from the beginning of the world." "Harriet!" exclaimed his mother. "Harriet shall go too. Harriet, now, will be invaluable!" And before Philip had stopped talking nonsense, she had planned the whole thing and was looking out the trains. Chapter 6 Italy, Philip had always maintained, is only her true self in the height of the summer, when the tourists have left her, and her soul awakes under the beams of a vertical sun. He now had every opportunity of seeing her at her best, for it was nearly the middle of August before he went out to meet Harriet in the Tirol. He found his sister in a dense cloud five thousand feet above the sea, chilled to the bone, overfed, bored, and not at all unwilling to be fetched away. "It upsets one s plans terribly," she remarked, as she squeezed out her sponges, "but obviously it is my duty." "Did mother explain it all to you?" asked Philip. "Yes, indeed! Mother has written me a really beautiful letter. She describes how it was that she gradually got to feel that we must rescue the poor baby from its terrible surroundings, how she has tried by letter, and it is no good--nothing but insincere compliments and hypocrisy came back. Then she says, There is nothing like personal influence; you and Philip will succeed	of that in my district." With this remark the admirable young woman rose, and returned to keep up her Italian. She puzzled Philip extremely. He could understand enthusiasm, but she did not seem the least enthusiastic. He could understand pure cussedness, but it did not seem to be that either. Apparently she was deriving neither amusement nor profit from the struggle. Why, then, had she undertaken it? Perhaps she was not sincere. Perhaps, on the whole, that was most likely. She must be professing one thing and aiming at another. What the other thing could be he did not stop to consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. "She fences well," he said to his mother afterwards. "What had you to fence about?" she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. "Read the letters," she said.<\|quote\|>"We have failed."</\|quote\|>Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where "Preghiatissima Signora" was rendered as "Most Praiseworthy Madam," and every delicate compliment and superlative--superlatives are delicate in Italian--would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent "sincere auguries"; he also had addressed letters--who writes at home?--from the Caffe Garibaldi. "I didn t know I was still such an ass," he thought. "Why can t I realize that it s merely tricks of expression? A bounder s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano." "Isn t it disheartening?" said his mother. He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? "The sum works out against us," said Philip. "Or perhaps he is putting up the price." "No," said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. "It is not that. For some perverse reason he will	Where Angels Fear To Tread
"deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised."	Rachel Gradgrind	looking to," she said. And<\|quote\|>"deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised."</\|quote\|>He slowly moved to a	some one here that needed looking to," she said. And<\|quote\|>"deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised."</\|quote\|>He slowly moved to a chair and sat down, drooping	in the chimney, and the surging noise! To have been out in such a wind, and not to have known it was blowing! "I have been here once before, to-day, Stephen. Landlady came round for me at dinner-time. There was some one here that needed looking to," she said. And<\|quote\|>"deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised."</\|quote\|>He slowly moved to a chair and sat down, drooping his head before her. "I came to do what little I could, Stephen; first, for that she worked with me when we were girls both, and for that you courted her and married her when I was her friend" He	glad you have come at last, Stephen. You are very late." "I ha' been walking up an' down." "I thought so. But 'tis too bad a night for that. The rain falls very heavy, and the wind has risen." The wind? True. It was blowing hard. Hark to the thundering in the chimney, and the surging noise! To have been out in such a wind, and not to have known it was blowing! "I have been here once before, to-day, Stephen. Landlady came round for me at dinner-time. There was some one here that needed looking to," she said. And<\|quote\|>"deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised."</\|quote\|>He slowly moved to a chair and sat down, drooping his head before her. "I came to do what little I could, Stephen; first, for that she worked with me when we were girls both, and for that you courted her and married her when I was her friend" He laid his furrowed forehead on his hand, with a low groan. "And next, for that I know your heart, and am right sure and certain that 'tis far too merciful to let her die, or even so much as suffer, for want of aid. Thou knowest who said," "Let him	place and order as he had always kept it, the little fire was newly trimmed, and the hearth was freshly swept. It appeared to him that he saw all this in Rachael's face, and looked at nothing besides. While looking at it, it was shut out from his view by the softened tears that filled his eyes; but not before he had seen how earnestly she looked at him, and how her own eyes were filled too. She turned again towards the bed, and satisfying herself that all was quiet there, spoke in a low, calm, cheerful voice. "I am glad you have come at last, Stephen. You are very late." "I ha' been walking up an' down." "I thought so. But 'tis too bad a night for that. The rain falls very heavy, and the wind has risen." The wind? True. It was blowing hard. Hark to the thundering in the chimney, and the surging noise! To have been out in such a wind, and not to have known it was blowing! "I have been here once before, to-day, Stephen. Landlady came round for me at dinner-time. There was some one here that needed looking to," she said. And<\|quote\|>"deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised."</\|quote\|>He slowly moved to a chair and sat down, drooping his head before her. "I came to do what little I could, Stephen; first, for that she worked with me when we were girls both, and for that you courted her and married her when I was her friend" He laid his furrowed forehead on his hand, with a low groan. "And next, for that I know your heart, and am right sure and certain that 'tis far too merciful to let her die, or even so much as suffer, for want of aid. Thou knowest who said," "Let him who is without sin among you cast the first stone at her!" "There have been plenty to do that. Thou art not the man to cast the last stone, Stephen, when she is brought so low." "O Rachael, Rachael!" "Thou hast been a cruel sufferer, Heaven reward thee!" she said, in compassionate accents. "I am thy poor friend, with all my heart and mind." [Picture: Stephen and Rachael in the sick room] The wounds of which she had spoken, seemed to be about the neck of the self-made outcast. She dressed them now, still without showing her. She steeped a	all the casualties of this existence upon earth, not one was dealt out with so unequal a hand as Death. The inequality of Birth was nothing to it. For, say that the child of a King and the child of a Weaver were born to-night in the same moment, what was that disparity, to the death of any human creature who was serviceable to, or beloved by, another, while this abandoned woman lived on! From the outside of his home he gloomily passed to the inside, with suspended breath and with a slow footstep. He went up to his door, opened it, and so into the room. Quiet and peace were there. Rachael was there, sitting by the bed. She turned her head, and the light of her face shone in upon the midnight of his mind. She sat by the bed, watching and tending his wife. That is to say, he saw that some one lay there, and he knew too well it must be she; but Rachael's hands had put a curtain up, so that she was screened from his eyes. Her disgraceful garments were removed, and some of Rachael's were in the room. Everything was in its place and order as he had always kept it, the little fire was newly trimmed, and the hearth was freshly swept. It appeared to him that he saw all this in Rachael's face, and looked at nothing besides. While looking at it, it was shut out from his view by the softened tears that filled his eyes; but not before he had seen how earnestly she looked at him, and how her own eyes were filled too. She turned again towards the bed, and satisfying herself that all was quiet there, spoke in a low, calm, cheerful voice. "I am glad you have come at last, Stephen. You are very late." "I ha' been walking up an' down." "I thought so. But 'tis too bad a night for that. The rain falls very heavy, and the wind has risen." The wind? True. It was blowing hard. Hark to the thundering in the chimney, and the surging noise! To have been out in such a wind, and not to have known it was blowing! "I have been here once before, to-day, Stephen. Landlady came round for me at dinner-time. There was some one here that needed looking to," she said. And<\|quote\|>"deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised."</\|quote\|>He slowly moved to a chair and sat down, drooping his head before her. "I came to do what little I could, Stephen; first, for that she worked with me when we were girls both, and for that you courted her and married her when I was her friend" He laid his furrowed forehead on his hand, with a low groan. "And next, for that I know your heart, and am right sure and certain that 'tis far too merciful to let her die, or even so much as suffer, for want of aid. Thou knowest who said," "Let him who is without sin among you cast the first stone at her!" "There have been plenty to do that. Thou art not the man to cast the last stone, Stephen, when she is brought so low." "O Rachael, Rachael!" "Thou hast been a cruel sufferer, Heaven reward thee!" she said, in compassionate accents. "I am thy poor friend, with all my heart and mind." [Picture: Stephen and Rachael in the sick room] The wounds of which she had spoken, seemed to be about the neck of the self-made outcast. She dressed them now, still without showing her. She steeped a piece of linen in a basin, into which she poured some liquid from a bottle, and laid it with a gentle hand upon the sore. The three-legged table had been drawn close to the bedside, and on it there were two bottles. This was one. It was not so far off, but that Stephen, following her hands with his eyes, could read what was printed on it in large letters. He turned of a deadly hue, and a sudden horror seemed to fall upon him. "I will stay here, Stephen," said Rachael, quietly resuming her seat, "till the bells go Three. 'Tis to be done again at three, and then she may be left till morning." "But thy rest agen to-morrow's work, my dear." "I slept sound last night. I can wake many nights, when I am put to it. 'Tis thou who art in need of rest so white and tired. Try to sleep in the chair there, while I watch. Thou hadst no sleep last night, I can well believe. To-morrow's work is far harder for thee than for me." He heard the thundering and surging out of doors, and it seemed to him as if his late	he was exhausted but he little knew or cared what; and he wandered about in the chill rain, thinking and thinking, and brooding and brooding. No word of a new marriage had ever passed between them; but Rachael had taken great pity on him years ago, and to her alone he had opened his closed heart all this time, on the subject of his miseries; and he knew very well that if he were free to ask her, she would take him. He thought of the home he might at that moment have been seeking with pleasure and pride; of the different man he might have been that night; of the lightness then in his now heavy-laden breast; of the then restored honour, self-respect, and tranquillity all torn to pieces. He thought of the waste of the best part of his life, of the change it made in his character for the worse every day, of the dreadful nature of his existence, bound hand and foot, to a dead woman, and tormented by a demon in her shape. He thought of Rachael, how young when they were first brought together in these circumstances, how mature now, how soon to grow old. He thought of the number of girls and women she had seen marry, how many homes with children in them she had seen grow up around her, how she had contentedly pursued her own lone quiet path for him and how he had sometimes seen a shade of melancholy on her blessed face, that smote him with remorse and despair. He set the picture of her up, beside the infamous image of last night; and thought, Could it be, that the whole earthly course of one so gentle, good, and self-denying, was subjugate to such a wretch as that! Filled with these thoughts so filled that he had an unwholesome sense of growing larger, of being placed in some new and diseased relation towards the objects among which he passed, of seeing the iris round every misty light turn red he went home for shelter. CHAPTER XIII RACHAEL A CANDLE faintly burned in the window, to which the black ladder had often been raised for the sliding away of all that was most precious in this world to a striving wife and a brood of hungry babies; and Stephen added to his other thoughts the stern reflection, that of all the casualties of this existence upon earth, not one was dealt out with so unequal a hand as Death. The inequality of Birth was nothing to it. For, say that the child of a King and the child of a Weaver were born to-night in the same moment, what was that disparity, to the death of any human creature who was serviceable to, or beloved by, another, while this abandoned woman lived on! From the outside of his home he gloomily passed to the inside, with suspended breath and with a slow footstep. He went up to his door, opened it, and so into the room. Quiet and peace were there. Rachael was there, sitting by the bed. She turned her head, and the light of her face shone in upon the midnight of his mind. She sat by the bed, watching and tending his wife. That is to say, he saw that some one lay there, and he knew too well it must be she; but Rachael's hands had put a curtain up, so that she was screened from his eyes. Her disgraceful garments were removed, and some of Rachael's were in the room. Everything was in its place and order as he had always kept it, the little fire was newly trimmed, and the hearth was freshly swept. It appeared to him that he saw all this in Rachael's face, and looked at nothing besides. While looking at it, it was shut out from his view by the softened tears that filled his eyes; but not before he had seen how earnestly she looked at him, and how her own eyes were filled too. She turned again towards the bed, and satisfying herself that all was quiet there, spoke in a low, calm, cheerful voice. "I am glad you have come at last, Stephen. You are very late." "I ha' been walking up an' down." "I thought so. But 'tis too bad a night for that. The rain falls very heavy, and the wind has risen." The wind? True. It was blowing hard. Hark to the thundering in the chimney, and the surging noise! To have been out in such a wind, and not to have known it was blowing! "I have been here once before, to-day, Stephen. Landlady came round for me at dinner-time. There was some one here that needed looking to," she said. And<\|quote\|>"deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised."</\|quote\|>He slowly moved to a chair and sat down, drooping his head before her. "I came to do what little I could, Stephen; first, for that she worked with me when we were girls both, and for that you courted her and married her when I was her friend" He laid his furrowed forehead on his hand, with a low groan. "And next, for that I know your heart, and am right sure and certain that 'tis far too merciful to let her die, or even so much as suffer, for want of aid. Thou knowest who said," "Let him who is without sin among you cast the first stone at her!" "There have been plenty to do that. Thou art not the man to cast the last stone, Stephen, when she is brought so low." "O Rachael, Rachael!" "Thou hast been a cruel sufferer, Heaven reward thee!" she said, in compassionate accents. "I am thy poor friend, with all my heart and mind." [Picture: Stephen and Rachael in the sick room] The wounds of which she had spoken, seemed to be about the neck of the self-made outcast. She dressed them now, still without showing her. She steeped a piece of linen in a basin, into which she poured some liquid from a bottle, and laid it with a gentle hand upon the sore. The three-legged table had been drawn close to the bedside, and on it there were two bottles. This was one. It was not so far off, but that Stephen, following her hands with his eyes, could read what was printed on it in large letters. He turned of a deadly hue, and a sudden horror seemed to fall upon him. "I will stay here, Stephen," said Rachael, quietly resuming her seat, "till the bells go Three. 'Tis to be done again at three, and then she may be left till morning." "But thy rest agen to-morrow's work, my dear." "I slept sound last night. I can wake many nights, when I am put to it. 'Tis thou who art in need of rest so white and tired. Try to sleep in the chair there, while I watch. Thou hadst no sleep last night, I can well believe. To-morrow's work is far harder for thee than for me." He heard the thundering and surging out of doors, and it seemed to him as if his late angry mood were going about trying to get at him. She had cast it out; she would keep it out; he trusted to her to defend him from himself. "She don't know me, Stephen; she just drowsily mutters and stares. I have spoken to her times and again, but she don't notice! 'Tis as well so. When she comes to her right mind once more, I shall have done what I can, and she never the wiser." "How long, Rachael, is 't looked for, that she'll be so?" "Doctor said she would haply come to her mind to-morrow." His eyes fell again on the bottle, and a tremble passed over him, causing him to shiver in every limb. She thought he was chilled with the wet. "No," he said, "it was not that. He had had a fright." "A fright?" "Ay, ay! coming in. When I were walking. When I were thinking. When I" It seized him again; and he stood up, holding by the mantel-shelf, as he pressed his dank cold hair down with a hand that shook as if it were palsied. "Stephen!" She was coming to him, but he stretched out his arm to stop her. "No! Don't, please; don't. Let me see thee setten by the bed. Let me see thee, a' so good, and so forgiving. Let me see thee as I see thee when I coom in. I can never see thee better than so. Never, never, never!" He had a violent fit of trembling, and then sunk into his chair. After a time he controlled himself, and, resting with an elbow on one knee, and his head upon that hand, could look towards Rachael. Seen across the dim candle with his moistened eyes, she looked as if she had a glory shining round her head. He could have believed she had. He did believe it, as the noise without shook the window, rattled at the door below, and went about the house clamouring and lamenting. "When she gets better, Stephen, 'tis to be hoped she'll leave thee to thyself again, and do thee no more hurt. Anyways we will hope so now. And now I shall keep silence, for I want thee to sleep." He closed his eyes, more to please her than to rest his weary head; but, by slow degrees as he listened to the great noise of the wind, he	Rachael's were in the room. Everything was in its place and order as he had always kept it, the little fire was newly trimmed, and the hearth was freshly swept. It appeared to him that he saw all this in Rachael's face, and looked at nothing besides. While looking at it, it was shut out from his view by the softened tears that filled his eyes; but not before he had seen how earnestly she looked at him, and how her own eyes were filled too. She turned again towards the bed, and satisfying herself that all was quiet there, spoke in a low, calm, cheerful voice. "I am glad you have come at last, Stephen. You are very late." "I ha' been walking up an' down." "I thought so. But 'tis too bad a night for that. The rain falls very heavy, and the wind has risen." The wind? True. It was blowing hard. Hark to the thundering in the chimney, and the surging noise! To have been out in such a wind, and not to have known it was blowing! "I have been here once before, to-day, Stephen. Landlady came round for me at dinner-time. There was some one here that needed looking to," she said. And<\|quote\|>"deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised."</\|quote\|>He slowly moved to a chair and sat down, drooping his head before her. "I came to do what little I could, Stephen; first, for that she worked with me when we were girls both, and for that you courted her and married her when I was her friend" He laid his furrowed forehead on his hand, with a low groan. "And next, for that I know your heart, and am right sure and certain that 'tis far too merciful to let her die, or even so much as suffer, for want of aid. Thou knowest who said," "Let him who is without sin among you cast the first stone at her!" "There have been plenty to do that. Thou art not the man to cast the last stone, Stephen, when she is brought so low." "O Rachael, Rachael!" "Thou hast been a cruel sufferer, Heaven reward thee!" she said, in compassionate accents. "I am thy poor friend, with all my heart and mind." [Picture: Stephen and Rachael in the sick room] The wounds of which she had spoken, seemed to be about the neck of the self-made outcast. She dressed them now, still without showing her. She steeped a piece of linen in a basin, into which she poured some liquid from a bottle, and laid it with a gentle hand upon the sore. The three-legged table had been drawn close to the bedside, and on it there were two bottles. This was one. It was not so far off, but that Stephen, following her hands with his eyes, could read what was printed on it in large letters. He turned of a deadly hue, and a sudden horror seemed to fall upon him. "I will stay here, Stephen," said Rachael, quietly resuming her seat, "till the bells go Three. 'Tis to be done again at three, and then she may be left till morning." "But thy rest agen to-morrow's work, my dear." "I slept sound last night. I can wake many nights, when I am put to it. 'Tis thou who art in need of rest so white and tired. Try to sleep in the chair there, while I watch. Thou hadst no sleep last night, I can well believe. To-morrow's work is far harder for thee than for me." He heard the thundering and surging out of doors, and it seemed to him as if his late angry mood were going about trying to get at him. She had cast it out; she would keep it out; he trusted to her to defend him from himself.	Hard Times
"Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque."	Dr. Aziz	not heard of other children."<\|quote\|>"Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque."</\|quote\|>"I knew her so slightly."	those other children." "I have not heard of other children."<\|quote\|>"Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque."</\|quote\|>"I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but	my eyes, I confused myself on purpose to deaden the pain. Now this very instant I forgot again. I shall be obliged to write. She is now far away, well on her way towards Ralph and Stella." "To whom?" "To those other children." "I have not heard of other children."<\|quote\|>"Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque."</\|quote\|>"I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but three times, but I know she is an Oriental." "You are so fantastic. . . . Miss Quested, you won't treat her generously; while over Mrs. Moore there is this elaborate chivalry. Miss Quested anyhow behaved decently this morning, whereas	do so. She will counsel me nothing against my real and true honour, as you might." "Let us discuss that to-morrow morning." "Is it not strange? I keep on forgetting she has left India. During the shouting of her name in court I fancied she was present. I had shut my eyes, I confused myself on purpose to deaden the pain. Now this very instant I forgot again. I shall be obliged to write. She is now far away, well on her way towards Ralph and Stella." "To whom?" "To those other children." "I have not heard of other children."<\|quote\|>"Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque."</\|quote\|>"I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but three times, but I know she is an Oriental." "You are so fantastic. . . . Miss Quested, you won't treat her generously; while over Mrs. Moore there is this elaborate chivalry. Miss Quested anyhow behaved decently this morning, whereas the old lady never did anything for you at all, and it's pure conjecture that she would have come forward in your favour, it only rests on servants' gossip. Your emotions never seem in proportion to their objects, Aziz." "Is emotion a sack of potatoes, so much the pound, to	"It is the one thing in you I can't put up with." "I put up with all things in you, so what is to be done?" "Well, you hurt me by saying it; good night." There was silence, then dreamily but with deep feeling the voice said: "Cyril, I have had an idea which will satisfy your tender mind: I shall consult Mrs. Moore." Opening his eyes, and beholding thousands of stars, he could not reply, they silenced him. "Her opinion will solve everything; I can trust her so absolutely. If she advises me to pardon this girl, I shall do so. She will counsel me nothing against my real and true honour, as you might." "Let us discuss that to-morrow morning." "Is it not strange? I keep on forgetting she has left India. During the shouting of her name in court I fancied she was present. I had shut my eyes, I confused myself on purpose to deaden the pain. Now this very instant I forgot again. I shall be obliged to write. She is now far away, well on her way towards Ralph and Stella." "To whom?" "To those other children." "I have not heard of other children."<\|quote\|>"Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque."</\|quote\|>"I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but three times, but I know she is an Oriental." "You are so fantastic. . . . Miss Quested, you won't treat her generously; while over Mrs. Moore there is this elaborate chivalry. Miss Quested anyhow behaved decently this morning, whereas the old lady never did anything for you at all, and it's pure conjecture that she would have come forward in your favour, it only rests on servants' gossip. Your emotions never seem in proportion to their objects, Aziz." "Is emotion a sack of potatoes, so much the pound, to be measured out? Am I a machine? I shall be told I can use up my emotions by using them, next." "I should have thought you could. It sounds common sense. You can't eat your cake and have it, even in the world of the spirit." "If you are right, there is no point in any friendship; it all comes down to give and take, or give and return, which is disgusting, and we had better all leap over this parapet and kill ourselves. Is anything wrong with you this evening that you grow so materialistic?" "Your unfairness is worse	But she stopped, and almost did she become a national heroine, but my students ran us down a side street before the crowd caught flame. Do treat her considerately. She really mustn't get the worst of both worlds. I know what all these" he indicated the shrouded forms on the roof "will want, but you mustn't listen to them. Be merciful. Act like one of your six Mogul Emperors, or all the six rolled into one." "Not even Mogul Emperors showed mercy until they received an apology." "She'll apologize if that's the trouble," he cried, sitting up. "Look, I'll make you an offer. Dictate to me whatever form of words you like, and this time to-morrow I'll bring it back signed. This is not instead of any public apology she may make you in law. It's an addition." " Dear Dr. Aziz, I wish you had come into the cave; I am an awful old hag, and it is my last chance.' "Will she sign that?" "Well good night, good night, it's time to go to sleep, after that." "Good night, I suppose it is." "Oh, I wish you wouldn't make that kind of remark," he continued after a pause. "It is the one thing in you I can't put up with." "I put up with all things in you, so what is to be done?" "Well, you hurt me by saying it; good night." There was silence, then dreamily but with deep feeling the voice said: "Cyril, I have had an idea which will satisfy your tender mind: I shall consult Mrs. Moore." Opening his eyes, and beholding thousands of stars, he could not reply, they silenced him. "Her opinion will solve everything; I can trust her so absolutely. If she advises me to pardon this girl, I shall do so. She will counsel me nothing against my real and true honour, as you might." "Let us discuss that to-morrow morning." "Is it not strange? I keep on forgetting she has left India. During the shouting of her name in court I fancied she was present. I had shut my eyes, I confused myself on purpose to deaden the pain. Now this very instant I forgot again. I shall be obliged to write. She is now far away, well on her way towards Ralph and Stella." "To whom?" "To those other children." "I have not heard of other children."<\|quote\|>"Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque."</\|quote\|>"I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but three times, but I know she is an Oriental." "You are so fantastic. . . . Miss Quested, you won't treat her generously; while over Mrs. Moore there is this elaborate chivalry. Miss Quested anyhow behaved decently this morning, whereas the old lady never did anything for you at all, and it's pure conjecture that she would have come forward in your favour, it only rests on servants' gossip. Your emotions never seem in proportion to their objects, Aziz." "Is emotion a sack of potatoes, so much the pound, to be measured out? Am I a machine? I shall be told I can use up my emotions by using them, next." "I should have thought you could. It sounds common sense. You can't eat your cake and have it, even in the world of the spirit." "If you are right, there is no point in any friendship; it all comes down to give and take, or give and return, which is disgusting, and we had better all leap over this parapet and kill ourselves. Is anything wrong with you this evening that you grow so materialistic?" "Your unfairness is worse than my materialism." "I see. Anything further to complain of?" He was good-tempered and affectionate but a little formidable. Imprisonment had made channels for his character, which would never fluctuate as widely now as in the past. "Because it is far better you put all your difficulties before me, if we are to be friends for ever. You do not like Mrs. Moore, and are annoyed because I do; however, you will like her in time." When a person, really dead, is supposed to be alive, an unhealthiness infects the conversation. Fielding could not stand the tension any longer and blurted out: "I'm sorry to say Mrs. Moore's dead." But Hamidullah, who had been listening to all their talk, and did not want the festive evening spoilt, cried from the adjoining bed: "Aziz, he is trying to pull your leg; don't believe him, the villain." "I do not believe him," said Aziz; he was inured to practical jokes, even of this type. Fielding said no more. Facts are facts, and everyone would learn of Mrs. Moore's death in the morning. But it struck him that people are not really dead until they are felt to be dead. As long as	dressed up in native costume, learnt from his excessive awkwardness in it that all his motions were makeshifts, whereas when the Nawab Bahadur stretched out his hand for food or Nureddin applauded a song, something beautiful had been accomplished which needed no development. This restfulness of gesture it is the Peace that passeth Understanding, after all, it is the social equivalent of Yoga. When the whirring of action ceases, it becomes visible, and reveals a civilization which the West can disturb but will never acquire. The hand stretches out for ever, the lifted knee has the eternity though not the sadness of the grave. Aziz was full of civilization this evening, complete, dignified, rather hard, and it was with diffidence that the other said: "Yes, certainly you must let off Miss Quested easily. She must pay all your costs, that is only fair, but do not treat her like a conquered enemy." "Is she wealthy? I depute you to find out." "The sums mentioned at dinner when you all got so excited they would ruin her, they are perfectly preposterous. Look here . . ." "I am looking, though it gets a bit dark. I see Cyril Fielding to be a very nice chap indeed and my best friend, but in some ways a fool. You think that by letting Miss Quested off easily I shall make a better reputation for myself and Indians generally. No, no. It will be put down to weakness and the attempt to gain promotion officially. I have decided to have nothing more to do with British India, as a matter of fact. I shall seek service in some Moslem State, such as Hyderabad, Bhopal, where Englishmen cannot insult me any more. Don't counsel me otherwise." "In the course of a long talk with Miss Quested . . ." "I don't want to hear your long talks." "Be quiet. In the course of a long talk with Miss Quested I have begun to understand her character. It's not an easy one, she being a prig. But she is perfectly genuine and very brave. When she saw she was wrong, she pulled herself up with a jerk and said so. I want you to realize what that means. All her friends around her, the entire British Raj pushing her forward. She stops, sends the whole thing to smithereens. In her place I should have funked it. But she stopped, and almost did she become a national heroine, but my students ran us down a side street before the crowd caught flame. Do treat her considerately. She really mustn't get the worst of both worlds. I know what all these" he indicated the shrouded forms on the roof "will want, but you mustn't listen to them. Be merciful. Act like one of your six Mogul Emperors, or all the six rolled into one." "Not even Mogul Emperors showed mercy until they received an apology." "She'll apologize if that's the trouble," he cried, sitting up. "Look, I'll make you an offer. Dictate to me whatever form of words you like, and this time to-morrow I'll bring it back signed. This is not instead of any public apology she may make you in law. It's an addition." " Dear Dr. Aziz, I wish you had come into the cave; I am an awful old hag, and it is my last chance.' "Will she sign that?" "Well good night, good night, it's time to go to sleep, after that." "Good night, I suppose it is." "Oh, I wish you wouldn't make that kind of remark," he continued after a pause. "It is the one thing in you I can't put up with." "I put up with all things in you, so what is to be done?" "Well, you hurt me by saying it; good night." There was silence, then dreamily but with deep feeling the voice said: "Cyril, I have had an idea which will satisfy your tender mind: I shall consult Mrs. Moore." Opening his eyes, and beholding thousands of stars, he could not reply, they silenced him. "Her opinion will solve everything; I can trust her so absolutely. If she advises me to pardon this girl, I shall do so. She will counsel me nothing against my real and true honour, as you might." "Let us discuss that to-morrow morning." "Is it not strange? I keep on forgetting she has left India. During the shouting of her name in court I fancied she was present. I had shut my eyes, I confused myself on purpose to deaden the pain. Now this very instant I forgot again. I shall be obliged to write. She is now far away, well on her way towards Ralph and Stella." "To whom?" "To those other children." "I have not heard of other children."<\|quote\|>"Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque."</\|quote\|>"I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but three times, but I know she is an Oriental." "You are so fantastic. . . . Miss Quested, you won't treat her generously; while over Mrs. Moore there is this elaborate chivalry. Miss Quested anyhow behaved decently this morning, whereas the old lady never did anything for you at all, and it's pure conjecture that she would have come forward in your favour, it only rests on servants' gossip. Your emotions never seem in proportion to their objects, Aziz." "Is emotion a sack of potatoes, so much the pound, to be measured out? Am I a machine? I shall be told I can use up my emotions by using them, next." "I should have thought you could. It sounds common sense. You can't eat your cake and have it, even in the world of the spirit." "If you are right, there is no point in any friendship; it all comes down to give and take, or give and return, which is disgusting, and we had better all leap over this parapet and kill ourselves. Is anything wrong with you this evening that you grow so materialistic?" "Your unfairness is worse than my materialism." "I see. Anything further to complain of?" He was good-tempered and affectionate but a little formidable. Imprisonment had made channels for his character, which would never fluctuate as widely now as in the past. "Because it is far better you put all your difficulties before me, if we are to be friends for ever. You do not like Mrs. Moore, and are annoyed because I do; however, you will like her in time." When a person, really dead, is supposed to be alive, an unhealthiness infects the conversation. Fielding could not stand the tension any longer and blurted out: "I'm sorry to say Mrs. Moore's dead." But Hamidullah, who had been listening to all their talk, and did not want the festive evening spoilt, cried from the adjoining bed: "Aziz, he is trying to pull your leg; don't believe him, the villain." "I do not believe him," said Aziz; he was inured to practical jokes, even of this type. Fielding said no more. Facts are facts, and everyone would learn of Mrs. Moore's death in the morning. But it struck him that people are not really dead until they are felt to be dead. As long as there is some misunderstanding about them, they possess a sort of immortality. An experience of his own confirmed this. Many years ago he had lost a great friend, a woman, who believed in the Christian heaven, and assured him that after the changes and chances of this mortal life they would meet in it again. Fielding was a blank, frank atheist, but he respected every opinion his friend held: to do this is essential in friendship. And it seemed to him for a time that the dead awaited him, and when the illusion faded it left behind it an emptiness that was almost guilt: "This really is the end," he thought, "and I gave her the final blow." He had tried to kill Mrs. Moore this evening, on the roof of the Nawab Bahadur's house; but she still eluded him, and the atmosphere remained tranquil. Presently the moon rose the exhausted crescent that precedes the sun and shortly after men and oxen began their interminable labour, and the gracious interlude, which he had tried to curtail, came to its natural conclusion. CHAPTER XXVIII Dead she was committed to the deep while still on the southward track, for the boats from Bombay cannot point towards Europe until Arabia has been rounded; she was further in the tropics than ever achieved while on shore, when the sun touched her for the last time and her body was lowered into yet another India the Indian Ocean. She left behind her sore discomfort, for a death gives a ship a bad name. Who was this Mrs. Moore? When Aden was reached, Lady Mellanby cabled, wrote, did all that was kind, but the wife of a Lieutenant-Governor does not bargain for such an experience; and she repeated: "I had only seen the poor creature for a few hours when she was taken ill; really this has been needlessly distressing, it spoils one's home-coming." A ghost followed the ship up the Red Sea, but failed to enter the Mediterranean. Somewhere about Suez there is always a social change: the arrangements of Asia weaken and those of Europe begin to be felt, and during the transition Mrs. Moore was shaken off. At Port Said the grey blustery north began. The weather was so cold and bracing that the passengers felt it must have broken in the land they had left, but it became hotter steadily there in	"Be quiet. In the course of a long talk with Miss Quested I have begun to understand her character. It's not an easy one, she being a prig. But she is perfectly genuine and very brave. When she saw she was wrong, she pulled herself up with a jerk and said so. I want you to realize what that means. All her friends around her, the entire British Raj pushing her forward. She stops, sends the whole thing to smithereens. In her place I should have funked it. But she stopped, and almost did she become a national heroine, but my students ran us down a side street before the crowd caught flame. Do treat her considerately. She really mustn't get the worst of both worlds. I know what all these" he indicated the shrouded forms on the roof "will want, but you mustn't listen to them. Be merciful. Act like one of your six Mogul Emperors, or all the six rolled into one." "Not even Mogul Emperors showed mercy until they received an apology." "She'll apologize if that's the trouble," he cried, sitting up. "Look, I'll make you an offer. Dictate to me whatever form of words you like, and this time to-morrow I'll bring it back signed. This is not instead of any public apology she may make you in law. It's an addition." " Dear Dr. Aziz, I wish you had come into the cave; I am an awful old hag, and it is my last chance.' "Will she sign that?" "Well good night, good night, it's time to go to sleep, after that." "Good night, I suppose it is." "Oh, I wish you wouldn't make that kind of remark," he continued after a pause. "It is the one thing in you I can't put up with." "I put up with all things in you, so what is to be done?" "Well, you hurt me by saying it; good night." There was silence, then dreamily but with deep feeling the voice said: "Cyril, I have had an idea which will satisfy your tender mind: I shall consult Mrs. Moore." Opening his eyes, and beholding thousands of stars, he could not reply, they silenced him. "Her opinion will solve everything; I can trust her so absolutely. If she advises me to pardon this girl, I shall do so. She will counsel me nothing against my real and true honour, as you might." "Let us discuss that to-morrow morning." "Is it not strange? I keep on forgetting she has left India. During the shouting of her name in court I fancied she was present. I had shut my eyes, I confused myself on purpose to deaden the pain. Now this very instant I forgot again. I shall be obliged to write. She is now far away, well on her way towards Ralph and Stella." "To whom?" "To those other children." "I have not heard of other children."<\|quote\|>"Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. She told me in the mosque."</\|quote\|>"I knew her so slightly." "I have seen her but three times, but I know she is an Oriental." "You are so fantastic. . . . Miss Quested, you won't treat her generously; while over Mrs. Moore there is this elaborate chivalry. Miss Quested anyhow behaved decently this morning, whereas the old lady never did anything for you at all, and it's pure conjecture that she would have come forward in your favour, it only rests on servants' gossip. Your emotions never seem in proportion to their objects, Aziz." "Is emotion a sack of potatoes, so much the pound, to be measured out? Am I a machine? I shall be told I can use up my emotions by using them, next." "I should have thought you could. It sounds common sense. You can't eat your cake and have it, even in the world of the spirit." "If you are right, there is no point in any friendship; it all comes down to give and take, or give and return, which is disgusting, and we had better all leap over this parapet and kill ourselves. Is anything wrong with you this evening that you grow so materialistic?" "Your unfairness is worse than my materialism." "I see. Anything further to complain of?" He was good-tempered and affectionate but a little formidable. Imprisonment had made channels for his character, which would never fluctuate as widely now as in the past. "Because it is far better you put all your difficulties before me, if we are to be friends for ever. You do not like Mrs. Moore, and are annoyed because I do; however, you will like her in time." When a person, really dead, is supposed to be alive, an unhealthiness infects the conversation. Fielding could not stand the tension any longer and blurted out: "I'm sorry to say Mrs. Moore's dead." But Hamidullah, who had been listening to all their talk, and did not want the festive evening spoilt, cried from the adjoining bed: "Aziz, he is trying to pull your leg; don't believe him, the villain." "I do not believe him," said Aziz; he was inured to practical jokes, even of this type. Fielding said no more. Facts are facts, and everyone would learn of Mrs. Moore's death in the morning. But it struck him that people are not really dead until they are felt to be dead. As long as there is some misunderstanding about them, they possess a sort of immortality. An experience of his own confirmed this. Many years ago he had lost a great friend, a woman, who believed in the Christian heaven, and assured him that after the changes and chances of this mortal life they would meet in it again. Fielding was a blank, frank atheist, but he respected every opinion his friend held: to do this is essential in friendship. And it seemed to him for a time that the dead awaited him, and when the illusion faded it left behind it an emptiness that was almost guilt: "This really is the end," he thought, "and I gave her the final blow." He had tried to kill Mrs. Moore this evening, on the roof of the Nawab Bahadur's house; but she still eluded him, and the atmosphere remained tranquil. Presently the moon rose the exhausted crescent that precedes the sun and shortly after men and oxen began their interminable labour, and the gracious interlude, which	A Passage To India
"Why, you just said it was!"	Dolly	is my mother s writing."<\|quote\|>"Why, you just said it was!"</\|quote\|>cried Dolly. "Never mind if	I don t admit it is my mother s writing."<\|quote\|>"Why, you just said it was!"</\|quote\|>cried Dolly. "Never mind if I did," he blazed out;	t think what?" "That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence. No, to my mind the question is the--the invalid s condition at the time she wrote." "My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don t admit it is my mother s writing."<\|quote\|>"Why, you just said it was!"</\|quote\|>cried Dolly. "Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue." The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy. The two men were gradually assuming the	the breakfast-table from plates and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. "The question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away, whether she unduly--" He stopped. "I don t think that," said his father, whose nature was nobler than his son s. "Don t think what?" "That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence. No, to my mind the question is the--the invalid s condition at the time she wrote." "My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don t admit it is my mother s writing."<\|quote\|>"Why, you just said it was!"</\|quote\|>cried Dolly. "Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue." The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy. The two men were gradually assuming the manner of the committee-room. They were both at their best when serving on committees. They did not make the mistake of handling human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of them item by item, sharply. Caligraphy was the item before them now, and on it they turned their well-trained brains.	once exclaimed: "Why, it s only in pencil! I said so. Pencil never counts." "We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly," said Mr. Wilcox, speaking from out of his fortress. "We are aware of that. Legally, I should be justified in tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of course, my dear, we consider you as one of the family, but it will be better if you do not interfere with what you do not understand." Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then repeated: "The question is--" He had cleared a space of the breakfast-table from plates and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. "The question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away, whether she unduly--" He stopped. "I don t think that," said his father, whose nature was nobler than his son s. "Don t think what?" "That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence. No, to my mind the question is the--the invalid s condition at the time she wrote." "My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don t admit it is my mother s writing."<\|quote\|>"Why, you just said it was!"</\|quote\|>cried Dolly. "Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue." The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy. The two men were gradually assuming the manner of the committee-room. They were both at their best when serving on committees. They did not make the mistake of handling human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of them item by item, sharply. Caligraphy was the item before them now, and on it they turned their well-trained brains. Charles, after a little demur, accepted the writing as genuine, and they passed on to the next point. It is the best--perhaps the only--way of dodging emotion. They were the average human article, and had they considered the note as a whole it would have driven them miserable or mad. Considered item by item, the emotional content was minimised, and all went forward smoothly. The clock ticked, the coals blazed higher, and contended with the white radiance that poured in through the windows. Unnoticed, the sun occupied his sky, and the shadows of the tree stems, extraordinarily solid, fell like	Howards End." "I suppose we re going to have a talk about this?" he remarked, ominously calm. "Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly--" "Well, let s sit down." "Come, Evie, don t waste time, sit--down." In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The events of yesterday--indeed, of this morning suddenly receded into a past so remote that they seemed scarcely to have lived in it. Heavy breathings were heard. They were calming themselves. Charles, to steady them further, read the enclosure out loud: "A note in my mother s handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my father, sealed. Inside:" I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End. "No date, no signature. Forwarded through the matron of that nursing home. Now, the question is--" Dolly interrupted him. "But I say that note isn t legal. Houses ought to be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely." Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps appeared in front of either ear--a symptom that she had not yet learnt to respect, and she asked whether she might see the note. Charles looked at his father for permission, who said abstractedly, "Give it her." She seized it, and at once exclaimed: "Why, it s only in pencil! I said so. Pencil never counts." "We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly," said Mr. Wilcox, speaking from out of his fortress. "We are aware of that. Legally, I should be justified in tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of course, my dear, we consider you as one of the family, but it will be better if you do not interfere with what you do not understand." Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then repeated: "The question is--" He had cleared a space of the breakfast-table from plates and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. "The question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away, whether she unduly--" He stopped. "I don t think that," said his father, whose nature was nobler than his son s. "Don t think what?" "That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence. No, to my mind the question is the--the invalid s condition at the time she wrote." "My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don t admit it is my mother s writing."<\|quote\|>"Why, you just said it was!"</\|quote\|>cried Dolly. "Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue." The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy. The two men were gradually assuming the manner of the committee-room. They were both at their best when serving on committees. They did not make the mistake of handling human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of them item by item, sharply. Caligraphy was the item before them now, and on it they turned their well-trained brains. Charles, after a little demur, accepted the writing as genuine, and they passed on to the next point. It is the best--perhaps the only--way of dodging emotion. They were the average human article, and had they considered the note as a whole it would have driven them miserable or mad. Considered item by item, the emotional content was minimised, and all went forward smoothly. The clock ticked, the coals blazed higher, and contended with the white radiance that poured in through the windows. Unnoticed, the sun occupied his sky, and the shadows of the tree stems, extraordinarily solid, fell like trenches of purple across the frosted lawn. It was a glorious winter morning. Evie s fox terrier, who had passed for white, was only a dirty grey dog now, so intense was the purity that surrounded him. He was discredited, but the blackbirds that he was chasing glowed with Arabian darkness, for all the conventional colouring of life had been altered. Inside, the clock struck ten with a rich and confident note. Other clocks confirmed it, and the discussion moved towards its close. To follow it is unnecessary. It is rather a moment when the commentator should step forward. Ought the Wilcoxes to have offered their home to Margaret? I think not. The appeal was too flimsy. It was not legal; it had been written in illness, and under the spell of a sudden friendship; it was contrary to the dead woman s intentions in the past, contrary to her very nature, so far as that nature was understood by them. To them Howards End was a house: they could not know that to her it had been a spirit, for which she sought a spiritual heir. And--pushing one step farther in these mists--may they not have decided even better	correct, for his wife replied, "She wants Howards End." "Howards End? Now, Crane, just don t forget to put on the Stepney wheel." "No, sir." "Now, mind you don t forget, for I--Come, little woman." When they were out of the chauffeur s sight he put his arm round her waist and pressed her against him. All his affection and half his attention--it was what he granted her throughout their happy married life. "But you haven t listened, Charles." "What s wrong?" "I keep on telling you--Howards End. Miss Schlegel s got it." "Got what?" said Charles, unclasping her. "What the dickens are you talking about?" "Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty--" "Look here, I m in no mood for foolery. It s no morning for it either." "I tell you--I keep on telling you--Miss Schlegel--she s got it--your mother s left it to her--and you ve all got to move out!" "HOWARDS END?" "HOWARDS END!" she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shubbery. "Dolly, go back at once! My father s much annoyed with you. Charles" "--she hit herself wildly--" "come in at once to father. He s had a letter that s too awful." Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across the gravel path. There the house was with the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, "Schlegels again!" and as if to complete chaos, Dolly said, "Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has written instead of her." "Come in, all three of you!" cried his father, no longer inert. "Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox--" "I told you not to go out to the garage. I ve heard you all shouting in the garden. I won t have it. Come in." He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand. "Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can t discuss private matters in the middle of all the servants. Here, Charles, here; read these. See what you make." Charles took two letters, and read them as he followed the procession. The first was a covering note from the matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired her, when the funeral should be over, to forward the enclosed. The enclosed--it was from his mother herself. She had written: "To my husband: I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End." "I suppose we re going to have a talk about this?" he remarked, ominously calm. "Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly--" "Well, let s sit down." "Come, Evie, don t waste time, sit--down." In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The events of yesterday--indeed, of this morning suddenly receded into a past so remote that they seemed scarcely to have lived in it. Heavy breathings were heard. They were calming themselves. Charles, to steady them further, read the enclosure out loud: "A note in my mother s handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my father, sealed. Inside:" I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End. "No date, no signature. Forwarded through the matron of that nursing home. Now, the question is--" Dolly interrupted him. "But I say that note isn t legal. Houses ought to be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely." Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps appeared in front of either ear--a symptom that she had not yet learnt to respect, and she asked whether she might see the note. Charles looked at his father for permission, who said abstractedly, "Give it her." She seized it, and at once exclaimed: "Why, it s only in pencil! I said so. Pencil never counts." "We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly," said Mr. Wilcox, speaking from out of his fortress. "We are aware of that. Legally, I should be justified in tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of course, my dear, we consider you as one of the family, but it will be better if you do not interfere with what you do not understand." Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then repeated: "The question is--" He had cleared a space of the breakfast-table from plates and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. "The question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away, whether she unduly--" He stopped. "I don t think that," said his father, whose nature was nobler than his son s. "Don t think what?" "That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence. No, to my mind the question is the--the invalid s condition at the time she wrote." "My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don t admit it is my mother s writing."<\|quote\|>"Why, you just said it was!"</\|quote\|>cried Dolly. "Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue." The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy. The two men were gradually assuming the manner of the committee-room. They were both at their best when serving on committees. They did not make the mistake of handling human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of them item by item, sharply. Caligraphy was the item before them now, and on it they turned their well-trained brains. Charles, after a little demur, accepted the writing as genuine, and they passed on to the next point. It is the best--perhaps the only--way of dodging emotion. They were the average human article, and had they considered the note as a whole it would have driven them miserable or mad. Considered item by item, the emotional content was minimised, and all went forward smoothly. The clock ticked, the coals blazed higher, and contended with the white radiance that poured in through the windows. Unnoticed, the sun occupied his sky, and the shadows of the tree stems, extraordinarily solid, fell like trenches of purple across the frosted lawn. It was a glorious winter morning. Evie s fox terrier, who had passed for white, was only a dirty grey dog now, so intense was the purity that surrounded him. He was discredited, but the blackbirds that he was chasing glowed with Arabian darkness, for all the conventional colouring of life had been altered. Inside, the clock struck ten with a rich and confident note. Other clocks confirmed it, and the discussion moved towards its close. To follow it is unnecessary. It is rather a moment when the commentator should step forward. Ought the Wilcoxes to have offered their home to Margaret? I think not. The appeal was too flimsy. It was not legal; it had been written in illness, and under the spell of a sudden friendship; it was contrary to the dead woman s intentions in the past, contrary to her very nature, so far as that nature was understood by them. To them Howards End was a house: they could not know that to her it had been a spirit, for which she sought a spiritual heir. And--pushing one step farther in these mists--may they not have decided even better than they supposed? Is it credible that the possessions of the spirit can be bequeathed at all? Has the soul offspring? A wych-elm tree, a vine, a wisp of hay with dew on it--can passion for such things be transmitted where there is no bond of blood? No; the Wilcoxes are not to be blamed. The problem is too terrific, and they could not even perceive a problem. No; it is natural and fitting that after due debate they should tear the note up and throw it on to their dining-room fire. The practical moralist may acquit them absolutely. He who strives to look deeper may acquit them--almost. For one hard fact remains. They did neglect a personal appeal. The woman who had died did say to them, "Do this," and they answered, "We will not." The incident made a most painful impression on them. Grief mounted into the brain and worked there disquietingly. Yesterday they had lamented: "She was a dear mother, a true wife; in our absence she neglected her health and died." To-day they thought: "She was not as true, as dear, as we supposed." The desire for a more inward light had found expression at last, the unseen had impacted on the seen, and all that they could say was "Treachery." Mrs. Wilcox had been treacherous to the family, to the laws of property, to her own written word. How did she expect Howards End to be conveyed to Miss Schlegel? Was her husband, to whom it legally belonged, to make it over to her as a free gift? Was the said Miss Schlegel to have a life interest in it, or to own it absolutely? Was there to be no compensation for the garage and other improvements that they had made under the assumption that all would be theirs some day? Treacherous! treacherous and absurd! When we think the dead both treacherous and absurd, we have gone far towards reconciling ourselves to their departure. That note, scribbled in pencil, sent through the matron, was unbusinesslike as well as cruel, and decreased at once the value of the woman who had written it. "Ah, well!" said Mr. Wilcox, rising from the table. "I shouldn t have thought it possible." "Mother couldn t have meant it," said Evie, still frowning. "No, my girl, of course not." "Mother believed so in ancestors too--it isn t like her to	out loud: "A note in my mother s handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my father, sealed. Inside:" I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End. "No date, no signature. Forwarded through the matron of that nursing home. Now, the question is--" Dolly interrupted him. "But I say that note isn t legal. Houses ought to be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely." Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps appeared in front of either ear--a symptom that she had not yet learnt to respect, and she asked whether she might see the note. Charles looked at his father for permission, who said abstractedly, "Give it her." She seized it, and at once exclaimed: "Why, it s only in pencil! I said so. Pencil never counts." "We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly," said Mr. Wilcox, speaking from out of his fortress. "We are aware of that. Legally, I should be justified in tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of course, my dear, we consider you as one of the family, but it will be better if you do not interfere with what you do not understand." Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then repeated: "The question is--" He had cleared a space of the breakfast-table from plates and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. "The question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away, whether she unduly--" He stopped. "I don t think that," said his father, whose nature was nobler than his son s. "Don t think what?" "That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence. No, to my mind the question is the--the invalid s condition at the time she wrote." "My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don t admit it is my mother s writing."<\|quote\|>"Why, you just said it was!"</\|quote\|>cried Dolly. "Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue." The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy. The two men were gradually assuming the manner of the committee-room. They were both at their best when serving on committees. They did not make the mistake of handling human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of them item by item, sharply. Caligraphy was the item before them now, and on it they turned their well-trained brains. Charles, after a little demur, accepted the writing as genuine, and they passed on to the next point. It is the best--perhaps the only--way of dodging emotion. They were the average human article, and had they considered the note as a whole it would have driven them miserable or mad. Considered item by item, the emotional content was minimised, and all went forward smoothly. The clock ticked, the coals blazed higher, and contended with the white radiance that poured in through the windows. Unnoticed, the sun occupied his sky, and the shadows of the tree stems, extraordinarily solid, fell like trenches of purple across the frosted lawn. It was a glorious winter morning. Evie s fox terrier, who had passed for white, was only a dirty grey dog now, so intense was the purity that surrounded him. He was discredited, but the blackbirds that he was chasing glowed with Arabian darkness, for all the conventional colouring of life had been altered. Inside, the clock struck ten with a rich and confident note. Other clocks confirmed it, and the discussion moved towards its close. To follow it is unnecessary. It is rather a moment when the commentator should step forward. Ought the Wilcoxes to have offered their home to Margaret? I think not. The appeal was too flimsy. It was not legal; it had been written in illness, and under the spell of a sudden friendship; it was contrary to the dead woman s intentions in the past, contrary to her very nature, so far as that nature was understood by them. To them Howards End was a house: they could not know that to her it had been a spirit, for which she sought a spiritual heir. And--pushing one step farther in these mists--may they not have decided even better than they supposed? Is it credible that the possessions of the spirit can be bequeathed at all? Has the soul offspring? A wych-elm tree, a vine, a wisp of hay with dew on it--can passion for such things be transmitted where there is no bond of blood? No; the Wilcoxes are not to be blamed. The problem is too terrific, and they could not even perceive a problem. No; it is natural and fitting that after due debate they should tear the note up and throw it on to their dining-room fire. The practical moralist may acquit them absolutely. He who strives to look deeper may acquit them--almost. For one hard fact remains. They did neglect a personal appeal. The woman who had died did say to them, "Do this," and they answered, "We will not." The incident made a most painful impression on them. Grief mounted into the brain and worked there disquietingly. Yesterday they had lamented: "She was a dear mother, a true wife; in our absence	Howards End
"And what about the pot, Jem?"	Don Lavington	I should much mind stopping."<\|quote\|>"And what about the pot, Jem?"</\|quote\|>"Tchah! That was all gammon.	here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping."<\|quote\|>"And what about the pot, Jem?"</\|quote\|>"Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever	felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping."<\|quote\|>"And what about the pot, Jem?"</\|quote\|>"Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to	a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping."<\|quote\|>"And what about the pot, Jem?"</\|quote\|>"Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake." They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and	amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't." "You must not get into any quarrel, Jem," said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping."<\|quote\|>"And what about the pot, Jem?"</\|quote\|>"Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake." They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler. "And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size	Don, till your head won't work; that's what's the matter with you, my lad. I mean treat us as if we was chyce fat sheep." "Nonsense, Jem!" "Oh, is it? Well, you'll see." "I hope not," said Don, laughing. "Ah, you may laugh, my lad, but you won't grin that day when it comes to the worst." News was brought in soon after of the boats being busy taking soundings, and that night Don and Jem sat screened by the ferns high up on the mountain side, and saw the sloop of war with her sails set, and looking golden in the setting sun, gliding slowly away toward the north-east, careening slightly over before a brisk breeze, which grew stronger as they reached out farther beyond the shelter of the land; and in spite of hints from Tomati, and calls from Ngati, neither could be coaxed down till, just as it was growing dusk, Don rose and turned to his companion. "Have we done right, Jem?" "What, in getting away from being slaves aboard ship? Why, o' course." Don shook his head. "I don't know," he said, sadly. "We are here right away on the other side of the world amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't." "You must not get into any quarrel, Jem," said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping."<\|quote\|>"And what about the pot, Jem?"</\|quote\|>"Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake." They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler. "And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning and wicked enough, but them little birds is imps, that's what they are." Jem shook his head and frowned, and no more was said then, for they were packing up a basket, and going up into the mountains to get fruit, taking	us," said Don, trying to pacify him. "Save us! Well they might ha' saved us gently. Look at me. I'm nearly flat." "Nonsense! I found it unpleasant; but they hid us, and we're all right." "But I arn't all right, Mas' Don; I feel like a pancake," cried Jem, rubbing and patting himself as if he were so much paste or clay which he wanted to get back into shape. "Don't be so stupid, Jem!" "Stoopid? 'Nough to make any man feel stoopid. I was 'most stuffocated." "So was I." "Yes, but you hadn't got that big, `my pakeha' chap sitting on you all the time." "No, Jem, I hadn't," said Don, laughing. "Well, I had, and he weighs 'bout as much as a sugar-hogshead at home, and that arn't light." "But it was to hide us, Jem." "Hide us, indeed! Bother me if it didn't seem as if they was all hens wanting to sit on one egg, and that egg was me. I know I shall never get right again." "Oh yes, you will," laughed Don. "Ah, it's all werry well for you to laugh, Mas' Don; but if my ribs hadn't been made o' the best o' bone, they'd ha' cracked like carrots, and where should I ha' been then?" "Hurt, mate?" said Tomati, coming up and laughing at Jem, who was rubbing himself angrily. "Just you go and be sat upon all that time, and see if you won't feel hurt," grumbled Jem. "Why, it hurts your feelings as much as it does your body." "Ah, well, never mind. You're quite safe now." Tomati walked away to speak to one of his men. "Quite safe now, he says, Mas' Don. Well, I don't feel it. Hear what he said to the fust lufftenant; this was the worst part of the coast, and the people were ready to rob and murder and eat you?" "I didn't hear all that, Jem," said Don quietly. "I heard him say that they were a warlike, fighting people; but that doesn't matter if they are kind to us." "But that's what I'm feared on," said Jem, giving himself a jerk. "Afraid of them being kind?" "Ay, feared of them liking us too well. Pot." "Pot?" "Yes, Pot. Don't you understand?" "No." "Pot. P--O--T, Pot." "Well, of course, I know that; but what does it mean?" "Why, they've sat upon you, Mas' Don, till your head won't work; that's what's the matter with you, my lad. I mean treat us as if we was chyce fat sheep." "Nonsense, Jem!" "Oh, is it? Well, you'll see." "I hope not," said Don, laughing. "Ah, you may laugh, my lad, but you won't grin that day when it comes to the worst." News was brought in soon after of the boats being busy taking soundings, and that night Don and Jem sat screened by the ferns high up on the mountain side, and saw the sloop of war with her sails set, and looking golden in the setting sun, gliding slowly away toward the north-east, careening slightly over before a brisk breeze, which grew stronger as they reached out farther beyond the shelter of the land; and in spite of hints from Tomati, and calls from Ngati, neither could be coaxed down till, just as it was growing dusk, Don rose and turned to his companion. "Have we done right, Jem?" "What, in getting away from being slaves aboard ship? Why, o' course." Don shook his head. "I don't know," he said, sadly. "We are here right away on the other side of the world amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't." "You must not get into any quarrel, Jem," said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping."<\|quote\|>"And what about the pot, Jem?"</\|quote\|>"Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake." They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler. "And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning and wicked enough, but them little birds is imps, that's what they are." Jem shook his head and frowned, and no more was said then, for they were packing up a basket, and going up into the mountains to get fruit, taking provisions enough to last them for the day. Their hut was right in the middle of the little village, and the Maoris treated them in the most friendly manner, smiling at them in an indolent fashion as they lolled about the place, doing very little except a little gardening; for their wants were few, and nature was kind in the abundance she gave for a little toil. This life soon had its effects upon Jem, who began to display a disposition to idle too. "Seems so nat'ral, Mas' Don," he would say. "I don't see why a man should be always letting sugar-hogsheads down out of waggons, and rolling 'em about and getting them into warehouses. Why can't we take it coolly, same as they do?" "Because we don't want to stand still, Jem," said Don quietly. "You and I are not savages." "Well, no, Mas' Don, that's true; but it's very pleasant to take it as coolly as they do. Why, these chaps, the whole lot of 'em, live just as if it was always holidays, and a hot water bath thrown in." "Uncle Josiah used to say that people soon got tired of having holidays." "Your Uncle Josiah soon got tired o' giving holidays, Mas' Don. I never, as you know, wanted many, but he always looked rat-traps at me if I asked for a day. Here you can have as many as you like." "Well, let's take one to-day, Jem," said Don. "Fill another basket with something to eat, take a couple of bags, and we'll go right away into the forest, and bring back as much fruit as we can." "I'll be all ready in no time," said Jem, cheerily; and at the end of three minutes he was equipped, and they started off together, to find Ngati half lying on the sands in company with about a dozen more of his tribe, all of whom gave the pair a friendly smile and a wondering look at the trouble they seemed to take to obtain fruit, when some of the women or girls could have done the task just as well. "They are about the idlest set of chaps I ever did see, Mas' Don," said Jem, as they trudged cautiously along through the ferny woodlands, where traces of volcanic action were wonderfully plentiful. "But they work when there's any need for it, I daresay," said	Jem?" "What, in getting away from being slaves aboard ship? Why, o' course." Don shook his head. "I don't know," he said, sadly. "We are here right away on the other side of the world amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't." "You must not get into any quarrel, Jem," said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping."<\|quote\|>"And what about the pot, Jem?"</\|quote\|>"Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake." They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler. "And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating. Wonder what shark would be like?" Don shuddered, and they both decided that they would not care to try. Ngati of the fiercely savage face and huge size proved to be one of the most amiable of men, and was after them every morning, to go out in the forest collecting fruit, or to dam up some stream to catch the fresh-water fish, or to snare birds. "He do cap me," Jem would say. "Just look at him, Mas' Don. That there chap's six foot four at least, half as broad again across the chest as I am, and he's got arms like a helephant, while to look at him with his blue face you'd say he was 'bout the fiercest-looking fighting man you ever see; and yet, when you come to know him inside, he's just like a big boy, and so good-tempered I could do anything with him." "And only the other day you looked upon him as quite an enemy." "Ay, I did, Mas' Don, but I don't now. Them there artful birds is my mortal enemies. They parrots and cockatoos is cunning	Don Lavington
"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."	Lord Henry	marry this fascinating young person?"<\|quote\|>"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."</\|quote\|>"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha.	you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?"<\|quote\|>"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."</\|quote\|>"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha. "Really, some one should interfere."	as he remarked once himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of them ever quite escape. "We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry," cried the duchess, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. "Do you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?"<\|quote\|>"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."</\|quote\|>"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha. "Really, some one should interfere." "I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American dry-goods store," said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious. "My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas." "Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?" asked the duchess, raising her large hands	reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book. Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement in the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of them ever quite escape. "We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry," cried the duchess, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. "Do you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?"<\|quote\|>"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."</\|quote\|>"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha. "Really, some one should interfere." "I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American dry-goods store," said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious. "My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas." "Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?" asked the duchess, raising her large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb. "American novels," answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail. The duchess looked puzzled. "Don t mind him, my dear," whispered Lady Agatha. "He never means anything that he says." "When America was discovered," said the Radical member and he began to give some	in public life and in private life followed the best cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, in accordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left was occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable charm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence, having, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he had to say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur, one of his aunt s oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book. Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement in the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of them ever quite escape. "We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry," cried the duchess, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. "Do you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?"<\|quote\|>"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."</\|quote\|>"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha. "Really, some one should interfere." "I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American dry-goods store," said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious. "My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas." "Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?" asked the duchess, raising her large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb. "American novels," answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail. The duchess looked puzzled. "Don t mind him, my dear," whispered Lady Agatha. "He never means anything that he says." "When America was discovered," said the Radical member and he began to give some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust a subject, he exhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised her privilege of interruption. "I wish to goodness it never had been discovered at all!" she exclaimed. "Really, our girls have no chance nowadays. It is most unfair." "Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered," said Mr. Erskine; "I myself would say that it had merely been detected." "Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants," answered the duchess vaguely. "I must confess that most of them are extremely pretty. And they dress well, too. They get all	to dominate him had already, indeed, half done so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There was something fascinating in this son of love and death. Suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had passed his aunt s some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back. When he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that they had gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick and passed into the dining-room. "Late as usual, Harry," cried his aunt, shaking her head at him. He invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to her, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly from the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek. Opposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good-nature and good temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample architectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses are described by contemporary historians as stoutness. Next to her sat, on her right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who followed his leader in public life and in private life followed the best cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, in accordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left was occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable charm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence, having, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he had to say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur, one of his aunt s oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book. Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement in the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of them ever quite escape. "We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry," cried the duchess, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. "Do you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?"<\|quote\|>"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."</\|quote\|>"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha. "Really, some one should interfere." "I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American dry-goods store," said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious. "My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas." "Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?" asked the duchess, raising her large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb. "American novels," answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail. The duchess looked puzzled. "Don t mind him, my dear," whispered Lady Agatha. "He never means anything that he says." "When America was discovered," said the Radical member and he began to give some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust a subject, he exhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised her privilege of interruption. "I wish to goodness it never had been discovered at all!" she exclaimed. "Really, our girls have no chance nowadays. It is most unfair." "Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered," said Mr. Erskine; "I myself would say that it had merely been detected." "Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants," answered the duchess vaguely. "I must confess that most of them are extremely pretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in Paris. I wish I could afford to do the same." "They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris," chuckled Sir Thomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour s cast-off clothes. "Really! And where do bad Americans go to when they die?" inquired the duchess. "They go to America," murmured Lord Henry. Sir Thomas frowned. "I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against that great country," he said to Lady Agatha. "I have travelled all over it in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are extremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it." "But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?" asked Mr. Erskine plaintively. "I don t feel up to the journey." Sir Thomas waved his hand. "Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on his shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about them. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are absolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing characteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I assure you there is no nonsense about the Americans." "How dreadful!" cried Lord Henry. "I can	exquisite violin. He answered to every touch and thrill of the bow.... There was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of influence. No other activity was like it. To project one s soul into some gracious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear one s own intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of passion and youth; to convey one s temperament into another as though it were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume: there was a real joy in that perhaps the most satisfying joy left to us in an age so limited and vulgar as our own, an age grossly carnal in its pleasures, and grossly common in its aims.... He was a marvellous type, too, this lad, whom by so curious a chance he had met in Basil s studio, or could be fashioned into a marvellous type, at any rate. Grace was his, and the white purity of boyhood, and beauty such as old Greek marbles kept for us. There was nothing that one could not do with him. He could be made a Titan or a toy. What a pity it was that such beauty was destined to fade! ... And Basil? From a psychological point of view, how interesting he was! The new manner in art, the fresh mode of looking at life, suggested so strangely by the merely visible presence of one who was unconscious of it all; the silent spirit that dwelt in dim woodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showing herself, Dryadlike and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for her there had been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone are wonderful things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things becoming, as it were, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value, as though they were themselves patterns of some other and more perfect form whose shadow they made real: how strange it all was! He remembered something like it in history. Was it not Plato, that artist in thought, who had first analyzed it? Was it not Buonarotti who had carved it in the coloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? But in our own century it was strange.... Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray what, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful portrait. He would seek to dominate him had already, indeed, half done so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There was something fascinating in this son of love and death. Suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had passed his aunt s some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back. When he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that they had gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick and passed into the dining-room. "Late as usual, Harry," cried his aunt, shaking her head at him. He invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to her, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly from the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek. Opposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good-nature and good temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample architectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses are described by contemporary historians as stoutness. Next to her sat, on her right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who followed his leader in public life and in private life followed the best cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, in accordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left was occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable charm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence, having, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he had to say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur, one of his aunt s oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book. Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement in the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of them ever quite escape. "We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry," cried the duchess, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. "Do you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?"<\|quote\|>"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."</\|quote\|>"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha. "Really, some one should interfere." "I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American dry-goods store," said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious. "My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas." "Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?" asked the duchess, raising her large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb. "American novels," answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail. The duchess looked puzzled. "Don t mind him, my dear," whispered Lady Agatha. "He never means anything that he says." "When America was discovered," said the Radical member and he began to give some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust a subject, he exhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised her privilege of interruption. "I wish to goodness it never had been discovered at all!" she exclaimed. "Really, our girls have no chance nowadays. It is most unfair." "Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered," said Mr. Erskine; "I myself would say that it had merely been detected." "Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants," answered the duchess vaguely. "I must confess that most of them are extremely pretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in Paris. I wish I could afford to do the same." "They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris," chuckled Sir Thomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour s cast-off clothes. "Really! And where do bad Americans go to when they die?" inquired the duchess. "They go to America," murmured Lord Henry. Sir Thomas frowned. "I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against that great country," he said to Lady Agatha. "I have travelled all over it in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are extremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it." "But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?" asked Mr. Erskine plaintively. "I don t feel up to the journey." Sir Thomas waved his hand. "Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on his shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about them. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are absolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing characteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I assure you there is no nonsense about the Americans." "How dreadful!" cried Lord Henry. "I can stand brute force, but brute reason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It is hitting below the intellect." "I do not understand you," said Sir Thomas, growing rather red. "I do, Lord Henry," murmured Mr. Erskine, with a smile. "Paradoxes are all very well in their way...." rejoined the baronet. "Was that a paradox?" asked Mr. Erskine. "I did not think so. Perhaps it was. Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test reality we must see it on the tight rope. When the verities become acrobats, we can judge them." "Dear me!" said Lady Agatha, "how you men argue! I am sure I never can make out what you are talking about. Oh! Harry, I am quite vexed with you. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up the East End? I assure you he would be quite invaluable. They would love his playing." "I want him to play to me," cried Lord Henry, smiling, and he looked down the table and caught a bright answering glance. "But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel," continued Lady Agatha. "I can sympathize with everything except suffering," said Lord Henry, shrugging his shoulders. "I cannot sympathize with that. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathize with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life s sores, the better." "Still, the East End is a very important problem," remarked Sir Thomas with a grave shake of the head. "Quite so," answered the young lord. "It is the problem of slavery, and we try to solve it by amusing the slaves." The politician looked at him keenly. "What change do you propose, then?" he asked. Lord Henry laughed. "I don t desire to change anything in England except the weather," he answered. "I am quite content with philosophic contemplation. But, as the nineteenth century has gone bankrupt through an over-expenditure of sympathy, I would suggest that we should appeal to science to put us straight. The advantage of the emotions is that they lead us astray, and the advantage of science is that it is not emotional." "But we have such grave responsibilities," ventured Mrs. Vandeleur timidly. "Terribly grave," echoed Lady Agatha. Lord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine. "Humanity	all; the silent spirit that dwelt in dim woodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showing herself, Dryadlike and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for her there had been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone are wonderful things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things becoming, as it were, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value, as though they were themselves patterns of some other and more perfect form whose shadow they made real: how strange it all was! He remembered something like it in history. Was it not Plato, that artist in thought, who had first analyzed it? Was it not Buonarotti who had carved it in the coloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? But in our own century it was strange.... Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray what, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful portrait. He would seek to dominate him had already, indeed, half done so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There was something fascinating in this son of love and death. Suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had passed his aunt s some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back. When he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that they had gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick and passed into the dining-room. "Late as usual, Harry," cried his aunt, shaking her head at him. He invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to her, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly from the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek. Opposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good-nature and good temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample architectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses are described by contemporary historians as stoutness. Next to her sat, on her right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who followed his leader in public life and in private life followed the best cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, in accordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left was occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable charm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence, having, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he had to say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur, one of his aunt s oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book. Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement in the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of them ever quite escape. "We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry," cried the duchess, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. "Do you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?"<\|quote\|>"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess."</\|quote\|>"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha. "Really, some one should interfere." "I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American dry-goods store," said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious. "My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas." "Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?" asked the duchess, raising her large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb. "American novels," answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail. The duchess looked puzzled. "Don t mind him, my dear," whispered Lady Agatha. "He never means anything that he says." "When America was discovered," said the Radical member and he began to give some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust a subject, he exhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised her privilege of interruption. "I wish to goodness it never had been discovered at all!" she exclaimed. "Really, our girls have no chance nowadays. It is most unfair." "Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered," said Mr. Erskine; "I myself would say that it had merely been detected." "Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants," answered the duchess vaguely. "I must confess that most of them are extremely pretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in Paris. I wish I could afford to do the same." "They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris," chuckled Sir Thomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour s cast-off clothes. "Really! And where do bad Americans go to when they die?" inquired the duchess. "They go to America," murmured Lord Henry. Sir Thomas frowned. "I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against that great country," he said to Lady Agatha. "I have travelled all over it in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are extremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it." "But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?" asked Mr. Erskine plaintively. "I don t feel up to the journey." Sir Thomas waved his hand. "Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on his shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about them. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are absolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing characteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I assure you there is no nonsense about the Americans." "How dreadful!" cried Lord Henry. "I can stand brute force, but brute reason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It is hitting below the intellect." "I do not understand you," said Sir Thomas, growing rather red. "I do, Lord Henry," murmured Mr. Erskine, with a smile. "Paradoxes are all very well in their way...." rejoined the baronet. "Was that a paradox?" asked Mr. Erskine. "I did not think so. Perhaps it was. Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test reality we must see it on the tight rope. When the verities become acrobats, we can judge them." "Dear me!" said Lady Agatha, "how you men argue! I am sure I never can make out what you are talking about. Oh! Harry, I am quite vexed with you. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up the East	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
"Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly."	Constable	grinning. "Ah!" ejaculated the constable.<\|quote\|>"Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly."</\|quote\|>"Take young Don Lavington too,	of two ropes?" said Jem, grinning. "Ah!" ejaculated the constable.<\|quote\|>"Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly."</\|quote\|>"Take young Don Lavington too, then, and I will." "Get	the office with great alacrity, and returned in a very short time with three men and a stout ladder, about nine feet long. "That's the sort, Wimble," said the constable. "Didn't think of a rope, did you?" "Did I think of two ropes?" said Jem, grinning. "Ah!" ejaculated the constable.<\|quote\|>"Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly."</\|quote\|>"Take young Don Lavington too, then, and I will." "Get up, and walk quietly." "Not 'less you takes him." "Sorry to make a rumpus, sir," said the constable, apologetically; "but I must have him out." "The sooner the better," said Uncle Josiah, grimly. "I am ready to go, uncle," said	now out of patience. "Can I help?" "Well, sir, you could," said the constable, grimly; "but if you'd have in three or four of your men, and a short step ladder, we could soon carry him off." "No man sha'n't carry me off," roared Mike, as Jem ran out of the office with great alacrity, and returned in a very short time with three men and a stout ladder, about nine feet long. "That's the sort, Wimble," said the constable. "Didn't think of a rope, did you?" "Did I think of two ropes?" said Jem, grinning. "Ah!" ejaculated the constable.<\|quote\|>"Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly."</\|quote\|>"Take young Don Lavington too, then, and I will." "Get up, and walk quietly." "Not 'less you takes him." "Sorry to make a rumpus, sir," said the constable, apologetically; "but I must have him out." "The sooner the better," said Uncle Josiah, grimly. "I am ready to go, uncle," said Don, quietly. "I am not afraid." "Hold your tongue, sir!" said the merchant, sternly; "and stand out of the way." "Now, Mike," said the constable, "this is the third time of asking. Will you come quiet?" "Take him too," cried Mike. "Ready with those ropes, Wimble. You two, ready with	me." "Exactly," said the constable; "come along." "Nay, but this arn't fair, master. Take one, take all. You bring us both." "Come along." "If you don't bring that there young un too, I won't go," exclaimed the scoundrel, fiercely. _Click_! A short struggle, and then _click_ again, and Mike Bannock's hands were useless, but he threw himself down. "Fair play, fair play," he cried, savagely; "take one, take all. Are you going to charge him, master?" "Take the scoundrel away, Smithers, and once more I will be bail--before the magistrates, if necessary--for my clerk's appearance," cried Uncle Josiah, who was now out of patience. "Can I help?" "Well, sir, you could," said the constable, grimly; "but if you'd have in three or four of your men, and a short step ladder, we could soon carry him off." "No man sha'n't carry me off," roared Mike, as Jem ran out of the office with great alacrity, and returned in a very short time with three men and a stout ladder, about nine feet long. "That's the sort, Wimble," said the constable. "Didn't think of a rope, did you?" "Did I think of two ropes?" said Jem, grinning. "Ah!" ejaculated the constable.<\|quote\|>"Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly."</\|quote\|>"Take young Don Lavington too, then, and I will." "Get up, and walk quietly." "Not 'less you takes him." "Sorry to make a rumpus, sir," said the constable, apologetically; "but I must have him out." "The sooner the better," said Uncle Josiah, grimly. "I am ready to go, uncle," said Don, quietly. "I am not afraid." "Hold your tongue, sir!" said the merchant, sternly; "and stand out of the way." "Now, Mike," said the constable, "this is the third time of asking. Will you come quiet?" "Take him too," cried Mike. "Ready with those ropes, Wimble. You two, ready with that there. Now, Mike Bannock, you've been asked three times, and now you've got to mount that ladder." "Any man comes a-nigh me," roared Mike, "I'll--" He did not say what, for the constable dashed at him, and by an ingenious twist avoided a savage kick, threw the scoundrel over on his face, as he lay on the floor, and sat upon him, retaining his seat in spite of his struggles. "Step the first," said the constable, coolly. "Now, Wimble, I want that ladder passed under me, so as to lie right along on his back. Do you see?" "Yes,	youngster. I'll talk to you when we're in the lock-up." Don looked wildly from Mike to his uncle, whose eyes were fixed on the constable. "Do you charge the boy too, sir?" Uncle Josiah was silent for some moments. "No! Not now!" Lindon's heart leapt at that word "_no_!" But it sank again at the "_not now_." "But the case is awkward, sir," said the constable. "After what this man has said we shall be obliged to take some notice of the matter." "'Bliged to? Course you will. Here, bring 'im along. Come on, mate. I can tell you stories all night now about my bygones. Keep up yer sperrits, and I daresay the magistrits 'll let you off pretty easy." "If there is any charge made against my young clerk," --Don winced, for his uncle did not say, "against my nephew," -- "I will be answerable for his appearance before the magistrates. That will be sufficient, I presume." "Yes, sir, I suppose that will do," said the constable. "But I s'pose it won't," said Mike. "He's the monkey and I'm only the cat. You've got to take him if you does your dooty, and master 'll be answerable for me." "Exactly," said the constable; "come along." "Nay, but this arn't fair, master. Take one, take all. You bring us both." "Come along." "If you don't bring that there young un too, I won't go," exclaimed the scoundrel, fiercely. _Click_! A short struggle, and then _click_ again, and Mike Bannock's hands were useless, but he threw himself down. "Fair play, fair play," he cried, savagely; "take one, take all. Are you going to charge him, master?" "Take the scoundrel away, Smithers, and once more I will be bail--before the magistrates, if necessary--for my clerk's appearance," cried Uncle Josiah, who was now out of patience. "Can I help?" "Well, sir, you could," said the constable, grimly; "but if you'd have in three or four of your men, and a short step ladder, we could soon carry him off." "No man sha'n't carry me off," roared Mike, as Jem ran out of the office with great alacrity, and returned in a very short time with three men and a stout ladder, about nine feet long. "That's the sort, Wimble," said the constable. "Didn't think of a rope, did you?" "Did I think of two ropes?" said Jem, grinning. "Ah!" ejaculated the constable.<\|quote\|>"Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly."</\|quote\|>"Take young Don Lavington too, then, and I will." "Get up, and walk quietly." "Not 'less you takes him." "Sorry to make a rumpus, sir," said the constable, apologetically; "but I must have him out." "The sooner the better," said Uncle Josiah, grimly. "I am ready to go, uncle," said Don, quietly. "I am not afraid." "Hold your tongue, sir!" said the merchant, sternly; "and stand out of the way." "Now, Mike," said the constable, "this is the third time of asking. Will you come quiet?" "Take him too," cried Mike. "Ready with those ropes, Wimble. You two, ready with that there. Now, Mike Bannock, you've been asked three times, and now you've got to mount that ladder." "Any man comes a-nigh me," roared Mike, "I'll--" He did not say what, for the constable dashed at him, and by an ingenious twist avoided a savage kick, threw the scoundrel over on his face, as he lay on the floor, and sat upon him, retaining his seat in spite of his struggles. "Step the first," said the constable, coolly. "Now, Wimble, I want that ladder passed under me, so as to lie right along on his back. Do you see?" "Yes, sir," cried Jem, eagerly; and taking the ladder as the constable sat astride the prostrate scoundrel, holding down his shoulders, and easing himself up, the ladder was passed between the officer's legs, and, in spite of a good deal of heaving, savage kicking, and one or two fierce attempts to bite, right along till it was upon Mike's back, projecting nearly two feet beyond his head and feet. "Murder!" yelled Mike, hoarsely. "What? Does it hurt, my lad? Never mind; you'll soon get used to it." The constable seated himself upon the ladder, whose sides and rounds thoroughly imprisoned the scoundrel in spite of his yells and struggles to get free. "Now then, Wimble, I've got him. You tie his ankles, one each side, tightly to the ladder, and one of you bind his arms same way to the ladder sides. Cut the rope. Mr Christmas will not mind." The men grinned, and set to work so handily that in a few moments Mike was securely bound. "Now then," said the constable, "I'll have one round his middle; give me a piece of rope; I'll soon do that." He seized the rope, and, without rising, rapidly secured it to one	boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl." "You seem to know all about it, Mike," said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you too, Mike," said the constable, jocularly. "Don't you forget to tell that to the magistrates." "Magistrits? What magistrits? Master arn't going to give me in custody, I know." "Indeed, but I am, you scoundrel," cried Uncle Josiah, wrathfully. "You are one of the worst kind of thieves--" "Here, take that back, master." "Worst kind of scoundrels--dogs who bite the hand that has fed them." "I tell yer it was him," said Mike, with a ferocious glare at Don. "All right, Mike, you tell the magistrates that," said the constable, "and don't forget." "I arn't going 'fore no magistrits," grumbled Mike. "Yes, you are," said the constable, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Now then, is it to be quietly?" Mike made a furious gesture. "Just as you like," said the constable. "Jem Wimble, I call you in the King's name to help." "Which I just will," cried Jem, with alacrity; and he made at Mike, while Don felt a strange desire tingling in his veins as he longed to help as well. "I gives in," growled Mike. "I could chuck the whole lot on you outer winder, but I won't. It would only make it seem as if I was guilty, and it's not guilty, and so I tell you. Master says I took the money, and I says it was that young Don Lavington as is the thief. Come on, youngster. I'll talk to you when we're in the lock-up." Don looked wildly from Mike to his uncle, whose eyes were fixed on the constable. "Do you charge the boy too, sir?" Uncle Josiah was silent for some moments. "No! Not now!" Lindon's heart leapt at that word "_no_!" But it sank again at the "_not now_." "But the case is awkward, sir," said the constable. "After what this man has said we shall be obliged to take some notice of the matter." "'Bliged to? Course you will. Here, bring 'im along. Come on, mate. I can tell you stories all night now about my bygones. Keep up yer sperrits, and I daresay the magistrits 'll let you off pretty easy." "If there is any charge made against my young clerk," --Don winced, for his uncle did not say, "against my nephew," -- "I will be answerable for his appearance before the magistrates. That will be sufficient, I presume." "Yes, sir, I suppose that will do," said the constable. "But I s'pose it won't," said Mike. "He's the monkey and I'm only the cat. You've got to take him if you does your dooty, and master 'll be answerable for me." "Exactly," said the constable; "come along." "Nay, but this arn't fair, master. Take one, take all. You bring us both." "Come along." "If you don't bring that there young un too, I won't go," exclaimed the scoundrel, fiercely. _Click_! A short struggle, and then _click_ again, and Mike Bannock's hands were useless, but he threw himself down. "Fair play, fair play," he cried, savagely; "take one, take all. Are you going to charge him, master?" "Take the scoundrel away, Smithers, and once more I will be bail--before the magistrates, if necessary--for my clerk's appearance," cried Uncle Josiah, who was now out of patience. "Can I help?" "Well, sir, you could," said the constable, grimly; "but if you'd have in three or four of your men, and a short step ladder, we could soon carry him off." "No man sha'n't carry me off," roared Mike, as Jem ran out of the office with great alacrity, and returned in a very short time with three men and a stout ladder, about nine feet long. "That's the sort, Wimble," said the constable. "Didn't think of a rope, did you?" "Did I think of two ropes?" said Jem, grinning. "Ah!" ejaculated the constable.<\|quote\|>"Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly."</\|quote\|>"Take young Don Lavington too, then, and I will." "Get up, and walk quietly." "Not 'less you takes him." "Sorry to make a rumpus, sir," said the constable, apologetically; "but I must have him out." "The sooner the better," said Uncle Josiah, grimly. "I am ready to go, uncle," said Don, quietly. "I am not afraid." "Hold your tongue, sir!" said the merchant, sternly; "and stand out of the way." "Now, Mike," said the constable, "this is the third time of asking. Will you come quiet?" "Take him too," cried Mike. "Ready with those ropes, Wimble. You two, ready with that there. Now, Mike Bannock, you've been asked three times, and now you've got to mount that ladder." "Any man comes a-nigh me," roared Mike, "I'll--" He did not say what, for the constable dashed at him, and by an ingenious twist avoided a savage kick, threw the scoundrel over on his face, as he lay on the floor, and sat upon him, retaining his seat in spite of his struggles. "Step the first," said the constable, coolly. "Now, Wimble, I want that ladder passed under me, so as to lie right along on his back. Do you see?" "Yes, sir," cried Jem, eagerly; and taking the ladder as the constable sat astride the prostrate scoundrel, holding down his shoulders, and easing himself up, the ladder was passed between the officer's legs, and, in spite of a good deal of heaving, savage kicking, and one or two fierce attempts to bite, right along till it was upon Mike's back, projecting nearly two feet beyond his head and feet. "Murder!" yelled Mike, hoarsely. "What? Does it hurt, my lad? Never mind; you'll soon get used to it." The constable seated himself upon the ladder, whose sides and rounds thoroughly imprisoned the scoundrel in spite of his yells and struggles to get free. "Now then, Wimble, I've got him. You tie his ankles, one each side, tightly to the ladder, and one of you bind his arms same way to the ladder sides. Cut the rope. Mr Christmas will not mind." The men grinned, and set to work so handily that in a few moments Mike was securely bound. "Now then," said the constable, "I'll have one round his middle; give me a piece of rope; I'll soon do that." He seized the rope, and, without rising, rapidly secured it to one side of the ladder. "Now," he said, "raise that end." This was done, the rope passed under Mike, drawn up on the other side, hauled upon till Mike yelled for mercy, and then knotted twice. "There, my lads," said the constable, rising; "now turn him over." The ladder was seized, turned, and there lay Mike on his back, safely secured. "Here, undo these," he said, sullenly. "I'll walk." "Too late, Mike, my boy. Now then, a couple of men head and tail. Let the ladder hang at arm's length. Best have given in quietly, and not have made yourself a show, Mike." "Don't I tell you I'll walk?" growled the prisoner. "And let us have all our trouble for nothing? No, my lad, it's too late. Ready there! Up with him. Good morning, sir. March!" The men lent themselves eagerly to the task, for Mike was thoroughly disliked; and a few minutes later there was a crowd gathering and following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place known in Bristol as the lock-up. Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak. CHAPTER FIVE. A STUBBORN DISPOSITION. "Stop!" Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable, when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a pointing finger. From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered why his uncle did not say anything more about the money. But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued. A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and cry like a child if he attempted to explain. After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the	made at Mike, while Don felt a strange desire tingling in his veins as he longed to help as well. "I gives in," growled Mike. "I could chuck the whole lot on you outer winder, but I won't. It would only make it seem as if I was guilty, and it's not guilty, and so I tell you. Master says I took the money, and I says it was that young Don Lavington as is the thief. Come on, youngster. I'll talk to you when we're in the lock-up." Don looked wildly from Mike to his uncle, whose eyes were fixed on the constable. "Do you charge the boy too, sir?" Uncle Josiah was silent for some moments. "No! Not now!" Lindon's heart leapt at that word "_no_!" But it sank again at the "_not now_." "But the case is awkward, sir," said the constable. "After what this man has said we shall be obliged to take some notice of the matter." "'Bliged to? Course you will. Here, bring 'im along. Come on, mate. I can tell you stories all night now about my bygones. Keep up yer sperrits, and I daresay the magistrits 'll let you off pretty easy." "If there is any charge made against my young clerk," --Don winced, for his uncle did not say, "against my nephew," -- "I will be answerable for his appearance before the magistrates. That will be sufficient, I presume." "Yes, sir, I suppose that will do," said the constable. "But I s'pose it won't," said Mike. "He's the monkey and I'm only the cat. You've got to take him if you does your dooty, and master 'll be answerable for me." "Exactly," said the constable; "come along." "Nay, but this arn't fair, master. Take one, take all. You bring us both." "Come along." "If you don't bring that there young un too, I won't go," exclaimed the scoundrel, fiercely. _Click_! A short struggle, and then _click_ again, and Mike Bannock's hands were useless, but he threw himself down. "Fair play, fair play," he cried, savagely; "take one, take all. Are you going to charge him, master?" "Take the scoundrel away, Smithers, and once more I will be bail--before the magistrates, if necessary--for my clerk's appearance," cried Uncle Josiah, who was now out of patience. "Can I help?" "Well, sir, you could," said the constable, grimly; "but if you'd have in three or four of your men, and a short step ladder, we could soon carry him off." "No man sha'n't carry me off," roared Mike, as Jem ran out of the office with great alacrity, and returned in a very short time with three men and a stout ladder, about nine feet long. "That's the sort, Wimble," said the constable. "Didn't think of a rope, did you?" "Did I think of two ropes?" said Jem, grinning. "Ah!" ejaculated the constable.<\|quote\|>"Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly."</\|quote\|>"Take young Don Lavington too, then, and I will." "Get up, and walk quietly." "Not 'less you takes him." "Sorry to make a rumpus, sir," said the constable, apologetically; "but I must have him out." "The sooner the better," said Uncle Josiah, grimly. "I am ready to go, uncle," said Don, quietly. "I am not afraid." "Hold your tongue, sir!" said the merchant, sternly; "and stand out of the way." "Now, Mike," said the constable, "this is the third time of asking. Will you come quiet?" "Take him too," cried Mike. "Ready with those ropes, Wimble. You two, ready with that there. Now, Mike Bannock, you've been asked three times, and now you've got to mount that ladder." "Any man comes a-nigh me," roared Mike, "I'll--" He did not say what, for the constable dashed at him, and by an ingenious twist avoided a savage kick, threw the scoundrel over on his face, as he lay on the floor, and sat upon him, retaining his seat in spite of his struggles. "Step the first," said the constable, coolly. "Now, Wimble, I want that ladder passed under me, so as to lie right along on his back. Do you see?" "Yes, sir," cried Jem, eagerly; and taking the ladder as the constable sat astride the prostrate scoundrel, holding down his shoulders, and easing himself up, the ladder was passed between the officer's legs, and, in spite of a good deal of heaving, savage kicking, and one or two fierce attempts to bite, right along till it was upon Mike's back, projecting nearly two feet beyond his head and feet. "Murder!" yelled Mike, hoarsely. "What? Does it hurt, my lad? Never mind; you'll soon get used to it." The constable seated himself upon the ladder, whose sides and rounds thoroughly imprisoned the scoundrel in spite of his yells and struggles to get free. "Now then, Wimble, I've got him. You tie his ankles,	Don Lavington
"Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself."	Aladdin	said with a respectful air:<\|quote\|>"Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself."</\|quote\|>The princess, who knew nothing	they were alone; but only said with a respectful air:<\|quote\|>"Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself."</\|quote\|>The princess, who knew nothing of these particulars, gave very	instantly carried the vizier's son whither Aladdin had commanded him; and after he had breathed upon him, which prevented his stirring, left him there. Passionate as was Aladdin's love for the princess, he did not talk much to her when they were alone; but only said with a respectful air:<\|quote\|>"Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself."</\|quote\|>The princess, who knew nothing of these particulars, gave very little attention to what Aladdin could say. The fright and amazement of so surprising an adventure had alarmed her so much that he could not get one word from her. Badroulboudour never passed a night so ill in her life;	took them up and transported them in an instant to Aladdin's chamber, where he set them down. Aladdin had waited impatiently for this moment. "Take this new-married man," said he to the genie, "shut him up in the house of office, and come again to-morrow morning before daybreak." The genie instantly carried the vizier's son whither Aladdin had commanded him; and after he had breathed upon him, which prevented his stirring, left him there. Passionate as was Aladdin's love for the princess, he did not talk much to her when they were alone; but only said with a respectful air:<\|quote\|>"Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself."</\|quote\|>The princess, who knew nothing of these particulars, gave very little attention to what Aladdin could say. The fright and amazement of so surprising an adventure had alarmed her so much that he could not get one word from her. Badroulboudour never passed a night so ill in her life; and if we consider the condition in which the genie left the grand vizier's son, we may imagine that the new bridegroom spent it much worse. Aladdin had no occasion the next morning to rub the lamp to call the genie; who appeared at the hour appointed, and said to	wherein he had not the least concern; he then retired to his own chamber again, but sat up waiting the execution of his orders to the genie. In the meantime, everything was prepared with the greatest magnificence in the sultan's palace to celebrate the princess's nuptials; and the evening was spent with all the usual ceremonies and great rejoicings. No sooner had the bride and bridegroom slipped away from the company, however, than the genie, as the faithful slave of the lamp, and punctual in executing the command of those who possessed it, to the great amazement of them both, took them up and transported them in an instant to Aladdin's chamber, where he set them down. Aladdin had waited impatiently for this moment. "Take this new-married man," said he to the genie, "shut him up in the house of office, and come again to-morrow morning before daybreak." The genie instantly carried the vizier's son whither Aladdin had commanded him; and after he had breathed upon him, which prevented his stirring, left him there. Passionate as was Aladdin's love for the princess, he did not talk much to her when they were alone; but only said with a respectful air:<\|quote\|>"Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself."</\|quote\|>The princess, who knew nothing of these particulars, gave very little attention to what Aladdin could say. The fright and amazement of so surprising an adventure had alarmed her so much that he could not get one word from her. Badroulboudour never passed a night so ill in her life; and if we consider the condition in which the genie left the grand vizier's son, we may imagine that the new bridegroom spent it much worse. Aladdin had no occasion the next morning to rub the lamp to call the genie; who appeared at the hour appointed, and said to him: "I am here, master; what are your commands?" "Go," said Aladdin, "fetch the vizier's son out of the place where you left him, and carry the pair to the sultan's palace, from whence you brought them." The genie presently returned with the vizier's son, and in an instant they were transported into the same chamber of the palace from whence they had been brought. But we must observe, that all this time the genie never was visible either to the princess or the grand vizier's son. His hideous form would have made them die with fear. Neither did they	his chamber, he took the lamp, rubbed it in the same place as before, when immediately the genie appeared, and said to him: "What wouldst thou have? I am ready to obey thee as thy slave, and the slave of all those who have that lamp in their possession; I and the other slaves of the lamp." "Hear me," said Aladdin; "thou hast hitherto brought me whatever I wanted as to provisions; but now I have business of the greatest importance for thee to execute. I have demanded the Princess Badroulboudour in marriage of the sultan, her father; he promised her to me, only requiring three months' delay; but instead of keeping that promise, has this night planned to marry her to the grand vizier's son. What I ask of you is, that as soon as the two are made one, you bring them both hither to me." "Master," replied the genie, "I will obey you. Have you any other commands?" "None at present," answered Aladdin, and then the genie disappeared. Aladdin having left his chamber, supped with his mother, with the same tranquillity of mind as usual; and after supper talked of the princess's marriage as of an affair wherein he had not the least concern; he then retired to his own chamber again, but sat up waiting the execution of his orders to the genie. In the meantime, everything was prepared with the greatest magnificence in the sultan's palace to celebrate the princess's nuptials; and the evening was spent with all the usual ceremonies and great rejoicings. No sooner had the bride and bridegroom slipped away from the company, however, than the genie, as the faithful slave of the lamp, and punctual in executing the command of those who possessed it, to the great amazement of them both, took them up and transported them in an instant to Aladdin's chamber, where he set them down. Aladdin had waited impatiently for this moment. "Take this new-married man," said he to the genie, "shut him up in the house of office, and come again to-morrow morning before daybreak." The genie instantly carried the vizier's son whither Aladdin had commanded him; and after he had breathed upon him, which prevented his stirring, left him there. Passionate as was Aladdin's love for the princess, he did not talk much to her when they were alone; but only said with a respectful air:<\|quote\|>"Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself."</\|quote\|>The princess, who knew nothing of these particulars, gave very little attention to what Aladdin could say. The fright and amazement of so surprising an adventure had alarmed her so much that he could not get one word from her. Badroulboudour never passed a night so ill in her life; and if we consider the condition in which the genie left the grand vizier's son, we may imagine that the new bridegroom spent it much worse. Aladdin had no occasion the next morning to rub the lamp to call the genie; who appeared at the hour appointed, and said to him: "I am here, master; what are your commands?" "Go," said Aladdin, "fetch the vizier's son out of the place where you left him, and carry the pair to the sultan's palace, from whence you brought them." The genie presently returned with the vizier's son, and in an instant they were transported into the same chamber of the palace from whence they had been brought. But we must observe, that all this time the genie never was visible either to the princess or the grand vizier's son. His hideous form would have made them die with fear. Neither did they hear anything of the discourse between Aladdin and him; they only perceived the motion through the air, and their transportation from one place to another; which we may well imagine was enough to alarm them. The sultan went to the room of the princess next morning and kissed her between the eyes, according to custom, wishing her a good morrow, but was extremely surprised to see her so melancholy. She only cast at him a sorrowful look, expressive of great affliction. He said a few words to her; but finding that he could not get an answer, was forced to retire. Nevertheless, he suspected that there was something extraordinary in this silence, and thereupon went immediately to the sultaness's apartment, told her in what a state he had found the princess, and how she had received him. "Sir," said the sultaness, "I will go and see her; I am much deceived if she receives me in the same manner." As soon as the sultaness was dressed, she went to the princess's apartment, who was still in bed. She undrew the curtain, wished her good morrow, and kissed her. But how great was her surprise when she returned no answer; and	good success of which was of so great importance to his peace. When two of the three months were passed, his mother one evening going to light the lamp, and finding no oil in the house, went out to buy some, and when she came into the city, found a general rejoicing. The shops were open, dressed with foliage, silks, and carpeting, every one striving to shew their zeal in the most distinguished manner according to their ability. The streets were crowded with officers in habits of ceremony, mounted on horses richly caparisoned, each attended by a great many footmen. Aladdin's mother asked the oil-merchant what was the meaning of all this preparation of public festivity? "Whence come you, good woman," said he, "that you do not know that the grand vizier's son is to marry the Princess Badroulboudour, the sultan's daughter, to-night? She will presently return from the baths; and these officers whom you see are to assist at the cavalcade to the palace, where the ceremony is to be solemnised." This was news enough for Aladdin's mother. She ran till she was quite out of breath home to her son, who little suspected any such event. "Child," cried she, "you are undone! you depend upon the sultan's fine promises, but they will come to nothing." Aladdin was alarmed at these words. "Mother," replied he, "how do you know the sultan has been guilty of a breach of promise?" "This night," answered the mother, "the grand vizier's son is to marry the Princess Badroulboudour." She then related how she had heard it; so that he had no reason to doubt the truth of what she said. At this account, Aladdin was thunderstruck. Any other man would have sunk under the shock; but a sudden hope of disappointing his rival soon roused his spirits, and he bethought himself of the lamp, which had in every emergency been so useful to him; and without venting his rage in empty words against the sultan, the vizier, or his son, he only said: "Perhaps, mother, the vizier's son may not be so happy to-night as he promises himself: while I go into my chamber a moment, do you get supper ready." She accordingly went about it, but guessed that her son was going to make use of the lamp, to prevent, if possible, the consummation of the marriage. When Aladdin had got into his chamber, he took the lamp, rubbed it in the same place as before, when immediately the genie appeared, and said to him: "What wouldst thou have? I am ready to obey thee as thy slave, and the slave of all those who have that lamp in their possession; I and the other slaves of the lamp." "Hear me," said Aladdin; "thou hast hitherto brought me whatever I wanted as to provisions; but now I have business of the greatest importance for thee to execute. I have demanded the Princess Badroulboudour in marriage of the sultan, her father; he promised her to me, only requiring three months' delay; but instead of keeping that promise, has this night planned to marry her to the grand vizier's son. What I ask of you is, that as soon as the two are made one, you bring them both hither to me." "Master," replied the genie, "I will obey you. Have you any other commands?" "None at present," answered Aladdin, and then the genie disappeared. Aladdin having left his chamber, supped with his mother, with the same tranquillity of mind as usual; and after supper talked of the princess's marriage as of an affair wherein he had not the least concern; he then retired to his own chamber again, but sat up waiting the execution of his orders to the genie. In the meantime, everything was prepared with the greatest magnificence in the sultan's palace to celebrate the princess's nuptials; and the evening was spent with all the usual ceremonies and great rejoicings. No sooner had the bride and bridegroom slipped away from the company, however, than the genie, as the faithful slave of the lamp, and punctual in executing the command of those who possessed it, to the great amazement of them both, took them up and transported them in an instant to Aladdin's chamber, where he set them down. Aladdin had waited impatiently for this moment. "Take this new-married man," said he to the genie, "shut him up in the house of office, and come again to-morrow morning before daybreak." The genie instantly carried the vizier's son whither Aladdin had commanded him; and after he had breathed upon him, which prevented his stirring, left him there. Passionate as was Aladdin's love for the princess, he did not talk much to her when they were alone; but only said with a respectful air:<\|quote\|>"Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself."</\|quote\|>The princess, who knew nothing of these particulars, gave very little attention to what Aladdin could say. The fright and amazement of so surprising an adventure had alarmed her so much that he could not get one word from her. Badroulboudour never passed a night so ill in her life; and if we consider the condition in which the genie left the grand vizier's son, we may imagine that the new bridegroom spent it much worse. Aladdin had no occasion the next morning to rub the lamp to call the genie; who appeared at the hour appointed, and said to him: "I am here, master; what are your commands?" "Go," said Aladdin, "fetch the vizier's son out of the place where you left him, and carry the pair to the sultan's palace, from whence you brought them." The genie presently returned with the vizier's son, and in an instant they were transported into the same chamber of the palace from whence they had been brought. But we must observe, that all this time the genie never was visible either to the princess or the grand vizier's son. His hideous form would have made them die with fear. Neither did they hear anything of the discourse between Aladdin and him; they only perceived the motion through the air, and their transportation from one place to another; which we may well imagine was enough to alarm them. The sultan went to the room of the princess next morning and kissed her between the eyes, according to custom, wishing her a good morrow, but was extremely surprised to see her so melancholy. She only cast at him a sorrowful look, expressive of great affliction. He said a few words to her; but finding that he could not get an answer, was forced to retire. Nevertheless, he suspected that there was something extraordinary in this silence, and thereupon went immediately to the sultaness's apartment, told her in what a state he had found the princess, and how she had received him. "Sir," said the sultaness, "I will go and see her; I am much deceived if she receives me in the same manner." As soon as the sultaness was dressed, she went to the princess's apartment, who was still in bed. She undrew the curtain, wished her good morrow, and kissed her. But how great was her surprise when she returned no answer; and looking more attentively at her, she perceived her to be much dejected, which made her judge that something had happened, which she did not understand. "How comes it, child," said the sultaness, "that you do not return my caresses? Ought you to treat your mother after this manner? I am induced to believe something extraordinary has happened; come, tell me freely, and leave me no longer in a painful suspense." At last the princess broke silence with a deep sigh, and said: "Alas! most honoured mother, forgive me if I have failed in the respect I owe you. My mind is so full of the extraordinary circumstances which have befallen me that I have not yet recovered from my amazement and alarm." She then related her surprising adventures, which the sultaness heard very patiently, but could scarcely believe. "You did well, child," said she, "not to speak of this to your father: take care not to mention it to anybody; for you will certainly be thought mad if you talk in this manner." "Madam," replied the princess, "I can assure you I am in my right senses; ask my husband and he will tell you the same circumstances." "I will," said the sultaness; "but if he should talk in the same manner, I shall not be better persuaded of the truth. Come, rise, and throw off this idle fancy; it will be strange if all the feasts and rejoicings in the kingdom should be interrupted by such a vision. Do not you hear the trumpets of congratulation, and concerts of the finest music? Cannot these inspire you with joy and make you forget the fancies of a dream?" At the same time the sultaness called the princess's women, and after she had seen her get up, went to the sultan's apartment, told him that her daughter had got some odd notions in her head, but that there was nothing in them but idle phantasy. She then sent for the vizier's son, to know of him something of what the princess had told her; but he, thinking himself highly honoured to be allied to the sultan, and not willing to lose the princess, denied what had happened. "That is enough," answered the sultaness; "I ask no more. I see you are wiser than my daughter." The rejoicings lasted all that day in the palace, and the sultaness, who never left the	in their possession; I and the other slaves of the lamp." "Hear me," said Aladdin; "thou hast hitherto brought me whatever I wanted as to provisions; but now I have business of the greatest importance for thee to execute. I have demanded the Princess Badroulboudour in marriage of the sultan, her father; he promised her to me, only requiring three months' delay; but instead of keeping that promise, has this night planned to marry her to the grand vizier's son. What I ask of you is, that as soon as the two are made one, you bring them both hither to me." "Master," replied the genie, "I will obey you. Have you any other commands?" "None at present," answered Aladdin, and then the genie disappeared. Aladdin having left his chamber, supped with his mother, with the same tranquillity of mind as usual; and after supper talked of the princess's marriage as of an affair wherein he had not the least concern; he then retired to his own chamber again, but sat up waiting the execution of his orders to the genie. In the meantime, everything was prepared with the greatest magnificence in the sultan's palace to celebrate the princess's nuptials; and the evening was spent with all the usual ceremonies and great rejoicings. No sooner had the bride and bridegroom slipped away from the company, however, than the genie, as the faithful slave of the lamp, and punctual in executing the command of those who possessed it, to the great amazement of them both, took them up and transported them in an instant to Aladdin's chamber, where he set them down. Aladdin had waited impatiently for this moment. "Take this new-married man," said he to the genie, "shut him up in the house of office, and come again to-morrow morning before daybreak." The genie instantly carried the vizier's son whither Aladdin had commanded him; and after he had breathed upon him, which prevented his stirring, left him there. Passionate as was Aladdin's love for the princess, he did not talk much to her when they were alone; but only said with a respectful air:<\|quote\|>"Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself."</\|quote\|>The princess, who knew nothing of these particulars, gave very little attention to what Aladdin could say. The fright and amazement of so surprising an adventure had alarmed her so much that he could not get one word from her. Badroulboudour never passed a night so ill in her life; and if we consider the condition in which the genie left the grand vizier's son, we may imagine that the new bridegroom spent it much worse. Aladdin had no occasion the next morning to rub the lamp to call the genie; who appeared at the hour appointed, and said to him: "I am here, master; what are your commands?" "Go," said Aladdin, "fetch the vizier's son out of the place where you left him, and carry the pair to the sultan's palace, from whence you brought them." The genie presently returned with the vizier's son, and in an instant they were transported into the same chamber of the palace from whence they had been brought. But we must observe, that all this time the genie never was visible either to the princess or the grand vizier's son. His hideous form would have made them die with fear. Neither did they hear anything of the discourse between Aladdin and him; they only perceived the motion through the air, and their transportation from one place to another; which we may well imagine was enough to alarm them. The sultan went to the room of the princess next morning and kissed her between the eyes, according to custom, wishing her a good morrow, but was extremely surprised to see her so melancholy. She	Arabian Nights (4)
"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,"	Mr. Woodhouse	sure of meeting every day."<\|quote\|>"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,"</\|quote\|>said her father. "But, Mr.	a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day."<\|quote\|>"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,"</\|quote\|>said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very	you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day."<\|quote\|>"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,"</\|quote\|>said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion,"	any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer." "Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--" "you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day."<\|quote\|>"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,"</\|quote\|>said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley. "We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a	know--in a joke--it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another." Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body. "Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer." "Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--" "you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day."<\|quote\|>"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,"</\|quote\|>said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley. "We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married." "And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for	not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you all behave? Who cried most?" "Ah! poor Miss Taylor! 'Tis a sad business." "Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say" 'poor Miss Taylor.' "I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence!--At any rate, it must be better to have only one to please than two." "Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature!" said Emma playfully. "That is what you have in your head, I know--and what you would certainly say if my father were not by." "I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed," said Mr. Woodhouse, with a sigh. "I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome." "My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr. Knightley to mean _you_. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know--in a joke--it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another." Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body. "Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer." "Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--" "you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day."<\|quote\|>"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,"</\|quote\|>said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley. "We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married." "And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing." Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, "Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches." "I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such success, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject, but I believed none of it." "Ever since the day--about four years ago--that Miss Taylor and I met	and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner; and when you have had her here to do needlework, I observe she always turns the lock of the door the right way and never bangs it. I am sure she will be an excellent servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor to have somebody about her that she is used to see. Whenever James goes over to see his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us. He will be able to tell her how we all are." Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas, and hoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably through the evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own. The backgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards walked in and made it unnecessary. Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty, was not only a very old and intimate friend of the family, but particularly connected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella's husband. He lived about a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome, and at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly from their mutual connexions in London. He had returned to a late dinner, after some days' absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were well in Brunswick Square. It was a happy circumstance, and animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time. Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which always did him good; and his many inquiries after "poor Isabella" and her children were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over, Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, "It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call upon us. I am afraid you must have had a shocking walk." "Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I must draw back from your great fire." "But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you may not catch cold." "Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them." "Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at breakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding." "By the bye--I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you all behave? Who cried most?" "Ah! poor Miss Taylor! 'Tis a sad business." "Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say" 'poor Miss Taylor.' "I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence!--At any rate, it must be better to have only one to please than two." "Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature!" said Emma playfully. "That is what you have in your head, I know--and what you would certainly say if my father were not by." "I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed," said Mr. Woodhouse, with a sigh. "I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome." "My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr. Knightley to mean _you_. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know--in a joke--it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another." Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body. "Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer." "Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--" "you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day."<\|quote\|>"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,"</\|quote\|>said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley. "We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married." "And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing." Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, "Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches." "I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such success, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject, but I believed none of it." "Ever since the day--about four years ago--that Miss Taylor and I met with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from Farmer Mitchell's, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned the match from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this instance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off match-making." "I do not understand what you mean by 'success,'" said Mr. Knightley. "Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly and delicately spent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring about this marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady's mind! But if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it, means only your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, 'I think it would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were to marry her,' and saying it again to yourself every now and then afterwards, why do you talk of success? Where is your merit? What are you proud of? You made a lucky guess; and _that_ is all that can be said." "And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky guess?--I pity you.--I thought you cleverer--for, depend upon it a lucky guess is never merely luck. There is always some talent in it. And as to my poor word 'success,' which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so entirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty pictures; but I think there may be a third--a something between the do-nothing and the do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston's visits here, and given many little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it might not have come to any thing after all. I think you must know Hartfield enough to comprehend that." "A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational, unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their own concerns. You are more likely to have done harm to yourself, than good to them, by interference." "Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others," rejoined Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part. "But, my dear, pray do not make any more matches; they are silly things, and break up one's family circle grievously." "Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton.	sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I must draw back from your great fire." "But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you may not catch cold." "Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them." "Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at breakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding." "By the bye--I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you all behave? Who cried most?" "Ah! poor Miss Taylor! 'Tis a sad business." "Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say" 'poor Miss Taylor.' "I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence!--At any rate, it must be better to have only one to please than two." "Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature!" said Emma playfully. "That is what you have in your head, I know--and what you would certainly say if my father were not by." "I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed," said Mr. Woodhouse, with a sigh. "I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome." "My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr. Knightley to mean _you_. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know--in a joke--it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another." Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body. "Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer." "Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--" "you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day."<\|quote\|>"Dear Emma bears every thing so well,"</\|quote\|>said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for." Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley. "We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married." "And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing." Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, "Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches." "I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such success, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject, but I believed none of it." "Ever since the day--about four years ago--that Miss Taylor and I met with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas	Emma
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.	No speaker	then stood watching and listening.<\|quote\|>CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.</\|quote\|>CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible,	in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening.<\|quote\|>CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.</\|quote\|>CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem.	came from below them in the ravine. "Oh, crumpets!" exclaimed Jem. "Now we're done for. All that long swim for nothing." "Back into the cave," whispered Don. "Perhaps they have not seen us." He gave Jem a thrust, they backed in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening.<\|quote\|>CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.</\|quote\|>CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I arn't," muttered Jem. "You might cut him up like a heel; legs and arms and body, and every bit of him would try and do you a mischief." "I'm afraid, though, that he knew	been so bad that I haven't made a comf'table meal for days, so here goes.'" "And then he'd eat me, Jem." "That's so, my lad." "Ah, well, this isn't a tiger, Jem." "Why, he's wuss than a tiger, Mas' Don; because he do know better, and tigers don't." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came from below them in the ravine. "Oh, crumpets!" exclaimed Jem. "Now we're done for. All that long swim for nothing." "Back into the cave," whispered Don. "Perhaps they have not seen us." He gave Jem a thrust, they backed in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening.<\|quote\|>CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.</\|quote\|>CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I arn't," muttered Jem. "You might cut him up like a heel; legs and arms and body, and every bit of him would try and do you a mischief." "I'm afraid, though, that he knew we were in here, and that as soon as he comes to, he'll tell the others." "Not he. It was only his gammon to frighten us into speaking if we were there." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came again from below; and then from a distance came another hail, which the same voice	very far off." "I say, Mas' Don, did our ugly swim last night send you half mad?" "Mad? No!" "Then, p'r'aps it's because you had no sleep. Here's a chap comes hunting of us down with a cutlash, ready to do anything; and now he's floored and we're all right, you want to make a pet on him. Why, it's my belief that if you met a tiger with the toothache you'd want to take out his tusk." "Very likely, Jem," said Don, laughing. "Ah, and as soon as you'd done it, `thankye, my lad,' says the tiger, `that tooth's been so bad that I haven't made a comf'table meal for days, so here goes.'" "And then he'd eat me, Jem." "That's so, my lad." "Ah, well, this isn't a tiger, Jem." "Why, he's wuss than a tiger, Mas' Don; because he do know better, and tigers don't." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came from below them in the ravine. "Oh, crumpets!" exclaimed Jem. "Now we're done for. All that long swim for nothing." "Back into the cave," whispered Don. "Perhaps they have not seen us." He gave Jem a thrust, they backed in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening.<\|quote\|>CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.</\|quote\|>CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I arn't," muttered Jem. "You might cut him up like a heel; legs and arms and body, and every bit of him would try and do you a mischief." "I'm afraid, though, that he knew we were in here, and that as soon as he comes to, he'll tell the others." "Not he. It was only his gammon to frighten us into speaking if we were there." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came again from below; and then from a distance came another hail, which the same voice answered--evidently from some distance below the mouth of the cave. "Ramsden! Here, my man; come along, they're not in there." "Hear that, Jem? Mr Jones." "Oh yes, I hear," growled Jem. "He don't know yet; but wait a bit till old Ram tells him." "We couldn't slip out yet, Jem?" "No; o' course not. They'd see us now. Look!" Jem was about to draw back, but feeling that a movement might betray them, Don held him fast, and they stood there in the shadow of the cave, looking on, for the boatswain's head appeared as he drew himself up the	let's roll up one of these here blanket things and make him a pillow, and cover him up with the other, poor fellow, so as he may get better and go and tell 'em we're here." "Don't talk like that, Jem!" cried Don. "Why not? Soon as he gets better he'll try and do us all the harm he can." "Poor fellow! I'm afraid he's dead," whispered Don. "Then he won't want no more cutlashes and pistols," said Jem, coolly appropriating the arms; "these here will be useful to us." "But they are the king's property, Jem." "Ah! Well, I dessay if the king knew how bad we wanted 'em, he'd lend 'em to us. He shall have 'em again when we've done with them." As he spoke Jem helped himself to the ammunition, and then stood looking on as Don dragged Ramsden's head round, so that the wind blew in his face. "How I should like to jump on him!" growled Jem. "I hate him like poison, and I would if I'd got on a pair o' boots. Shouldn't hurt him a bit like this." "Don't talk nonsense, Jem. Mr Jones might hear us. Let's hail; he can't be very far off." "I say, Mas' Don, did our ugly swim last night send you half mad?" "Mad? No!" "Then, p'r'aps it's because you had no sleep. Here's a chap comes hunting of us down with a cutlash, ready to do anything; and now he's floored and we're all right, you want to make a pet on him. Why, it's my belief that if you met a tiger with the toothache you'd want to take out his tusk." "Very likely, Jem," said Don, laughing. "Ah, and as soon as you'd done it, `thankye, my lad,' says the tiger, `that tooth's been so bad that I haven't made a comf'table meal for days, so here goes.'" "And then he'd eat me, Jem." "That's so, my lad." "Ah, well, this isn't a tiger, Jem." "Why, he's wuss than a tiger, Mas' Don; because he do know better, and tigers don't." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came from below them in the ravine. "Oh, crumpets!" exclaimed Jem. "Now we're done for. All that long swim for nothing." "Back into the cave," whispered Don. "Perhaps they have not seen us." He gave Jem a thrust, they backed in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening.<\|quote\|>CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.</\|quote\|>CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I arn't," muttered Jem. "You might cut him up like a heel; legs and arms and body, and every bit of him would try and do you a mischief." "I'm afraid, though, that he knew we were in here, and that as soon as he comes to, he'll tell the others." "Not he. It was only his gammon to frighten us into speaking if we were there." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came again from below; and then from a distance came another hail, which the same voice answered--evidently from some distance below the mouth of the cave. "Ramsden! Here, my man; come along, they're not in there." "Hear that, Jem? Mr Jones." "Oh yes, I hear," growled Jem. "He don't know yet; but wait a bit till old Ram tells him." "We couldn't slip out yet, Jem?" "No; o' course not. They'd see us now. Look!" Jem was about to draw back, but feeling that a movement might betray them, Don held him fast, and they stood there in the shadow of the cave, looking on, for the boatswain's head appeared as he drew himself up the precipitous place, and then stepped on the shelf. "Here, come out, sir! Are you asleep? Hah!" He caught sight of the prostrate sailor, and bent down over him. "Why, Ramsden, man!" he cried, as he tore open his sailor's shirt and placed his hand upon his throat. Then, starting up, he sent forth a tremendous hail. "Ahoy!" "Ahoy!" came back from several places, like the echoes of his call. "Come on here! Quick!" he shouted, with his hands to his mouth. "Ahoy!" came from a distance; and from nearer at hand, "Ay, ay, sir; ay, ay!" From where Don and Jem stood they could see the boatswain's every movement, as, after once more feeling the sailor's throat and wrist, he bent over him and poured water from his bottle between his lips, bathed his forehead and eyes, and then fanned him with his hat, but without effect. Then he looked out anxiously and hailed again, the replies coming from close by; and soon after first one and then another sailor, whose faces were quite familiar, climbed up to the shelf, when the boatswain explained hastily how he had left his companion. "Some one knocked him down?" said one of his	He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying." "I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice," said Jem, with a chuckle. "What shall us do?" "Do?" cried Don. "We must help him." "What, get him out? If we do, he'll be down on us." "We can't help that, Jem. We must not leave a fellow-creature to die," replied Don; and hurrying forward, he gave a glance toward the mouth of the cave, to satisfy himself that the good-natured boatswain was not there, and then, holding his breath, he stooped down and raised Ramsden into a sitting posture, Jem coming forward at once to help him. "Goes ag'in the grain, Mas' Don," he muttered; "but I s'pose we must." "Must? Yes! Now, what shall we do?" "Dunno," said Jem; "s'pose fresh air'd be best for him." "Let's get him to the mouth, then," said Don. "But the boatswain 'll see us, and we shall be took." "I can't help that, Jem; the man will die here." "Well, we don't want him. He's a hennymee." "Jem!" "Oh, all right, Mas' Don. I'll do as you say, but as I says, and I says it again, it goes ag'in the grain." They each took one hand and placed their arms beneath those of the prostrate man; and, little as they stooped, they inhaled sufficient of the powerful gas to make them wince and cough; but, rising upright, taking a full breath and starting off, they dragged Ramsden backwards as rapidly as they could to where the fresh air blew into the mouth of the cave, and there they laid the man down. But before doing so, Don went upon his knees, and placing his face close to the rocky floor, inhaled the air several times. "It seems all right here," he said. "Try it, Jem." "Oh! I'll try it," said Jem, grumpily; "only I don't see why we should take so much trouble about such a thing as this." "Yes; it's all right," he said, after puffing and blowing down by the ground. "Rum, arn't it, that the air should be bad yonder and not close in here!" "The cave goes downward," said Don; "and the foul air lies in the bottom, just as it does in a well. Do you think he's dead?" "Him dead!" said Jem, contemptuously; "I don't believe you could kill a thing like that. Here, let's roll up one of these here blanket things and make him a pillow, and cover him up with the other, poor fellow, so as he may get better and go and tell 'em we're here." "Don't talk like that, Jem!" cried Don. "Why not? Soon as he gets better he'll try and do us all the harm he can." "Poor fellow! I'm afraid he's dead," whispered Don. "Then he won't want no more cutlashes and pistols," said Jem, coolly appropriating the arms; "these here will be useful to us." "But they are the king's property, Jem." "Ah! Well, I dessay if the king knew how bad we wanted 'em, he'd lend 'em to us. He shall have 'em again when we've done with them." As he spoke Jem helped himself to the ammunition, and then stood looking on as Don dragged Ramsden's head round, so that the wind blew in his face. "How I should like to jump on him!" growled Jem. "I hate him like poison, and I would if I'd got on a pair o' boots. Shouldn't hurt him a bit like this." "Don't talk nonsense, Jem. Mr Jones might hear us. Let's hail; he can't be very far off." "I say, Mas' Don, did our ugly swim last night send you half mad?" "Mad? No!" "Then, p'r'aps it's because you had no sleep. Here's a chap comes hunting of us down with a cutlash, ready to do anything; and now he's floored and we're all right, you want to make a pet on him. Why, it's my belief that if you met a tiger with the toothache you'd want to take out his tusk." "Very likely, Jem," said Don, laughing. "Ah, and as soon as you'd done it, `thankye, my lad,' says the tiger, `that tooth's been so bad that I haven't made a comf'table meal for days, so here goes.'" "And then he'd eat me, Jem." "That's so, my lad." "Ah, well, this isn't a tiger, Jem." "Why, he's wuss than a tiger, Mas' Don; because he do know better, and tigers don't." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came from below them in the ravine. "Oh, crumpets!" exclaimed Jem. "Now we're done for. All that long swim for nothing." "Back into the cave," whispered Don. "Perhaps they have not seen us." He gave Jem a thrust, they backed in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening.<\|quote\|>CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.</\|quote\|>CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I arn't," muttered Jem. "You might cut him up like a heel; legs and arms and body, and every bit of him would try and do you a mischief." "I'm afraid, though, that he knew we were in here, and that as soon as he comes to, he'll tell the others." "Not he. It was only his gammon to frighten us into speaking if we were there." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came again from below; and then from a distance came another hail, which the same voice answered--evidently from some distance below the mouth of the cave. "Ramsden! Here, my man; come along, they're not in there." "Hear that, Jem? Mr Jones." "Oh yes, I hear," growled Jem. "He don't know yet; but wait a bit till old Ram tells him." "We couldn't slip out yet, Jem?" "No; o' course not. They'd see us now. Look!" Jem was about to draw back, but feeling that a movement might betray them, Don held him fast, and they stood there in the shadow of the cave, looking on, for the boatswain's head appeared as he drew himself up the precipitous place, and then stepped on the shelf. "Here, come out, sir! Are you asleep? Hah!" He caught sight of the prostrate sailor, and bent down over him. "Why, Ramsden, man!" he cried, as he tore open his sailor's shirt and placed his hand upon his throat. Then, starting up, he sent forth a tremendous hail. "Ahoy!" "Ahoy!" came back from several places, like the echoes of his call. "Come on here! Quick!" he shouted, with his hands to his mouth. "Ahoy!" came from a distance; and from nearer at hand, "Ay, ay, sir; ay, ay!" From where Don and Jem stood they could see the boatswain's every movement, as, after once more feeling the sailor's throat and wrist, he bent over him and poured water from his bottle between his lips, bathed his forehead and eyes, and then fanned him with his hat, but without effect. Then he looked out anxiously and hailed again, the replies coming from close by; and soon after first one and then another sailor, whose faces were quite familiar, climbed up to the shelf, when the boatswain explained hastily how he had left his companion. "Some one knocked him down?" said one of his men. "No; he's not hurt. I should say it's a fit. More water. Don't be afraid!" Each of the men who had climbed up carried a supply, and a quantity was dashed over Ramsden's face with the effect that he began to display signs of returning consciousness, and at last sat up and stared. "What's matter, mate?" said one of the men, as Don prepared to hurry back into the darkness, but longed to hear what Ramsden would say. It was a painful moment, for upon his words seemed to depend their safety. "Matter? I don't know--I--" He put his hand to his head. "Here, take a drink o' this, mate," said one of the men, and Ramsden swallowed some water with avidity. "Arn't seen a ghost, have you?" "I recollect now, Mr Jones. You left me in that hole." "And called to you to come out." "Yes, but--" Don's heart beat furiously. They were discovered, and now the betrayal was to come. "Well, what happened?" said the boatswain. "I felt sure that those two were in this place, and I went on farther into the darkness till I kicked against something and fell down." "Out here and stunned yourself." "No, no; in there! I'd got up and picked up my cutlash, and then something seemed to choke me, and I went down again." Jem squeezed Don's arm, for they both felt more hopeful. "And then one of they chaps came and give you a crack on the head?" said a sailor. Don's heart sank again. "Nonsense!" said his old friend, the boatswain. "Foul air. He must have staggered out and fallen down insensible." Jem gripped Don's arm with painful force here. "How do you feel? Can you walk?" Ramsden rose slowly, and staggered, but one of the men caught his arm. "I--I think I can." "Well, we must get you down to the boat as soon as we can walk, if you are able. If you can't, we must carry you." "But them chaps," said one of the party, just as Don and Jem were beginning to breathe freely. "Think they're in yonder, mate?" "I--I think so," said Ramsden faintly. "You had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?" said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief. "Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could the escaped men? Here, let's get him down." "Ay, ay, sir.	him!" growled Jem. "I hate him like poison, and I would if I'd got on a pair o' boots. Shouldn't hurt him a bit like this." "Don't talk nonsense, Jem. Mr Jones might hear us. Let's hail; he can't be very far off." "I say, Mas' Don, did our ugly swim last night send you half mad?" "Mad? No!" "Then, p'r'aps it's because you had no sleep. Here's a chap comes hunting of us down with a cutlash, ready to do anything; and now he's floored and we're all right, you want to make a pet on him. Why, it's my belief that if you met a tiger with the toothache you'd want to take out his tusk." "Very likely, Jem," said Don, laughing. "Ah, and as soon as you'd done it, `thankye, my lad,' says the tiger, `that tooth's been so bad that I haven't made a comf'table meal for days, so here goes.'" "And then he'd eat me, Jem." "That's so, my lad." "Ah, well, this isn't a tiger, Jem." "Why, he's wuss than a tiger, Mas' Don; because he do know better, and tigers don't." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came from below them in the ravine. "Oh, crumpets!" exclaimed Jem. "Now we're done for. All that long swim for nothing." "Back into the cave," whispered Don. "Perhaps they have not seen us." He gave Jem a thrust, they backed in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening.<\|quote\|>CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.</\|quote\|>CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I arn't," muttered Jem. "You might cut him up like a heel; legs and arms and body, and every bit of him would try and do you a mischief." "I'm afraid, though, that he knew we were in here, and that as soon as he comes to, he'll tell the others." "Not he. It was only his gammon to frighten us into speaking if we were there." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came again from below; and then from a distance came another hail, which the same voice answered--evidently from some distance below the mouth of the cave. "Ramsden! Here, my man; come along, they're not in there." "Hear that, Jem? Mr Jones." "Oh yes, I hear," growled Jem. "He don't know yet; but wait a bit till old Ram tells him." "We couldn't slip out yet, Jem?" "No; o' course not. They'd see us now. Look!" Jem was about to draw back, but feeling that a movement might betray them, Don held him fast, and they stood there in the shadow of the cave, looking on, for the boatswain's head appeared as he drew himself up the precipitous	Don Lavington
"Good night."	Tony Last	so tired. Good night, darling."<\|quote\|>"Good night."</\|quote\|>* * * * *	to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling."<\|quote\|>"Good night."</\|quote\|>* * * * * "Can I go and say	tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling."<\|quote\|>"Good night."</\|quote\|>* * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe,	to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more." "She's awful." "One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling."<\|quote\|>"Good night."</\|quote\|>* * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the	her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more." "She's awful." "One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling."<\|quote\|>"Good night."</\|quote\|>* * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the handles of the door, half in, half out of the room. "Have you had breakfast? Mummy said you wouldn't be awake." "I've been awake a long time. You see I was once very badly hurt, and now I don't always sleep well. Even the softest beds are too hard for me now." "Ooh. What did you do? Was it a motor-car accident?" "Not an accident, Johnny-boy, not an accident... but come in. It's cold with the door open. Look, there are some grapes here. Would you like to eat them?" Johnny climbed on to the bed. "What are you going	she said, "making the whole place stink." "Don't you like it? _I_ think it's lovely." Brenda took Polly up to Lyonesse. It was a large suite, fitted up with satinwood for King Edward when, as Prince of Wales, he was once expected at a shooting party; he never came. "How's it going?" she asked anxiously. "Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right." "She's got the wrong chap. John Andrew's mad about her... quite embarrassing." "I should say Tony was a slow starter. It's a pity she's got his name wrong. Ought we to tell her?" "No, let's leave it." When they were dressing, Tony said, "Brenda, who _is_ this joke-woman?" "Darling, don't you like her?" The disappointment and distress in her tone were so clear that Tony was touched. "I don't know about not liking her exactly. She's just a joke, isn't she?" "Is she... oh dear... She's had a terrible life, you know." "So I gathered." "Be nice to her, Tony, please." "Oh, I'll be nice to her. Is she a Jewess?" "I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is." Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more." "She's awful." "One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling."<\|quote\|>"Good night."</\|quote\|>* * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the handles of the door, half in, half out of the room. "Have you had breakfast? Mummy said you wouldn't be awake." "I've been awake a long time. You see I was once very badly hurt, and now I don't always sleep well. Even the softest beds are too hard for me now." "Ooh. What did you do? Was it a motor-car accident?" "Not an accident, Johnny-boy, not an accident... but come in. It's cold with the door open. Look, there are some grapes here. Would you like to eat them?" Johnny climbed on to the bed. "What are you going to do to-day?" "I don't know yet. I haven't been told." "Well, I'll tell you. We'll go to church in the morning because I have to and then we'll go and look at Thunderclap and I'll show you the place we jump and then you can come with me while I have dinner because I have it early and afterwards we can go down to Bruton Wood and we needn't take nanny because it makes her so muddy and you can see where they dug out a fox in the drain just outside the wood, he nearly got away, and then you can come and have tea in the nursery and I've got a little gramophone Uncle Reggie gave me for Christmas and it plays "When Father Papered the Parlour", do you know that song? Ben can sing it and I've got some books to show you and a picture I did of the battle of Marston Moor." "I think that sounds a lovely day. But don't you think I ought to spend some time with daddy and mummy and Lady Cockpurse?" "Oh, _them_... besides, it's all my foot about Lady Cockpurse having a tail. Please, you _will_ spend the	stopped painting my picture." But when nanny came to fetch him, John, without invitation, went over and kissed Jenny good night. "Good night, Johnny-boy," she said. "What did you call me?" "Johnny-boy." "You are funny with names." Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said, "Nanny, I do think that Princess is beautiful, don't you?" Nanny sniffed. "It would be a dull world if we all thought alike," she said. "She's more beautiful than Miss Tendril, even. I think she's the most beautiful lady I've ever seen... D'you think she'd like to watch me have my bath?" Downstairs, Jenny said, "What a heavenly child... I love children. That has been my great tragedy. It was when he found I couldn't have children that the Moulay first showed the Other Side of his Nature. It wasn't my fault... you see my womb is out of place... I don't know why I'm telling you all this, but I feel you'll understand. It's such a _waste of time_, isn't it, when one knows one is going to like someone and one goes on _pretending_... I know at once if someone is going to be a real friend..." Polly and Brenda arrived just before seven. Brenda went straight up to the nursery. "Oh, mummy," said John, "there's such a beautiful lady downstairs. Do ask her to come and say good night. Nanny doesn't think she'd want to." "Did daddy seem to like her?" "He didn't talk much... She doesn't know anything about horses or natives but she _is_ beautiful. Please tell her to come up." Brenda went downstairs and found Jenny with Polly and Tony in the smoking-room. "You've made a wild success with John Andrew. He won't go to sleep until he's seen you again." They went up together, and Jenny said, "They're both such dears." "Did you and Tony get on? I was so sorry not to be here when you arrived." "He was _so_ sympathetic and gentle... and so wistful." They sat on John's small bed in the night-nursery. He threw the clothes back and crawled out, nestling against Jenny. "Back to bed," she said, "or I shall spank you." "Would you do it hard? I shouldn't mind." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what a terrible effect you seem to have. He's never like this as a rule." When they had gone nanny threw open another window. "Poof!" she said, "making the whole place stink." "Don't you like it? _I_ think it's lovely." Brenda took Polly up to Lyonesse. It was a large suite, fitted up with satinwood for King Edward when, as Prince of Wales, he was once expected at a shooting party; he never came. "How's it going?" she asked anxiously. "Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right." "She's got the wrong chap. John Andrew's mad about her... quite embarrassing." "I should say Tony was a slow starter. It's a pity she's got his name wrong. Ought we to tell her?" "No, let's leave it." When they were dressing, Tony said, "Brenda, who _is_ this joke-woman?" "Darling, don't you like her?" The disappointment and distress in her tone were so clear that Tony was touched. "I don't know about not liking her exactly. She's just a joke, isn't she?" "Is she... oh dear... She's had a terrible life, you know." "So I gathered." "Be nice to her, Tony, please." "Oh, I'll be nice to her. Is she a Jewess?" "I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is." Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more." "She's awful." "One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling."<\|quote\|>"Good night."</\|quote\|>* * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the handles of the door, half in, half out of the room. "Have you had breakfast? Mummy said you wouldn't be awake." "I've been awake a long time. You see I was once very badly hurt, and now I don't always sleep well. Even the softest beds are too hard for me now." "Ooh. What did you do? Was it a motor-car accident?" "Not an accident, Johnny-boy, not an accident... but come in. It's cold with the door open. Look, there are some grapes here. Would you like to eat them?" Johnny climbed on to the bed. "What are you going to do to-day?" "I don't know yet. I haven't been told." "Well, I'll tell you. We'll go to church in the morning because I have to and then we'll go and look at Thunderclap and I'll show you the place we jump and then you can come with me while I have dinner because I have it early and afterwards we can go down to Bruton Wood and we needn't take nanny because it makes her so muddy and you can see where they dug out a fox in the drain just outside the wood, he nearly got away, and then you can come and have tea in the nursery and I've got a little gramophone Uncle Reggie gave me for Christmas and it plays "When Father Papered the Parlour", do you know that song? Ben can sing it and I've got some books to show you and a picture I did of the battle of Marston Moor." "I think that sounds a lovely day. But don't you think I ought to spend some time with daddy and mummy and Lady Cockpurse?" "Oh, _them_... besides, it's all my foot about Lady Cockpurse having a tail. Please, you _will_ spend the day with me?" "Well, we'll see." * * * * * "She's gone to church with him. That's a good sign, isn't it?" "Well, not really, Polly. He likes going alone, or with me. It's the time he gossips to the village." "She won't stop him." "I'm afraid you don't understand the old boy altogether. He's much odder than you'd think." * * * * * "I could see from your sermon that you knew the East, Rector." "Yes, yes, most of my life." "It has an uncanny fascination, hasn't it?" "Oh, come on," said John, pulling at her coat. "We must go and see Thunderclap." So Tony returned alone with the buttonholes. After luncheon Brenda said, "Why don't you show Jenny the house?" "Oh yes, _do_." When they reached the morning-room he said, "Brenda's having it done up." There were planks and ladders and heaps of plaster about. "Oh, Teddy, what a shame. I do hate seeing things modernized." "It isn't a room we used very much." "No, but still..." She stirred the mouldings of fleur-de-lis that littered the floor, fragments of tarnished gilding and dusty stencil-work. "You know, Brenda's been a wonderful friend to me. I wouldn't say anything against her... but ever since I came here I've been wondering whether she really understands this beautiful place and all it means to you." "Tell me more about your terrible life," said Tony, leading her back to the central hall. "You _are_ shy of talking about yourself, aren't you, Teddy? It's a mistake, you know, to keep things bottled up. I've been very unhappy too." Tony looked about him desperately in search of help; and help came. "Oh, there you are," said a firm, child's voice. "Come on. We're going down to the woods now. We must hurry, otherwise it will be dark." "Oh, Johnny-boy, must I really? I was just talking to daddy." "_Come on._ It's all arranged. And afterwards you're to be allowed to have tea with me upstairs." Tony crept into the library, habitable to-day, since the workmen were at rest. Brenda found him there two hours later. "_Tony_, here all alone? We thought you were with Jenny. What have you done with her?" "John took her off... just in time before I said something rude." "Oh dear... well there's only me and Polly in the smoking-room. Come and have some tea. You look all funny--have	just before seven. Brenda went straight up to the nursery. "Oh, mummy," said John, "there's such a beautiful lady downstairs. Do ask her to come and say good night. Nanny doesn't think she'd want to." "Did daddy seem to like her?" "He didn't talk much... She doesn't know anything about horses or natives but she _is_ beautiful. Please tell her to come up." Brenda went downstairs and found Jenny with Polly and Tony in the smoking-room. "You've made a wild success with John Andrew. He won't go to sleep until he's seen you again." They went up together, and Jenny said, "They're both such dears." "Did you and Tony get on? I was so sorry not to be here when you arrived." "He was _so_ sympathetic and gentle... and so wistful." They sat on John's small bed in the night-nursery. He threw the clothes back and crawled out, nestling against Jenny. "Back to bed," she said, "or I shall spank you." "Would you do it hard? I shouldn't mind." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what a terrible effect you seem to have. He's never like this as a rule." When they had gone nanny threw open another window. "Poof!" she said, "making the whole place stink." "Don't you like it? _I_ think it's lovely." Brenda took Polly up to Lyonesse. It was a large suite, fitted up with satinwood for King Edward when, as Prince of Wales, he was once expected at a shooting party; he never came. "How's it going?" she asked anxiously. "Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right." "She's got the wrong chap. John Andrew's mad about her... quite embarrassing." "I should say Tony was a slow starter. It's a pity she's got his name wrong. Ought we to tell her?" "No, let's leave it." When they were dressing, Tony said, "Brenda, who _is_ this joke-woman?" "Darling, don't you like her?" The disappointment and distress in her tone were so clear that Tony was touched. "I don't know about not liking her exactly. She's just a joke, isn't she?" "Is she... oh dear... She's had a terrible life, you know." "So I gathered." "Be nice to her, Tony, please." "Oh, I'll be nice to her. Is she a Jewess?" "I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is." Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed, "Leave the young couple to it," she whispered outside the door. "My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good... the poor old boy's got _some_ taste you know, and a sense of humour." "She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?" "She will _go on_ so... and, after all, Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change." * * * * * "Tired?" "Mmm. Little bit." "You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar." "I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed... Was it awful? I wish you liked her more." "She's awful." "One has to make allowances... she's got the most terrible scars." "So she told me." "I've seen them." "Besides, I hoped to see something of you." "Oh." "Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?" "No, sweet, do I seem angry?" "...I don't know. You do rather... Has it been an amusing week?" "Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism, you know." "Oh, yes... well, I suppose you want to go to sleep." "Mm... so tired. Good night, darling."<\|quote\|>"Good night."</\|quote\|>* * * * * "Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?" "I don't expect she's awake yet." "Please, mummy, may I go and see? I'll just peep and, if she's asleep, go away." "I don't know what room she's in." "Galahad, my lady," said Grimshawe, who was putting out her clothes. "Oh dear, why was she put there?" "It was Mr Last's orders, my lady." "Well, she's probably awake, then." John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. "May I come in?" "Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in." He swung on the handles of the door, half in, half out of the room. "Have you had breakfast? Mummy said you wouldn't be awake." "I've been awake a long time. You see I was once very badly hurt, and now I don't always sleep well. Even the softest beds are too hard for me now." "Ooh. What did you do? Was it a motor-car accident?" "Not an accident, Johnny-boy, not an accident... but come in. It's cold with the door open. Look, there are some grapes here. Would you like to eat them?" Johnny climbed on to the bed. "What are you going to do to-day?" "I don't know yet. I haven't been told." "Well, I'll tell you. We'll go to church in the morning because I have to and then we'll go and look at Thunderclap and I'll show you the place we jump and then you can come with me while I have dinner because I have it early and afterwards we can go down to Bruton Wood and we needn't take nanny because it makes her so muddy and you can see where they dug out a fox in the drain just outside the wood, he nearly got away, and then you can come and have tea in the nursery and I've got a little gramophone Uncle Reggie gave me for Christmas and it plays "When Father Papered the Parlour", do you know that song? Ben can sing it and I've got some books to show you and a picture I did of the battle of Marston Moor." "I think that sounds a lovely day. But don't you think I ought	A Handful Of Dust
Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?'	No speaker	about you, not to you."<\|quote\|>Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?'</\|quote\|>"he asks." As Mrs. Pontellier	to end?" "It was written about you, not to you."<\|quote\|>Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?'</\|quote\|>"he asks." As Mrs. Pontellier says,' "or" as Mrs. Pontellier	to end." "Let me see it," requested the young woman, entreatingly. "No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one to whom it is written." "Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?" "It was written about you, not to you."<\|quote\|>Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?'</\|quote\|>"he asks." As Mrs. Pontellier says,' "or" as Mrs. Pontellier once said.' If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play for her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it	the City of Mexico." "Wrote to _you_?" repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently. "Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your coffee; drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end." "Let me see it," requested the young woman, entreatingly. "No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one to whom it is written." "Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?" "It was written about you, not to you."<\|quote\|>Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?'</\|quote\|>"he asks." As Mrs. Pontellier says,' "or" as Mrs. Pontellier once said.' If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play for her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it affects her,' "and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each other's society." "Let me see the letter." "Oh, no." "Have you answered it?" "No." "Let me see the letter." "No, and again, no." "Then play the Impromptu for me." "It is growing late; what time do	region of the gasoline stove and rewarding her guest with the promised cup of coffee. The coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved very acceptable to Edna, who had declined refreshment at Madame Lebrun's and was now beginning to feel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which she brought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself once again on the lumpy sofa. "I have had a letter from your friend," she remarked, as she poured a little cream into Edna's cup and handed it to her. "My friend?" "Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico." "Wrote to _you_?" repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently. "Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your coffee; drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end." "Let me see it," requested the young woman, entreatingly. "No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one to whom it is written." "Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?" "It was written about you, not to you."<\|quote\|>Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?'</\|quote\|>"he asks." As Mrs. Pontellier says,' "or" as Mrs. Pontellier once said.' If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play for her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it affects her,' "and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each other's society." "Let me see the letter." "Oh, no." "Have you answered it?" "No." "Let me see the letter." "No, and again, no." "Then play the Impromptu for me." "It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?" "Time doesn't concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the Impromptu." "But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?" "Painting!" laughed Edna. "I am becoming an artist. Think of it!" "Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame." "Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?" "I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or your temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many gifts absolute gifts which have not been acquired by one's own effort. And,	her head. "So you remembered me at last," said Mademoiselle. "I had said to myself," Ah, bah! she will never come.'" "Did you want me to come?" asked Edna with a smile. "I had not thought much about it," answered Mademoiselle. The two had seated themselves on a little bumpy sofa which stood against the wall. "I am glad, however, that you came. I have the water boiling back there, and was just about to make some coffee. You will drink a cup with me. And how is _la belle dame?_ Always handsome! always healthy! always contented!" She took Edna's hand between her strong wiry fingers, holding it loosely without warmth, and executing a sort of double theme upon the back and palm. "Yes," she went on; "I sometimes thought:" She will never come. She promised as those women in society always do, without meaning it. She will not come.' "For I really don't believe you like me, Mrs. Pontellier." "I don't know whether I like you or not," replied Edna, gazing down at the little woman with a quizzical look. The candor of Mrs. Pontellier's admission greatly pleased Mademoiselle Reisz. She expressed her gratification by repairing forthwith to the region of the gasoline stove and rewarding her guest with the promised cup of coffee. The coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved very acceptable to Edna, who had declined refreshment at Madame Lebrun's and was now beginning to feel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which she brought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself once again on the lumpy sofa. "I have had a letter from your friend," she remarked, as she poured a little cream into Edna's cup and handed it to her. "My friend?" "Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico." "Wrote to _you_?" repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently. "Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your coffee; drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end." "Let me see it," requested the young woman, entreatingly. "No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one to whom it is written." "Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?" "It was written about you, not to you."<\|quote\|>Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?'</\|quote\|>"he asks." As Mrs. Pontellier says,' "or" as Mrs. Pontellier once said.' If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play for her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it affects her,' "and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each other's society." "Let me see the letter." "Oh, no." "Have you answered it?" "No." "Let me see the letter." "No, and again, no." "Then play the Impromptu for me." "It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?" "Time doesn't concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the Impromptu." "But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?" "Painting!" laughed Edna. "I am becoming an artist. Think of it!" "Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame." "Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?" "I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or your temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many gifts absolute gifts which have not been acquired by one's own effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul." "What do you mean by the courageous soul?" "Courageous, _ma foi!_ The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies." "Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?" "It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated," replied Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh. The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table upon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened the drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna's hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano. Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat low at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of the Chopin Impromptu. Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa corner reading Robert's letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle had glided from the	in which she had left home began again to overtake her, and she remembered that she wished to find Mademoiselle Reisz. Madame Lebrun knew where Mademoiselle Reisz lived. She gave Edna the address, regretting that she would not consent to stay and spend the remainder of the afternoon, and pay a visit to Mademoiselle Reisz some other day. The afternoon was already well advanced. Victor escorted her out upon the banquette, lifted her parasol, and held it over her while he walked to the car with her. He entreated her to bear in mind that the disclosures of the afternoon were strictly confidential. She laughed and bantered him a little, remembering too late that she should have been dignified and reserved. "How handsome Mrs. Pontellier looked!" said Madame Lebrun to her son. "Ravishing!" he admitted. "The city atmosphere has improved her. Some way she doesn't seem like the same woman." XXI Some people contended that the reason Mademoiselle Reisz always chose apartments up under the roof was to discourage the approach of beggars, peddlars and callers. There were plenty of windows in her little front room. They were for the most part dingy, but as they were nearly always open it did not make so much difference. They often admitted into the room a good deal of smoke and soot; but at the same time all the light and air that there was came through them. From her windows could be seen the crescent of the river, the masts of ships and the big chimneys of the Mississippi steamers. A magnificent piano crowded the apartment. In the next room she slept, and in the third and last she harbored a gasoline stove on which she cooked her meals when disinclined to descend to the neighboring restaurant. It was there also that she ate, keeping her belongings in a rare old buffet, dingy and battered from a hundred years of use. When Edna knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz's front room door and entered, she discovered that person standing beside the window, engaged in mending or patching an old prunella gaiter. The little musician laughed all over when she saw Edna. Her laugh consisted of a contortion of the face and all the muscles of the body. She seemed strikingly homely, standing there in the afternoon light. She still wore the shabby lace and the artificial bunch of violets on the side of her head. "So you remembered me at last," said Mademoiselle. "I had said to myself," Ah, bah! she will never come.'" "Did you want me to come?" asked Edna with a smile. "I had not thought much about it," answered Mademoiselle. The two had seated themselves on a little bumpy sofa which stood against the wall. "I am glad, however, that you came. I have the water boiling back there, and was just about to make some coffee. You will drink a cup with me. And how is _la belle dame?_ Always handsome! always healthy! always contented!" She took Edna's hand between her strong wiry fingers, holding it loosely without warmth, and executing a sort of double theme upon the back and palm. "Yes," she went on; "I sometimes thought:" She will never come. She promised as those women in society always do, without meaning it. She will not come.' "For I really don't believe you like me, Mrs. Pontellier." "I don't know whether I like you or not," replied Edna, gazing down at the little woman with a quizzical look. The candor of Mrs. Pontellier's admission greatly pleased Mademoiselle Reisz. She expressed her gratification by repairing forthwith to the region of the gasoline stove and rewarding her guest with the promised cup of coffee. The coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved very acceptable to Edna, who had declined refreshment at Madame Lebrun's and was now beginning to feel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which she brought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself once again on the lumpy sofa. "I have had a letter from your friend," she remarked, as she poured a little cream into Edna's cup and handed it to her. "My friend?" "Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico." "Wrote to _you_?" repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently. "Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your coffee; drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end." "Let me see it," requested the young woman, entreatingly. "No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one to whom it is written." "Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?" "It was written about you, not to you."<\|quote\|>Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?'</\|quote\|>"he asks." As Mrs. Pontellier says,' "or" as Mrs. Pontellier once said.' If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play for her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it affects her,' "and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each other's society." "Let me see the letter." "Oh, no." "Have you answered it?" "No." "Let me see the letter." "No, and again, no." "Then play the Impromptu for me." "It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?" "Time doesn't concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the Impromptu." "But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?" "Painting!" laughed Edna. "I am becoming an artist. Think of it!" "Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame." "Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?" "I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or your temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many gifts absolute gifts which have not been acquired by one's own effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul." "What do you mean by the courageous soul?" "Courageous, _ma foi!_ The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies." "Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?" "It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated," replied Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh. The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table upon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened the drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna's hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano. Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat low at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of the Chopin Impromptu. Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa corner reading Robert's letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle had glided from the Chopin into the quivering love notes of Isolde's song, and back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing. The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and fantastic turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. The shadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the night, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of the upper air. Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take her departure. "May I come again, Mademoiselle?" she asked at the threshold. "Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are dark; don't stumble." Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was on the floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the envelope, and replaced it in the table drawer. XXII One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. He bore a reputation for wisdom rather than skill leaving the active practice of medicine to his assistants and younger contemporaries and was much sought for in matters of consultation. A few families, united to him by bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required the services of a physician. The Pontelliers were among these. Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his study. His house stood rather far back from the street, in the center of a delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the old gentleman's study window. He was a great reader. He stared up disapprovingly over his eye-glasses as Mr. Pontellier entered, wondering who had the temerity to disturb him at that hour of the morning. "Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do you bring this morning?" He was quite portly, with a profusion of gray hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their brightness but none of their penetration. "Oh! I'm never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough fiber of that old Creole race of	bah! she will never come.'" "Did you want me to come?" asked Edna with a smile. "I had not thought much about it," answered Mademoiselle. The two had seated themselves on a little bumpy sofa which stood against the wall. "I am glad, however, that you came. I have the water boiling back there, and was just about to make some coffee. You will drink a cup with me. And how is _la belle dame?_ Always handsome! always healthy! always contented!" She took Edna's hand between her strong wiry fingers, holding it loosely without warmth, and executing a sort of double theme upon the back and palm. "Yes," she went on; "I sometimes thought:" She will never come. She promised as those women in society always do, without meaning it. She will not come.' "For I really don't believe you like me, Mrs. Pontellier." "I don't know whether I like you or not," replied Edna, gazing down at the little woman with a quizzical look. The candor of Mrs. Pontellier's admission greatly pleased Mademoiselle Reisz. She expressed her gratification by repairing forthwith to the region of the gasoline stove and rewarding her guest with the promised cup of coffee. The coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved very acceptable to Edna, who had declined refreshment at Madame Lebrun's and was now beginning to feel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which she brought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself once again on the lumpy sofa. "I have had a letter from your friend," she remarked, as she poured a little cream into Edna's cup and handed it to her. "My friend?" "Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico." "Wrote to _you_?" repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently. "Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your coffee; drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end." "Let me see it," requested the young woman, entreatingly. "No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one to whom it is written." "Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?" "It was written about you, not to you."<\|quote\|>Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? How is she looking?'</\|quote\|>"he asks." As Mrs. Pontellier says,' "or" as Mrs. Pontellier once said.' If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play for her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it affects her,' "and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each other's society." "Let me see the letter." "Oh, no." "Have you answered it?" "No." "Let me see the letter." "No, and again, no." "Then play the Impromptu for me." "It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?" "Time doesn't concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the Impromptu." "But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?" "Painting!" laughed Edna. "I am becoming an artist. Think of it!" "Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame." "Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?" "I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or your temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many gifts absolute gifts which have not been acquired by one's own effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul." "What do you mean by the courageous soul?" "Courageous, _ma foi!_ The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies." "Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?" "It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated," replied Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh. The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table upon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened the drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna's hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano. Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat low at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of the Chopin Impromptu. Edna did not know when the Impromptu began	The Awakening
"I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning."	Winterbourne	Daisy. "It s too imperious."<\|quote\|>"I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning."</\|quote\|>The young girl looked at	way you say that," said Daisy. "It s too imperious."<\|quote\|>"I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning."</\|quote\|>The young girl looked at him more gravely, but with	looked at him, without a sign of troubled consciousness in her face, with nothing but the presence of her charming eyes and her happy dimples. "Well, she s a cool one!" thought the young man. "I don t like the way you say that," said Daisy. "It s too imperious."<\|quote\|>"I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning."</\|quote\|>The young girl looked at him more gravely, but with eyes that were prettier than ever. "I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or to interfere with anything I do." "I think you have made a mistake," said Winterbourne. "You should sometimes listen to a gentleman--the right	Winterbourne looked at him a moment and then said, "Do you mean to speak to that man?" "Do I mean to speak to him? Why, you don t suppose I mean to communicate by signs?" "Pray understand, then," said Winterbourne, "that I intend to remain with you." Daisy stopped and looked at him, without a sign of troubled consciousness in her face, with nothing but the presence of her charming eyes and her happy dimples. "Well, she s a cool one!" thought the young man. "I don t like the way you say that," said Daisy. "It s too imperious."<\|quote\|>"I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning."</\|quote\|>The young girl looked at him more gravely, but with eyes that were prettier than ever. "I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or to interfere with anything I do." "I think you have made a mistake," said Winterbourne. "You should sometimes listen to a gentleman--the right one." Daisy began to laugh again. "I do nothing but listen to gentlemen!" she exclaimed. "Tell me if Mr. Giovanelli is the right one?" The gentleman with the nosegay in his bosom had now perceived our two friends, and was approaching the young girl with obsequious rapidity. He bowed to	not help you to find him," Winterbourne declared. "Then I shall find him without you," cried Miss Daisy. "You certainly won t leave me!" cried Winterbourne. She burst into her little laugh. "Are you afraid you ll get lost--or run over? But there s Giovanelli, leaning against that tree. He s staring at the women in the carriages: did you ever see anything so cool?" Winterbourne perceived at some distance a little man standing with folded arms nursing his cane. He had a handsome face, an artfully poised hat, a glass in one eye, and a nosegay in his buttonhole. Winterbourne looked at him a moment and then said, "Do you mean to speak to that man?" "Do I mean to speak to him? Why, you don t suppose I mean to communicate by signs?" "Pray understand, then," said Winterbourne, "that I intend to remain with you." Daisy stopped and looked at him, without a sign of troubled consciousness in her face, with nothing but the presence of her charming eyes and her happy dimples. "Well, she s a cool one!" thought the young man. "I don t like the way you say that," said Daisy. "It s too imperious."<\|quote\|>"I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning."</\|quote\|>The young girl looked at him more gravely, but with eyes that were prettier than ever. "I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or to interfere with anything I do." "I think you have made a mistake," said Winterbourne. "You should sometimes listen to a gentleman--the right one." Daisy began to laugh again. "I do nothing but listen to gentlemen!" she exclaimed. "Tell me if Mr. Giovanelli is the right one?" The gentleman with the nosegay in his bosom had now perceived our two friends, and was approaching the young girl with obsequious rapidity. He bowed to Winterbourne as well as to the latter s companion; he had a brilliant smile, an intelligent eye; Winterbourne thought him not a bad-looking fellow. But he nevertheless said to Daisy, "No, he s not the right one." Daisy evidently had a natural talent for performing introductions; she mentioned the name of each of her companions to the other. She strolled alone with one of them on each side of her; Mr. Giovanelli, who spoke English very cleverly--Winterbourne afterward learned that he had practiced the idiom upon a great many American heiresses--addressed her a great deal of very polite nonsense; he	stay then. It s a great deal nicer than I thought; I thought it would be fearfully quiet; I was sure it would be awfully poky. I was sure we should be going round all the time with one of those dreadful old men that explain about the pictures and things. But we only had about a week of that, and now I m enjoying myself. I know ever so many people, and they are all so charming. The society s extremely select. There are all kinds--English, and Germans, and Italians. I think I like the English best. I like their style of conversation. But there are some lovely Americans. I never saw anything so hospitable. There s something or other every day. There s not much dancing; but I must say I never thought dancing was everything. I was always fond of conversation. I guess I shall have plenty at Mrs. Walker s, her rooms are so small." When they had passed the gate of the Pincian Gardens, Miss Miller began to wonder where Mr. Giovanelli might be. "We had better go straight to that place in front," she said, "where you look at the view." "I certainly shall not help you to find him," Winterbourne declared. "Then I shall find him without you," cried Miss Daisy. "You certainly won t leave me!" cried Winterbourne. She burst into her little laugh. "Are you afraid you ll get lost--or run over? But there s Giovanelli, leaning against that tree. He s staring at the women in the carriages: did you ever see anything so cool?" Winterbourne perceived at some distance a little man standing with folded arms nursing his cane. He had a handsome face, an artfully poised hat, a glass in one eye, and a nosegay in his buttonhole. Winterbourne looked at him a moment and then said, "Do you mean to speak to that man?" "Do I mean to speak to him? Why, you don t suppose I mean to communicate by signs?" "Pray understand, then," said Winterbourne, "that I intend to remain with you." Daisy stopped and looked at him, without a sign of troubled consciousness in her face, with nothing but the presence of her charming eyes and her happy dimples. "Well, she s a cool one!" thought the young man. "I don t like the way you say that," said Daisy. "It s too imperious."<\|quote\|>"I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning."</\|quote\|>The young girl looked at him more gravely, but with eyes that were prettier than ever. "I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or to interfere with anything I do." "I think you have made a mistake," said Winterbourne. "You should sometimes listen to a gentleman--the right one." Daisy began to laugh again. "I do nothing but listen to gentlemen!" she exclaimed. "Tell me if Mr. Giovanelli is the right one?" The gentleman with the nosegay in his bosom had now perceived our two friends, and was approaching the young girl with obsequious rapidity. He bowed to Winterbourne as well as to the latter s companion; he had a brilliant smile, an intelligent eye; Winterbourne thought him not a bad-looking fellow. But he nevertheless said to Daisy, "No, he s not the right one." Daisy evidently had a natural talent for performing introductions; she mentioned the name of each of her companions to the other. She strolled alone with one of them on each side of her; Mr. Giovanelli, who spoke English very cleverly--Winterbourne afterward learned that he had practiced the idiom upon a great many American heiresses--addressed her a great deal of very polite nonsense; he was extremely urbane, and the young American, who said nothing, reflected upon that profundity of Italian cleverness which enables people to appear more gracious in proportion as they are more acutely disappointed. Giovanelli, of course, had counted upon something more intimate; he had not bargained for a party of three. But he kept his temper in a manner which suggested far-stretching intentions. Winterbourne flattered himself that he had taken his measure. "He is not a gentleman," said the young American; "he is only a clever imitation of one. He is a music master, or a penny-a-liner, or a third-rate artist. D__n his good looks!" Mr. Giovanelli had certainly a very pretty face; but Winterbourne felt a superior indignation at his own lovely fellow countrywoman s not knowing the difference between a spurious gentleman and a real one. Giovanelli chattered and jested and made himself wonderfully agreeable. It was true that, if he was an imitation, the imitation was brilliant. "Nevertheless," Winterbourne said to himself, "a nice girl ought to know!" And then he came back to the question whether this was, in fact, a nice girl. Would a nice girl, even allowing for her being a little American flirt, make	easy way to settle it." She continued to glance at Winterbourne. "The Pincio is only a hundred yards distant; and if Mr. Winterbourne were as polite as he pretends, he would offer to walk with me!" Winterbourne s politeness hastened to affirm itself, and the young girl gave him gracious leave to accompany her. They passed downstairs before her mother, and at the door Winterbourne perceived Mrs. Miller s carriage drawn up, with the ornamental courier whose acquaintance he had made at Vevey seated within. "Goodbye, Eugenio!" cried Daisy; "I m going to take a walk." The distance from the Via Gregoriana to the beautiful garden at the other end of the Pincian Hill is, in fact, rapidly traversed. As the day was splendid, however, and the concourse of vehicles, walkers, and loungers numerous, the young Americans found their progress much delayed. This fact was highly agreeable to Winterbourne, in spite of his consciousness of his singular situation. The slow-moving, idly gazing Roman crowd bestowed much attention upon the extremely pretty young foreign lady who was passing through it upon his arm; and he wondered what on earth had been in Daisy s mind when she proposed to expose herself, unattended, to its appreciation. His own mission, to her sense, apparently, was to consign her to the hands of Mr. Giovanelli; but Winterbourne, at once annoyed and gratified, resolved that he would do no such thing. "Why haven t you been to see me?" asked Daisy. "You can t get out of that." "I have had the honor of telling you that I have only just stepped out of the train." "You must have stayed in the train a good while after it stopped!" cried the young girl with her little laugh. "I suppose you were asleep. You have had time to go to see Mrs. Walker." "I knew Mrs. Walker--" Winterbourne began to explain. "I know where you knew her. You knew her at Geneva. She told me so. Well, you knew me at Vevey. That s just as good. So you ought to have come." She asked him no other question than this; she began to prattle about her own affairs. "We ve got splendid rooms at the hotel; Eugenio says they re the best rooms in Rome. We are going to stay all winter, if we don t die of the fever; and I guess we ll stay then. It s a great deal nicer than I thought; I thought it would be fearfully quiet; I was sure it would be awfully poky. I was sure we should be going round all the time with one of those dreadful old men that explain about the pictures and things. But we only had about a week of that, and now I m enjoying myself. I know ever so many people, and they are all so charming. The society s extremely select. There are all kinds--English, and Germans, and Italians. I think I like the English best. I like their style of conversation. But there are some lovely Americans. I never saw anything so hospitable. There s something or other every day. There s not much dancing; but I must say I never thought dancing was everything. I was always fond of conversation. I guess I shall have plenty at Mrs. Walker s, her rooms are so small." When they had passed the gate of the Pincian Gardens, Miss Miller began to wonder where Mr. Giovanelli might be. "We had better go straight to that place in front," she said, "where you look at the view." "I certainly shall not help you to find him," Winterbourne declared. "Then I shall find him without you," cried Miss Daisy. "You certainly won t leave me!" cried Winterbourne. She burst into her little laugh. "Are you afraid you ll get lost--or run over? But there s Giovanelli, leaning against that tree. He s staring at the women in the carriages: did you ever see anything so cool?" Winterbourne perceived at some distance a little man standing with folded arms nursing his cane. He had a handsome face, an artfully poised hat, a glass in one eye, and a nosegay in his buttonhole. Winterbourne looked at him a moment and then said, "Do you mean to speak to that man?" "Do I mean to speak to him? Why, you don t suppose I mean to communicate by signs?" "Pray understand, then," said Winterbourne, "that I intend to remain with you." Daisy stopped and looked at him, without a sign of troubled consciousness in her face, with nothing but the presence of her charming eyes and her happy dimples. "Well, she s a cool one!" thought the young man. "I don t like the way you say that," said Daisy. "It s too imperious."<\|quote\|>"I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning."</\|quote\|>The young girl looked at him more gravely, but with eyes that were prettier than ever. "I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or to interfere with anything I do." "I think you have made a mistake," said Winterbourne. "You should sometimes listen to a gentleman--the right one." Daisy began to laugh again. "I do nothing but listen to gentlemen!" she exclaimed. "Tell me if Mr. Giovanelli is the right one?" The gentleman with the nosegay in his bosom had now perceived our two friends, and was approaching the young girl with obsequious rapidity. He bowed to Winterbourne as well as to the latter s companion; he had a brilliant smile, an intelligent eye; Winterbourne thought him not a bad-looking fellow. But he nevertheless said to Daisy, "No, he s not the right one." Daisy evidently had a natural talent for performing introductions; she mentioned the name of each of her companions to the other. She strolled alone with one of them on each side of her; Mr. Giovanelli, who spoke English very cleverly--Winterbourne afterward learned that he had practiced the idiom upon a great many American heiresses--addressed her a great deal of very polite nonsense; he was extremely urbane, and the young American, who said nothing, reflected upon that profundity of Italian cleverness which enables people to appear more gracious in proportion as they are more acutely disappointed. Giovanelli, of course, had counted upon something more intimate; he had not bargained for a party of three. But he kept his temper in a manner which suggested far-stretching intentions. Winterbourne flattered himself that he had taken his measure. "He is not a gentleman," said the young American; "he is only a clever imitation of one. He is a music master, or a penny-a-liner, or a third-rate artist. D__n his good looks!" Mr. Giovanelli had certainly a very pretty face; but Winterbourne felt a superior indignation at his own lovely fellow countrywoman s not knowing the difference between a spurious gentleman and a real one. Giovanelli chattered and jested and made himself wonderfully agreeable. It was true that, if he was an imitation, the imitation was brilliant. "Nevertheless," Winterbourne said to himself, "a nice girl ought to know!" And then he came back to the question whether this was, in fact, a nice girl. Would a nice girl, even allowing for her being a little American flirt, make a rendezvous with a presumably low-lived foreigner? The rendezvous in this case, indeed, had been in broad daylight and in the most crowded corner of Rome, but was it not impossible to regard the choice of these circumstances as a proof of extreme cynicism? Singular though it may seem, Winterbourne was vexed that the young girl, in joining her amoroso, should not appear more impatient of his own company, and he was vexed because of his inclination. It was impossible to regard her as a perfectly well-conducted young lady; she was wanting in a certain indispensable delicacy. It would therefore simplify matters greatly to be able to treat her as the object of one of those sentiments which are called by romancers "lawless passions." That she should seem to wish to get rid of him would help him to think more lightly of her, and to be able to think more lightly of her would make her much less perplexing. But Daisy, on this occasion, continued to present herself as an inscrutable combination of audacity and innocence. She had been walking some quarter of an hour, attended by her two cavaliers, and responding in a tone of very childish gaiety, as it seemed to Winterbourne, to the pretty speeches of Mr. Giovanelli, when a carriage that had detached itself from the revolving train drew up beside the path. At the same moment Winterbourne perceived that his friend Mrs. Walker--the lady whose house he had lately left--was seated in the vehicle and was beckoning to him. Leaving Miss Miller s side, he hastened to obey her summons. Mrs. Walker was flushed; she wore an excited air. "It is really too dreadful," she said. "That girl must not do this sort of thing. She must not walk here with you two men. Fifty people have noticed her." Winterbourne raised his eyebrows. "I think it s a pity to make too much fuss about it." "It s a pity to let the girl ruin herself!" "She is very innocent," said Winterbourne. "She s very crazy!" cried Mrs. Walker. "Did you ever see anything so imbecile as her mother? After you had all left me just now, I could not sit still for thinking of it. It seemed too pitiful, not even to attempt to save her. I ordered the carriage and put on my bonnet, and came here as quickly as possible. Thank	kinds--English, and Germans, and Italians. I think I like the English best. I like their style of conversation. But there are some lovely Americans. I never saw anything so hospitable. There s something or other every day. There s not much dancing; but I must say I never thought dancing was everything. I was always fond of conversation. I guess I shall have plenty at Mrs. Walker s, her rooms are so small." When they had passed the gate of the Pincian Gardens, Miss Miller began to wonder where Mr. Giovanelli might be. "We had better go straight to that place in front," she said, "where you look at the view." "I certainly shall not help you to find him," Winterbourne declared. "Then I shall find him without you," cried Miss Daisy. "You certainly won t leave me!" cried Winterbourne. She burst into her little laugh. "Are you afraid you ll get lost--or run over? But there s Giovanelli, leaning against that tree. He s staring at the women in the carriages: did you ever see anything so cool?" Winterbourne perceived at some distance a little man standing with folded arms nursing his cane. He had a handsome face, an artfully poised hat, a glass in one eye, and a nosegay in his buttonhole. Winterbourne looked at him a moment and then said, "Do you mean to speak to that man?" "Do I mean to speak to him? Why, you don t suppose I mean to communicate by signs?" "Pray understand, then," said Winterbourne, "that I intend to remain with you." Daisy stopped and looked at him, without a sign of troubled consciousness in her face, with nothing but the presence of her charming eyes and her happy dimples. "Well, she s a cool one!" thought the young man. "I don t like the way you say that," said Daisy. "It s too imperious."<\|quote\|>"I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning."</\|quote\|>The young girl looked at him more gravely, but with eyes that were prettier than ever. "I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or to interfere with anything I do." "I think you have made a mistake," said Winterbourne. "You should sometimes listen to a gentleman--the right one." Daisy began to laugh again. "I do nothing but listen to gentlemen!" she exclaimed. "Tell me if Mr. Giovanelli is the right one?" The gentleman with the nosegay in his bosom had now perceived our two friends, and was approaching the young girl with obsequious rapidity. He bowed to Winterbourne as well as to the latter s companion; he had a brilliant smile, an intelligent eye; Winterbourne thought him not a bad-looking fellow. But he nevertheless said to Daisy, "No, he s not the right one." Daisy evidently had a natural talent for performing introductions; she mentioned the name of each of her companions to the other. She strolled alone with one of them on each side of her; Mr. Giovanelli, who spoke English very cleverly--Winterbourne afterward learned that he had practiced the idiom upon a great many American heiresses--addressed her a great deal of very polite nonsense; he was extremely urbane, and the young American, who said nothing, reflected upon that profundity of Italian cleverness which enables people to appear more gracious in proportion as they are more acutely disappointed. Giovanelli, of course, had counted upon something more intimate; he had not bargained for a party of three. But he kept his temper in a manner which suggested far-stretching intentions. Winterbourne flattered himself that he had taken his measure. "He is not a gentleman," said the young American; "he	Daisy Miller
"Certainly!"	Mr. Lucian Gregory	either condition. May I smoke?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly!"</\|quote\|>said Gregory, producing a cigar-case.	behave like a gentleman in either condition. May I smoke?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly!"</\|quote\|>said Gregory, producing a cigar-case. "Try one of mine." Syme	a little, don't put it down to your inroads into the champagne. I don't wish you to do yourself an injustice." "Well, if I am not drunk, I am mad," replied Syme with perfect calm; "but I trust I can behave like a gentleman in either condition. May I smoke?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly!"</\|quote\|>said Gregory, producing a cigar-case. "Try one of mine." Syme took the cigar, clipped the end off with a cigar-cutter out of his waistcoat pocket, put it in his mouth, lit it slowly, and let out a long cloud of smoke. It is not a little to his credit that	quite simple," replied Gregory. "_We_ are the serious anarchists, in whom you do not believe." "Oh!" said Syme shortly. "You do yourselves well in drinks." "Yes, we are serious about everything," answered Gregory. Then after a pause he added "If in a few moments this table begins to turn round a little, don't put it down to your inroads into the champagne. I don't wish you to do yourself an injustice." "Well, if I am not drunk, I am mad," replied Syme with perfect calm; "but I trust I can behave like a gentleman in either condition. May I smoke?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly!"</\|quote\|>said Gregory, producing a cigar-case. "Try one of mine." Syme took the cigar, clipped the end off with a cigar-cutter out of his waistcoat pocket, put it in his mouth, lit it slowly, and let out a long cloud of smoke. It is not a little to his credit that he performed these rites with so much composure, for almost before he had begun them the table at which he sat had begun to revolve, first slowly, and then rapidly, as if at an insane seance. "You must not mind it," said Gregory; "it's a kind of screw." "Quite so,"	me for a nightmare to lead to a lobster. It is commonly the other way." "You are not asleep, I assure you," said Gregory. "You are, on the contrary, close to the most actual and rousing moment of your existence. Ah, here comes your champagne! I admit that there may be a slight disproportion, let us say, between the inner arrangements of this excellent hotel and its simple and unpretentious exterior. But that is all our modesty. We are the most modest men that ever lived on earth." "And who are _we?_" asked Syme, emptying his champagne glass. "It is quite simple," replied Gregory. "_We_ are the serious anarchists, in whom you do not believe." "Oh!" said Syme shortly. "You do yourselves well in drinks." "Yes, we are serious about everything," answered Gregory. Then after a pause he added "If in a few moments this table begins to turn round a little, don't put it down to your inroads into the champagne. I don't wish you to do yourself an injustice." "Well, if I am not drunk, I am mad," replied Syme with perfect calm; "but I trust I can behave like a gentleman in either condition. May I smoke?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly!"</\|quote\|>said Gregory, producing a cigar-case. "Try one of mine." Syme took the cigar, clipped the end off with a cigar-cutter out of his waistcoat pocket, put it in his mouth, lit it slowly, and let out a long cloud of smoke. It is not a little to his credit that he performed these rites with so much composure, for almost before he had begun them the table at which he sat had begun to revolve, first slowly, and then rapidly, as if at an insane seance. "You must not mind it," said Gregory; "it's a kind of screw." "Quite so," said Syme placidly, "a kind of screw. How simple that is!" The next moment the smoke of his cigar, which had been wavering across the room in snaky twists, went straight up as if from a factory chimney, and the two, with their chairs and table, shot down through the floor as if the earth had swallowed them. They went rattling down a kind of roaring chimney as rapidly as a lift cut loose, and they came with an abrupt bump to the bottom. But when Gregory threw open a pair of doors and let in a red subterranean light,	and bearded. "Will you take a little supper?" asked Gregory politely. "The _p t de foie gras_ is not good here, but I can recommend the game." Syme received the remark with stolidity, imagining it to be a joke. Accepting the vein of humour, he said, with a well-bred indifference "Oh, bring me some lobster mayonnaise." To his indescribable astonishment, the man only said "Certainly, sir!" and went away apparently to get it. "What will you drink?" resumed Gregory, with the same careless yet apologetic air. "I shall only have a _cr me de menthe_ myself; I have dined. But the champagne can really be trusted. Do let me start you with a half-bottle of Pommery at least?" "Thank you!" said the motionless Syme. "You are very good." His further attempts at conversation, somewhat disorganised in themselves, were cut short finally as by a thunderbolt by the actual appearance of the lobster. Syme tasted it, and found it particularly good. Then he suddenly began to eat with great rapidity and appetite. "Excuse me if I enjoy myself rather obviously!" he said to Gregory, smiling. "I don't often have the luck to have a dream like this. It is new to me for a nightmare to lead to a lobster. It is commonly the other way." "You are not asleep, I assure you," said Gregory. "You are, on the contrary, close to the most actual and rousing moment of your existence. Ah, here comes your champagne! I admit that there may be a slight disproportion, let us say, between the inner arrangements of this excellent hotel and its simple and unpretentious exterior. But that is all our modesty. We are the most modest men that ever lived on earth." "And who are _we?_" asked Syme, emptying his champagne glass. "It is quite simple," replied Gregory. "_We_ are the serious anarchists, in whom you do not believe." "Oh!" said Syme shortly. "You do yourselves well in drinks." "Yes, we are serious about everything," answered Gregory. Then after a pause he added "If in a few moments this table begins to turn round a little, don't put it down to your inroads into the champagne. I don't wish you to do yourself an injustice." "Well, if I am not drunk, I am mad," replied Syme with perfect calm; "but I trust I can behave like a gentleman in either condition. May I smoke?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly!"</\|quote\|>said Gregory, producing a cigar-case. "Try one of mine." Syme took the cigar, clipped the end off with a cigar-cutter out of his waistcoat pocket, put it in his mouth, lit it slowly, and let out a long cloud of smoke. It is not a little to his credit that he performed these rites with so much composure, for almost before he had begun them the table at which he sat had begun to revolve, first slowly, and then rapidly, as if at an insane seance. "You must not mind it," said Gregory; "it's a kind of screw." "Quite so," said Syme placidly, "a kind of screw. How simple that is!" The next moment the smoke of his cigar, which had been wavering across the room in snaky twists, went straight up as if from a factory chimney, and the two, with their chairs and table, shot down through the floor as if the earth had swallowed them. They went rattling down a kind of roaring chimney as rapidly as a lift cut loose, and they came with an abrupt bump to the bottom. But when Gregory threw open a pair of doors and let in a red subterranean light, Syme was still smoking with one leg thrown over the other, and had not turned a yellow hair. Gregory led him down a low, vaulted passage, at the end of which was the red light. It was an enormous crimson lantern, nearly as big as a fireplace, fixed over a small but heavy iron door. In the door there was a sort of hatchway or grating, and on this Gregory struck five times. A heavy voice with a foreign accent asked him who he was. To this he gave the more or less unexpected reply, "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." The heavy hinges began to move; it was obviously some kind of password. Inside the doorway the passage gleamed as if it were lined with a network of steel. On a second glance, Syme saw that the glittering pattern was really made up of ranks and ranks of rifles and revolvers, closely packed or interlocked. "I must ask you to forgive me all these formalities," said Gregory; "we have to be very strict here." "Oh, don't apologise," said Syme. "I know your passion for law and order," and he stepped into the passage lined with the steel weapons. With his long, fair	than all this talking something more serious, whether it was religion or only drink." "Very well," said Gregory, his face darkening, "you shall see something more serious than either drink or religion." Syme stood waiting with his usual air of mildness until Gregory again opened his lips. "You spoke just now of having a religion. Is it really true that you have one?" "Oh," said Syme with a beaming smile, "we are all Catholics now." "Then may I ask you to swear by whatever gods or saints your religion involves that you will not reveal what I am now going to tell you to any son of Adam, and especially not to the police? Will you swear that! If you will take upon yourself this awful abnegation if you will consent to burden your soul with a vow that you should never make and a knowledge you should never dream about, I will promise you in return" "You will promise me in return?" inquired Syme, as the other paused. "I will promise you a very entertaining evening." Syme suddenly took off his hat. "Your offer," he said, "is far too idiotic to be declined. You say that a poet is always an anarchist. I disagree; but I hope at least that he is always a sportsman. Permit me, here and now, to swear as a Christian, and promise as a good comrade and a fellow-artist, that I will not report anything of this, whatever it is, to the police. And now, in the name of Colney Hatch, what is it?" "I think," said Gregory, with placid irrelevancy, "that we will call a cab." He gave two long whistles, and a hansom came rattling down the road. The two got into it in silence. Gregory gave through the trap the address of an obscure public-house on the Chiswick bank of the river. The cab whisked itself away again, and in it these two fantastics quitted their fantastic town. CHAPTER II. THE SECRET OF GABRIEL SYME The cab pulled up before a particularly dreary and greasy beershop, into which Gregory rapidly conducted his companion. They seated themselves in a close and dim sort of bar-parlour, at a stained wooden table with one wooden leg. The room was so small and dark, that very little could be seen of the attendant who was summoned, beyond a vague and dark impression of something bulky and bearded. "Will you take a little supper?" asked Gregory politely. "The _p t de foie gras_ is not good here, but I can recommend the game." Syme received the remark with stolidity, imagining it to be a joke. Accepting the vein of humour, he said, with a well-bred indifference "Oh, bring me some lobster mayonnaise." To his indescribable astonishment, the man only said "Certainly, sir!" and went away apparently to get it. "What will you drink?" resumed Gregory, with the same careless yet apologetic air. "I shall only have a _cr me de menthe_ myself; I have dined. But the champagne can really be trusted. Do let me start you with a half-bottle of Pommery at least?" "Thank you!" said the motionless Syme. "You are very good." His further attempts at conversation, somewhat disorganised in themselves, were cut short finally as by a thunderbolt by the actual appearance of the lobster. Syme tasted it, and found it particularly good. Then he suddenly began to eat with great rapidity and appetite. "Excuse me if I enjoy myself rather obviously!" he said to Gregory, smiling. "I don't often have the luck to have a dream like this. It is new to me for a nightmare to lead to a lobster. It is commonly the other way." "You are not asleep, I assure you," said Gregory. "You are, on the contrary, close to the most actual and rousing moment of your existence. Ah, here comes your champagne! I admit that there may be a slight disproportion, let us say, between the inner arrangements of this excellent hotel and its simple and unpretentious exterior. But that is all our modesty. We are the most modest men that ever lived on earth." "And who are _we?_" asked Syme, emptying his champagne glass. "It is quite simple," replied Gregory. "_We_ are the serious anarchists, in whom you do not believe." "Oh!" said Syme shortly. "You do yourselves well in drinks." "Yes, we are serious about everything," answered Gregory. Then after a pause he added "If in a few moments this table begins to turn round a little, don't put it down to your inroads into the champagne. I don't wish you to do yourself an injustice." "Well, if I am not drunk, I am mad," replied Syme with perfect calm; "but I trust I can behave like a gentleman in either condition. May I smoke?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly!"</\|quote\|>said Gregory, producing a cigar-case. "Try one of mine." Syme took the cigar, clipped the end off with a cigar-cutter out of his waistcoat pocket, put it in his mouth, lit it slowly, and let out a long cloud of smoke. It is not a little to his credit that he performed these rites with so much composure, for almost before he had begun them the table at which he sat had begun to revolve, first slowly, and then rapidly, as if at an insane seance. "You must not mind it," said Gregory; "it's a kind of screw." "Quite so," said Syme placidly, "a kind of screw. How simple that is!" The next moment the smoke of his cigar, which had been wavering across the room in snaky twists, went straight up as if from a factory chimney, and the two, with their chairs and table, shot down through the floor as if the earth had swallowed them. They went rattling down a kind of roaring chimney as rapidly as a lift cut loose, and they came with an abrupt bump to the bottom. But when Gregory threw open a pair of doors and let in a red subterranean light, Syme was still smoking with one leg thrown over the other, and had not turned a yellow hair. Gregory led him down a low, vaulted passage, at the end of which was the red light. It was an enormous crimson lantern, nearly as big as a fireplace, fixed over a small but heavy iron door. In the door there was a sort of hatchway or grating, and on this Gregory struck five times. A heavy voice with a foreign accent asked him who he was. To this he gave the more or less unexpected reply, "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." The heavy hinges began to move; it was obviously some kind of password. Inside the doorway the passage gleamed as if it were lined with a network of steel. On a second glance, Syme saw that the glittering pattern was really made up of ranks and ranks of rifles and revolvers, closely packed or interlocked. "I must ask you to forgive me all these formalities," said Gregory; "we have to be very strict here." "Oh, don't apologise," said Syme. "I know your passion for law and order," and he stepped into the passage lined with the steel weapons. With his long, fair hair and rather foppish frock-coat, he looked a singularly frail and fanciful figure as he walked down that shining avenue of death. They passed through several such passages, and came out at last into a queer steel chamber with curved walls, almost spherical in shape, but presenting, with its tiers of benches, something of the appearance of a scientific lecture-theatre. There were no rifles or pistols in this apartment, but round the walls of it were hung more dubious and dreadful shapes, things that looked like the bulbs of iron plants, or the eggs of iron birds. They were bombs, and the very room itself seemed like the inside of a bomb. Syme knocked his cigar ash off against the wall, and went in. "And now, my dear Mr. Syme," said Gregory, throwing himself in an expansive manner on the bench under the largest bomb, "now we are quite cosy, so let us talk properly. Now no human words can give you any notion of why I brought you here. It was one of those quite arbitrary emotions, like jumping off a cliff or falling in love. Suffice it to say that you were an inexpressibly irritating fellow, and, to do you justice, you are still. I would break twenty oaths of secrecy for the pleasure of taking you down a peg. That way you have of lighting a cigar would make a priest break the seal of confession. Well, you said that you were quite certain I was not a serious anarchist. Does this place strike you as being serious?" "It does seem to have a moral under all its gaiety," assented Syme; "but may I ask you two questions? You need not fear to give me information, because, as you remember, you very wisely extorted from me a promise not to tell the police, a promise I shall certainly keep. So it is in mere curiosity that I make my queries. First of all, what is it really all about? What is it you object to? You want to abolish Government?" "To abolish God!" said Gregory, opening the eyes of a fanatic. "We do not only want to upset a few despotisms and police regulations; that sort of anarchism does exist, but it is a mere branch of the Nonconformists. We dig deeper and we blow you higher. We wish to deny all those arbitrary distinctions of vice	finally as by a thunderbolt by the actual appearance of the lobster. Syme tasted it, and found it particularly good. Then he suddenly began to eat with great rapidity and appetite. "Excuse me if I enjoy myself rather obviously!" he said to Gregory, smiling. "I don't often have the luck to have a dream like this. It is new to me for a nightmare to lead to a lobster. It is commonly the other way." "You are not asleep, I assure you," said Gregory. "You are, on the contrary, close to the most actual and rousing moment of your existence. Ah, here comes your champagne! I admit that there may be a slight disproportion, let us say, between the inner arrangements of this excellent hotel and its simple and unpretentious exterior. But that is all our modesty. We are the most modest men that ever lived on earth." "And who are _we?_" asked Syme, emptying his champagne glass. "It is quite simple," replied Gregory. "_We_ are the serious anarchists, in whom you do not believe." "Oh!" said Syme shortly. "You do yourselves well in drinks." "Yes, we are serious about everything," answered Gregory. Then after a pause he added "If in a few moments this table begins to turn round a little, don't put it down to your inroads into the champagne. I don't wish you to do yourself an injustice." "Well, if I am not drunk, I am mad," replied Syme with perfect calm; "but I trust I can behave like a gentleman in either condition. May I smoke?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly!"</\|quote\|>said Gregory, producing a cigar-case. "Try one of mine." Syme took the cigar, clipped the end off with a cigar-cutter out of his waistcoat pocket, put it in his mouth, lit it slowly, and let out a long cloud of smoke. It is not a little to his credit that he performed these rites with so much composure, for almost before he had begun them the table at which he sat had begun to revolve, first slowly, and then rapidly, as if at an insane seance. "You must not mind it," said Gregory; "it's a kind of screw." "Quite so," said Syme placidly, "a kind of screw. How simple that is!" The next moment the smoke of his cigar, which had been wavering across the room in snaky twists, went straight up as if from a factory chimney, and the two, with their chairs and table, shot down through the floor as if the earth had swallowed them. They went rattling down a kind of roaring chimney as rapidly as a lift cut loose, and they came with an abrupt bump to the bottom. But when Gregory threw open a pair of doors and let in a red subterranean light, Syme was still smoking with one leg thrown over the other, and had not turned a yellow hair. Gregory led him down a low, vaulted passage, at the end of which was the red light. It was an enormous crimson lantern, nearly as big as a fireplace, fixed over a small but heavy iron door. In the door there was a sort of hatchway or grating, and on this Gregory struck five times. A heavy voice with a foreign accent asked him who he was. To this he gave the more or less unexpected reply, "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." The heavy hinges began to move; it was obviously some kind of password. Inside the doorway the passage gleamed as if it were lined with a network of steel. On a second glance, Syme saw that the glittering pattern was really made up of ranks and ranks of rifles and revolvers, closely packed or interlocked. "I must ask you to forgive me all these formalities," said Gregory; "we have to be very strict here." "Oh, don't apologise," said Syme. "I know your passion for law and order," and he stepped into the passage lined with the steel weapons. With his long, fair hair and rather foppish frock-coat, he looked a singularly frail and fanciful figure as he walked down that shining avenue of death. They passed through several such passages, and came out at last into a queer steel chamber with curved walls, almost spherical in shape, but presenting, with its tiers of benches, something of the appearance of a scientific lecture-theatre. There were no rifles or pistols in this apartment, but round the walls of it were hung more dubious and dreadful shapes, things that looked like the bulbs of iron plants, or the eggs of iron birds. They were bombs, and the very room itself seemed like the inside of a bomb. Syme knocked his cigar ash off against the wall, and went in. "And now, my dear Mr. Syme," said Gregory, throwing himself in an expansive manner on the bench under the largest bomb, "now we are quite cosy, so let	The Man Who Was Thursday
"This meat has surely been used for soup,"	Miss Bartlett	is one's being so tired."<\|quote\|>"This meat has surely been used for soup,"</\|quote\|>said Miss Bartlett, laying down	just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired."<\|quote\|>"This meat has surely been used for soup,"</\|quote\|>said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. "I want so	the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired."<\|quote\|>"This meat has surely been used for soup,"</\|quote\|>said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. "I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!" "Any nook does for me," Miss	people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired."<\|quote\|>"This meat has surely been used for soup,"</\|quote\|>said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. "I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!" "Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view." Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front--" "You must have it," said Miss	PART ONE Chapter I: The Bertolini "The Signora had no business to do it," said Miss Bartlett, "no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!" "And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora's unexpected accent. "It might be London." She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired."<\|quote\|>"This meat has surely been used for soup,"</\|quote\|>said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. "I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!" "Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view." Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front--" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother--a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion. "No, no. You must have it." "I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy." "She would never forgive me." The ladies' voices grew animated, and--if the sad truth be owned--a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them--one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad--leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said: "I	PART ONE Chapter I: The Bertolini "The Signora had no business to do it," said Miss Bartlett, "no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!" "And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora's unexpected accent. "It might be London." She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired."<\|quote\|>"This meat has surely been used for soup,"</\|quote\|>said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. "I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!" "Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view." Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front--" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother--a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion. "No, no. You must have it." "I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy." "She would never forgive me." The ladies' voices grew animated, and--if the sad truth be owned--a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them--one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad--leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said: "I have a view, I have a view." Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would "do" till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility. What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: "A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!" "This is my son," said the old man; "his name's George. He has a view too." "Ah," said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak. "What I mean," he continued, "is that you can have our rooms, and we'll have yours. We'll change." The better class of tourist was shocked at	PART ONE Chapter I: The Bertolini "The Signora had no business to do it," said Miss Bartlett, "no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!" "And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora's unexpected accent. "It might be London." She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired."<\|quote\|>"This meat has surely been used for soup,"</\|quote\|>said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. "I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!" "Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view." Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front--" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother--a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion. "No, no. You must have it." "I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy." "She would never forgive me." The ladies' voices grew animated, and--if the sad truth be owned--a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them--one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad--leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said: "I have a view, I have a view." Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would "do" till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility. What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: "A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!" "This is my son," said the old man; "his name's George. He has a view too." "Ah," said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak. "What I mean," he continued, "is that you can have our rooms, and we'll have yours. We'll change." The better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said "Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the question." "Why?" said the old man, with both fists on the table. "Because it is quite out of the question, thank you." "You see, we don't like to take--" began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her. "But why?" he persisted. "Women like looking at a view; men don't." And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son, saying, "George, persuade them!" "It's so obvious they should have the rooms," said the son. "There's nothing else to say." He did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed and sorrowful. Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for what is known as "quite a scene," and she had an odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the contest widened and deepened till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but with--well, with something quite different, whose existence she had not realized before. Now the old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half an hour. Miss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub any one so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked around as much as to say, "Are you all like this?" And two little old ladies, who were sitting further up the table, with shawls hanging over the backs of the chairs, looked back, clearly indicating "We are not; we are genteel." "Eat your dinner, dear," she said to Lucy, and began to toy again with the meat that she had once censured. Lucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite. "Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. To-morrow we will make a change." Hardly had she announced this fell decision when she reversed it. The curtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout but attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table, cheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to her feet, exclaiming: "Oh, oh! Why, it's Mr. Beebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte,	PART ONE Chapter I: The Bertolini "The Signora had no business to do it," said Miss Bartlett, "no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!" "And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora's unexpected accent. "It might be London." She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired."<\|quote\|>"This meat has surely been used for soup,"</\|quote\|>said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. "I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!" "Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view." Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front--" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother--a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion. "No, no. You must have it." "I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy." "She would never forgive me." The ladies' voices grew animated, and--if the sad truth be owned--a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them--one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad--leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said: "I have a view, I have a view." Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would "do" till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness	A Room With A View
Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said,	No speaker	now to walk very well."<\|quote\|>Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said,</\|quote\|>"But where is Fanny? Is	know I am strong enough now to walk very well."<\|quote\|>Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said,</\|quote\|>"But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?" "No,	with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides only for pleasure; _you_ for health." "I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly," said Fanny; "I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong enough now to walk very well."<\|quote\|>Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said,</\|quote\|>"But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?" "No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was here a moment ago." Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa.	in short. She has a great desire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal to it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry to interfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides only for pleasure; _you_ for health." "I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly," said Fanny; "I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong enough now to walk very well."<\|quote\|>Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said,</\|quote\|>"But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?" "No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was here a moment ago." Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began scolding. "That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as _we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor basket.	added Maria, "and her spirits are as good, and she has the same energy of character. I cannot but think that good horsemanship has a great deal to do with the mind." When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant to ride the next day. "No, I do not know not if you want the mare," was her answer. "I do not want her at all for myself," said he; "but whenever you are next inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad to have her a longer time for a whole morning, in short. She has a great desire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal to it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry to interfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides only for pleasure; _you_ for health." "I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly," said Fanny; "I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong enough now to walk very well."<\|quote\|>Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said,</\|quote\|>"But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?" "No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was here a moment ago." Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began scolding. "That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as _we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week, not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. You should learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa." Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table, and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high good-humour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, "I must say, ma'am,	part of the park; her feelings of discomfort not lightened by seeing, as she looked back, that the others were walking down the hill together to the village; nor did her attendant do her much good by his comments on Miss Crawford's great cleverness as a horse-woman, which he had been watching with an interest almost equal to her own. "It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart for riding!" said he. "I never see one sit a horse better. She did not seem to have a thought of fear. Very different from you, miss, when you first began, six years ago come next Easter. Lord bless you! how you did tremble when Sir Thomas first had you put on!" In the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also celebrated. Her merit in being gifted by Nature with strength and courage was fully appreciated by the Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding was like their own; her early excellence in it was like their own, and they had great pleasure in praising it. "I was sure she would ride well," said Julia; "she has the make for it. Her figure is as neat as her brother's." "Yes," added Maria, "and her spirits are as good, and she has the same energy of character. I cannot but think that good horsemanship has a great deal to do with the mind." When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant to ride the next day. "No, I do not know not if you want the mare," was her answer. "I do not want her at all for myself," said he; "but whenever you are next inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad to have her a longer time for a whole morning, in short. She has a great desire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal to it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry to interfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides only for pleasure; _you_ for health." "I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly," said Fanny; "I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong enough now to walk very well."<\|quote\|>Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said,</\|quote\|>"But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?" "No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was here a moment ago." Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began scolding. "That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as _we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week, not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. You should learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa." Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table, and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high good-humour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, "I must say, ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the house." "Fanny," said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, "I am sure you have the headache." She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad. "I can hardly believe you," he replied; "I know your looks too well. How long have you had it?" "Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat." "Did you go out in the heat?" "Go out! to be sure she did," said Mrs. Norris: "would you have her stay within such a fine day as this? Were not we _all_ out? Even your mother was out to-day for above an hour." "Yes, indeed, Edmund," added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand to Fanny; "I was out above an hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the coming home again." "Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?" "Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor	but Mr. Crawford, with all his boasted good-nature, and all his coachmanship, probably knew nothing of the matter, and had no active kindness in comparison of Edmund. She began to think it rather hard upon the mare to have such double duty; if she were forgotten, the poor mare should be remembered. Her feelings for one and the other were soon a little tranquillised by seeing the party in the meadow disperse, and Miss Crawford still on horseback, but attended by Edmund on foot, pass through a gate into the lane, and so into the park, and make towards the spot where she stood. She began then to be afraid of appearing rude and impatient; and walked to meet them with a great anxiety to avoid the suspicion. "My dear Miss Price," said Miss Crawford, as soon as she was at all within hearing, "I am come to make my own apologies for keeping you waiting; but I have nothing in the world to say for myself I knew it was very late, and that I was behaving extremely ill; and therefore, if you please, you must forgive me. Selfishness must always be forgiven, you know, because there is no hope of a cure." Fanny's answer was extremely civil, and Edmund added his conviction that she could be in no hurry. "For there is more than time enough for my cousin to ride twice as far as she ever goes," said he, "and you have been promoting her comfort by preventing her from setting off half an hour sooner: clouds are now coming up, and she will not suffer from the heat as she would have done then. I wish _you_ may not be fatigued by so much exercise. I wish you had saved yourself this walk home." "No part of it fatigues me but getting off this horse, I assure you," said she, as she sprang down with his help; "I am very strong. Nothing ever fatigues me but doing what I do not like. Miss Price, I give way to you with a very bad grace; but I sincerely hope you will have a pleasant ride, and that I may have nothing but good to hear of this dear, delightful, beautiful animal." The old coachman, who had been waiting about with his own horse, now joining them, Fanny was lifted on hers, and they set off across another part of the park; her feelings of discomfort not lightened by seeing, as she looked back, that the others were walking down the hill together to the village; nor did her attendant do her much good by his comments on Miss Crawford's great cleverness as a horse-woman, which he had been watching with an interest almost equal to her own. "It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart for riding!" said he. "I never see one sit a horse better. She did not seem to have a thought of fear. Very different from you, miss, when you first began, six years ago come next Easter. Lord bless you! how you did tremble when Sir Thomas first had you put on!" In the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also celebrated. Her merit in being gifted by Nature with strength and courage was fully appreciated by the Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding was like their own; her early excellence in it was like their own, and they had great pleasure in praising it. "I was sure she would ride well," said Julia; "she has the make for it. Her figure is as neat as her brother's." "Yes," added Maria, "and her spirits are as good, and she has the same energy of character. I cannot but think that good horsemanship has a great deal to do with the mind." When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant to ride the next day. "No, I do not know not if you want the mare," was her answer. "I do not want her at all for myself," said he; "but whenever you are next inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad to have her a longer time for a whole morning, in short. She has a great desire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal to it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry to interfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides only for pleasure; _you_ for health." "I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly," said Fanny; "I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong enough now to walk very well."<\|quote\|>Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said,</\|quote\|>"But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?" "No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was here a moment ago." Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began scolding. "That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as _we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week, not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. You should learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa." Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table, and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high good-humour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, "I must say, ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the house." "Fanny," said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, "I am sure you have the headache." She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad. "I can hardly believe you," he replied; "I know your looks too well. How long have you had it?" "Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat." "Did you go out in the heat?" "Go out! to be sure she did," said Mrs. Norris: "would you have her stay within such a fine day as this? Were not we _all_ out? Even your mother was out to-day for above an hour." "Yes, indeed, Edmund," added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand to Fanny; "I was out above an hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the coming home again." "Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?" "Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! _She_ found it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could not wait." "There was no help for it, certainly," rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a rather softened voice; "but I question whether her headache might not be caught _then_, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as standing and stooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well to-morrow. Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always forget to have mine filled." "She has got it," said Lady Bertram; "she has had it ever since she came back from your house the second time." "What!" cried Edmund; "has she been walking as well as cutting roses; walking across the hot park to your house, and doing it twice, ma'am? No wonder her head aches." Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear. "I was afraid it would be too much for her," said Lady Bertram; "but when the roses were gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and then you know they must be taken home." "But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?" "No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry; and, unluckily, Fanny forgot to lock the door of the room and bring away the key, so she was obliged to go again." Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying, "And could nobody be employed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word, ma'am, it has been a very ill-managed business." "I am sure I do not know how it was to have been done better," cried Mrs. Norris, unable to be longer deaf; "unless I had gone myself, indeed; but I cannot be in two places at once; and I was talking to Mr. Green at that very time about your mother's dairymaid, by _her_ desire, and had promised John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies about his son, and the poor fellow was waiting for me half an hour. I think nobody can justly accuse me of sparing myself upon any occasion, but really I cannot do everything at once. And as for Fanny's just stepping down to my house for me it is not much above a quarter of a mile I cannot think I was unreasonable to ask it. How often do I pace it three times a day, early	She did not seem to have a thought of fear. Very different from you, miss, when you first began, six years ago come next Easter. Lord bless you! how you did tremble when Sir Thomas first had you put on!" In the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also celebrated. Her merit in being gifted by Nature with strength and courage was fully appreciated by the Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding was like their own; her early excellence in it was like their own, and they had great pleasure in praising it. "I was sure she would ride well," said Julia; "she has the make for it. Her figure is as neat as her brother's." "Yes," added Maria, "and her spirits are as good, and she has the same energy of character. I cannot but think that good horsemanship has a great deal to do with the mind." When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant to ride the next day. "No, I do not know not if you want the mare," was her answer. "I do not want her at all for myself," said he; "but whenever you are next inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad to have her a longer time for a whole morning, in short. She has a great desire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal to it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry to interfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides only for pleasure; _you_ for health." "I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly," said Fanny; "I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong enough now to walk very well."<\|quote\|>Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said,</\|quote\|>"But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?" "No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was here a moment ago." Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began scolding. "That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as _we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week, not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. You should learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa." Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table, and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high good-humour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, "I must say, ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the house." "Fanny," said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, "I am sure you have the headache." She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad. "I can hardly believe you," he replied; "I know your looks too well. How long have you had it?" "Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat." "Did you go out in the heat?" "Go out! to be sure she did," said Mrs. Norris: "would you have her stay within such a fine day as this? Were not we _all_ out? Even your mother was out to-day for above an hour." "Yes, indeed, Edmund," added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand to Fanny; "I was out above an hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the coming home again." "Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?" "Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! _She_ found it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could not wait." "There was no help for it, certainly," rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a rather softened voice; "but I question whether her headache might not be caught _then_, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as standing and stooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well to-morrow. Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always forget to have mine filled." "She has got it," said Lady Bertram; "she has had it ever since she came back from your house the second time." "What!" cried Edmund; "has she been walking as well as cutting roses; walking across the hot park to your house, and doing it twice, ma'am? No wonder her head aches." Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear. "I was afraid it would be	Mansfield Park
But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said,	No speaker	is your sash my dear?"<\|quote\|>But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said,</\|quote\|>"What is the matter mamma?	be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?"<\|quote\|>But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said,</\|quote\|>"What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking	be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago." "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?"<\|quote\|>But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said,</\|quote\|>"What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?" "Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty,	and with her hair half finished, crying out, "My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is come.--He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair." "We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago." "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?"<\|quote\|>But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said,</\|quote\|>"What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?" "Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here, my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her intreaty that _she_ would not give into it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door	with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. "Next time you call," said she, "I hope we shall be more lucky." He should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them. "Can you come to-morrow?" Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was accepted with alacrity. He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out, "My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is come.--He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair." "We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago." "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?"<\|quote\|>But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said,</\|quote\|>"What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?" "Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here, my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her intreaty that _she_ would not give into it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out, "Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you." Elizabeth was forced to go. "We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her mother as soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in my dressing-room." Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His	his conversation as an agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied from what his manners now are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing than any other man." "You are very cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me smile, and are provoking me to it every moment." "How hard it is in some cases to be believed!" "And how impossible in others!" "But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I acknowledge?" "That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make _me_ your confidante." CHAPTER XIII. A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. "Next time you call," said she, "I hope we shall be more lucky." He should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them. "Can you come to-morrow?" Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was accepted with alacrity. He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out, "My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is come.--He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair." "We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago." "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?"<\|quote\|>But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said,</\|quote\|>"What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?" "Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here, my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her intreaty that _she_ would not give into it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out, "Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you." Elizabeth was forced to go. "We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her mother as soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in my dressing-room." Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command of countenance, particularly grateful to the daughter. He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband. After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's concurrence. Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley, that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric than the other had ever seen him. Bingley	all her views were overthrown, by seeing him fall a victim to her mother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated with the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure. They were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had nothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side of the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself. Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them. "Well girls," said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, "What say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly well, I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The venison was roasted to a turn--and everybody said, they never saw so fat a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the Lucas's last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges were remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French cooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater beauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And what do you think she said besides?" 'Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her at Netherfield at last.' "She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good a creature as ever lived--and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls, and not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously." Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of Bingley's behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get him at last; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at not seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals. "It has been a very agreeable day," said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. "The party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we may often meet again." Elizabeth smiled. "Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied from what his manners now are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing than any other man." "You are very cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me smile, and are provoking me to it every moment." "How hard it is in some cases to be believed!" "And how impossible in others!" "But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I acknowledge?" "That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make _me_ your confidante." CHAPTER XIII. A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. "Next time you call," said she, "I hope we shall be more lucky." He should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them. "Can you come to-morrow?" Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was accepted with alacrity. He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out, "My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is come.--He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair." "We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago." "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?"<\|quote\|>But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said,</\|quote\|>"What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?" "Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here, my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her intreaty that _she_ would not give into it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out, "Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you." Elizabeth was forced to go. "We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her mother as soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in my dressing-room." Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command of countenance, particularly grateful to the daughter. He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband. After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's concurrence. Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley, that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric than the other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted to counteract her mother's schemes. But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both as they hastily turned round, and moved away from each other, would have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _her's_ she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world. "'Tis too much!" she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not every body as happy?" Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said, for the present. "I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much happiness!" She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty. Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at	you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied from what his manners now are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing than any other man." "You are very cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me smile, and are provoking me to it every moment." "How hard it is in some cases to be believed!" "And how impossible in others!" "But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I acknowledge?" "That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make _me_ your confidante." CHAPTER XIII. A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. "Next time you call," said she, "I hope we shall be more lucky." He should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them. "Can you come to-morrow?" Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was accepted with alacrity. He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out, "My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is come.--He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair." "We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago." "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! where is your sash my dear?"<\|quote\|>But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters. The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said,</\|quote\|>"What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?" "Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here, my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her intreaty that _she_ would not give into it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out, "Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you." Elizabeth was forced to go. "We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her mother as soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in my dressing-room." Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command of countenance, particularly grateful to the daughter. He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband. After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's concurrence. Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley, that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric than the other had ever seen him. Bingley of	Pride And Prejudice
"My dear Emma,"	Mr. Knightley	neglect in such a cause.<\|quote\|>"My dear Emma,"</\|quote\|>said he at last, with	rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.<\|quote\|>"My dear Emma,"</\|quote\|>said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think	confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.<\|quote\|>"My dear Emma,"</\|quote\|>said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?" "Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?" "Have you never at any time	"The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill." He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference--fruitless interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.<\|quote\|>"My dear Emma,"</\|quote\|>said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?" "Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?" "Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?" "Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--" "Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your head?" "I have lately imagined	duty. "Pray, Emma," said he, "may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other." Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of having ever imparted them. "Oh!" she cried in evident embarrassment, "it all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves." "The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill." He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference--fruitless interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.<\|quote\|>"My dear Emma,"</\|quote\|>said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?" "Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?" "Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?" "Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--" "Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your head?" "I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them--certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be public." "Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander--but it will not do--very sorry to check you in your first essay--but indeed it will not do. There is no admiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances--feelings rather of a totally different nature--it is impossible exactly to explain:--there is a good deal of nonsense in it--but the part which	latter, though Jane had not spoken a word--" "I was just going to say the same thing. It is time for us to be going indeed. The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be looking for us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good night." Jane's alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had preconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table; but so many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr. Knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was afterwards looking for her shawl--Frank Churchill was looking also--it was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted, Mr. Knightley could not tell. He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his observations, he must--yes, he certainly must, as a friend--an anxious friend--give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her in a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was his duty. "Pray, Emma," said he, "may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other." Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of having ever imparted them. "Oh!" she cried in evident embarrassment, "it all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves." "The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill." He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference--fruitless interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.<\|quote\|>"My dear Emma,"</\|quote\|>said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?" "Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?" "Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?" "Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--" "Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your head?" "I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them--certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be public." "Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander--but it will not do--very sorry to check you in your first essay--but indeed it will not do. There is no admiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances--feelings rather of a totally different nature--it is impossible exactly to explain:--there is a good deal of nonsense in it--but the part which is capable of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as far from any attachment or admiration for one another, as any two beings in the world can be. That is, I _presume_ it to be so on her side, and I can _answer_ for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman's indifference." She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction which silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, and would have prolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his suspicions, every look described, and all the wheres and hows of a circumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet hers. He found he could not be useful, and his feelings were too much irritated for talking. That he might not be irritated into an absolute fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse's tender habits required almost every evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty leave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey. CHAPTER VI After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification	was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for help. The word was _blunder_; and as Harriet exultingly proclaimed it, there was a blush on Jane's cheek which gave it a meaning not otherwise ostensible. Mr. Knightley connected it with the dream; but how it could all be, was beyond his comprehension. How the delicacy, the discretion of his favourite could have been so lain asleep! He feared there must be some decided involvement. Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed to meet him at every turn. These letters were but the vehicle for gallantry and trick. It was a child's play, chosen to conceal a deeper game on Frank Churchill's part. With great indignation did he continue to observe him; with great alarm and distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions. He saw a short word prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look sly and demure. He saw that Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly entertaining, though it was something which she judged it proper to appear to censure; for she said, "Nonsense! for shame!" He heard Frank Churchill next say, with a glance towards Jane, "I will give it to her--shall I?" "--and as clearly heard Emma opposing it with eager laughing warmth. "No, no, you must not; you shall not, indeed." It was done however. This gallant young man, who seemed to love without feeling, and to recommend himself without complaisance, directly handed over the word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of sedate civility entreated her to study it. Mr. Knightley's excessive curiosity to know what this word might be, made him seize every possible moment for darting his eye towards it, and it was not long before he saw it to be _Dixon_. Jane Fairfax's perception seemed to accompany his; her comprehension was certainly more equal to the covert meaning, the superior intelligence, of those five letters so arranged. She was evidently displeased; looked up, and seeing herself watched, blushed more deeply than he had ever perceived her, and saying only, "I did not know that proper names were allowed," pushed away the letters with even an angry spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by no other word that could be offered. Her face was averted from those who had made the attack, and turned towards her aunt. "Aye, very true, my dear," cried the latter, though Jane had not spoken a word--" "I was just going to say the same thing. It is time for us to be going indeed. The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be looking for us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good night." Jane's alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had preconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table; but so many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr. Knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was afterwards looking for her shawl--Frank Churchill was looking also--it was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted, Mr. Knightley could not tell. He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his observations, he must--yes, he certainly must, as a friend--an anxious friend--give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her in a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was his duty. "Pray, Emma," said he, "may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other." Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of having ever imparted them. "Oh!" she cried in evident embarrassment, "it all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves." "The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill." He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference--fruitless interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.<\|quote\|>"My dear Emma,"</\|quote\|>said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?" "Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?" "Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?" "Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--" "Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your head?" "I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them--certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be public." "Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander--but it will not do--very sorry to check you in your first essay--but indeed it will not do. There is no admiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances--feelings rather of a totally different nature--it is impossible exactly to explain:--there is a good deal of nonsense in it--but the part which is capable of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as far from any attachment or admiration for one another, as any two beings in the world can be. That is, I _presume_ it to be so on her side, and I can _answer_ for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman's indifference." She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction which silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, and would have prolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his suspicions, every look described, and all the wheres and hows of a circumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet hers. He found he could not be useful, and his feelings were too much irritated for talking. That he might not be irritated into an absolute fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse's tender habits required almost every evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty leave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey. CHAPTER VI After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. No such importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at present. In the daily interchange of news, they must be again restricted to the other topics with which for a while the Sucklings' coming had been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill, whose health seemed every day to supply a different report, and the situation of Mrs. Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might eventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child, as that of all her neighbours was by the approach of it. Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of a great deal of pleasure and parade. Her introductions and recommendations must all wait, and every projected party be still only talked of. So she thought at first;--but a little consideration convinced her that every thing need not be put off. Why should not they explore to Box Hill though the Sucklings did not come? They could go there again with them in the autumn. It was settled that they should go to Box Hill. That there was to be such a party had been long generally known: it had even given the idea of another. Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what every body found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or three more of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings. This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr. Weston that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it was to be, if she had no objection. Now, as her objection was nothing but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must already be perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward again:--it could not be done without a	moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had preconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table; but so many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr. Knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was afterwards looking for her shawl--Frank Churchill was looking also--it was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted, Mr. Knightley could not tell. He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his observations, he must--yes, he certainly must, as a friend--an anxious friend--give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her in a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was his duty. "Pray, Emma," said he, "may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other." Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of having ever imparted them. "Oh!" she cried in evident embarrassment, "it all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves." "The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill." He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference--fruitless interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.<\|quote\|>"My dear Emma,"</\|quote\|>said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?" "Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?" "Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?" "Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--" "Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your head?" "I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them--certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be public." "Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander--but it will not do--very sorry to check you in your first essay--but indeed it will not do. There is no admiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances--feelings rather of a totally different nature--it is impossible exactly to explain:--there is a good deal of nonsense in it--but the part which is capable of being communicated, which is sense, is,	Emma
my companion answered.	No speaker	"I think not, thank you,"<\|quote\|>my companion answered.</\|quote\|>"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones,	about?" asked the convict, affably. "I think not, thank you,"<\|quote\|>my companion answered.</\|quote\|>"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to	boat." "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe at the time." "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that." "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably. "I think not, thank you,"<\|quote\|>my companion answered.</\|quote\|>"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humoured, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we	There is nothing at all new to me in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat." "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe at the time." "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that." "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably. "I think not, thank you,"<\|quote\|>my companion answered.</\|quote\|>"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humoured, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two inspectors downstairs. I am much obliged to you both for your assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to you." "Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small. "You first, Small,"	was some screw loose, but he was not in our secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you, gentlemen, it is not to amuse you, for you have not done me a very good turn, but it is because I believe the best defence I can make is just to hold back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I have myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the death of his son." "A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes. "A fitting wind-up to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat." "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe at the time." "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that." "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably. "I think not, thank you,"<\|quote\|>my companion answered.</\|quote\|>"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humoured, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two inspectors downstairs. I am much obliged to you both for your assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to you." "Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small. "You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room. "I ll take particular care that you don t club me with your wooden leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman Isles." "Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after we had set some time smoking in silence. "I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective." He gave a most dismal groan. "I feared	his way through the roof, but, as ill luck would have it, Bartholomew Sholto was still in the room, to his cost. Tonga thought he had done something very clever in killing him, for when I came up by the rope I found him strutting about as proud as a peacock. Very much surprised was he when I made at him with the rope s end and cursed him for a little blood-thirsty imp. I took the treasure-box and let it down, and then slid down myself, having first left the sign of the four upon the table, to show that the jewels had come back at last to those who had most right to them. Tonga then pulled up the rope, closed the window, and made off the way that he had come." "I don t know that I have anything else to tell you. I had heard a waterman speak of the speed of Smith s launch the _Aurora_, so I thought she would be a handy craft for our escape. I engaged with old Smith, and was to give him a big sum if he got us safe to our ship. He knew, no doubt, that there was some screw loose, but he was not in our secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you, gentlemen, it is not to amuse you, for you have not done me a very good turn, but it is because I believe the best defence I can make is just to hold back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I have myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the death of his son." "A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes. "A fitting wind-up to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat." "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe at the time." "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that." "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably. "I think not, thank you,"<\|quote\|>my companion answered.</\|quote\|>"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humoured, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two inspectors downstairs. I am much obliged to you both for your assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to you." "Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small. "You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room. "I ll take particular care that you don t club me with your wooden leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman Isles." "Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after we had set some time smoking in silence. "I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective." He gave a most dismal groan. "I feared as much," said he. "I really cannot congratulate you." I was a little hurt. "Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my choice?" I asked. "Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have been doing. She had a decided genius that way: witness the way in which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father. But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment." "I trust," said I, laughing, "that my judgment may survive the ordeal. But you look weary." "Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be as limp as a rag for a week." "Strange," said I, "how terms of what in another man I should call laziness alternate with your fits of splendid energy and vigour." "Yes," he answered, "there are in me the makings of a very fine loafer and also of a pretty spry sort of fellow. I often think of those	his sons and his khitmutgar, on guard over him." "One day, however, I got word that he was dying. I hurried at once to the garden, mad that he should slip out of my clutches like that, and, looking through the window, I saw him lying in his bed, with his sons on each side of him. I d have come through and taken my chance with the three of them, only even as I looked at him his jaw dropped, and I knew that he was gone. I got into his room that same night, though, and I searched his papers to see if there was any record of where he had hidden our jewels. There was not a line, however: so I came away, bitter and savage as a man could be. Before I left I bethought me that if I ever met my Sikh friends again it would be a satisfaction to know that I had left some mark of our hatred; so I scrawled down the sign of the four of us, as it had been on the chart, and I pinned it on his bosom. It was too much that he should be taken to the grave without some token from the men whom he had robbed and befooled." "We earned a living at this time by my exhibiting poor Tonga at fairs and other such places as the black cannibal. He would eat raw meat and dance his war-dance: so we always had a hatful of pennies after a day s work. I still heard all the news from Pondicherry Lodge, and for some years there was no news to hear, except that they were hunting for the treasure. At last, however, came what we had waited for so long. The treasure had been found. It was up at the top of the house, in Mr. Bartholomew Sholto s chemical laboratory. I came at once and had a look at the place, but I could not see how with my wooden leg I was to make my way up to it. I learned, however, about a trap-door in the roof, and also about Mr. Sholto s supper-hour. It seemed to me that I could manage the thing easily through Tonga. I brought him out with me with a long rope wound round his waist. He could climb like a cat, and he soon made his way through the roof, but, as ill luck would have it, Bartholomew Sholto was still in the room, to his cost. Tonga thought he had done something very clever in killing him, for when I came up by the rope I found him strutting about as proud as a peacock. Very much surprised was he when I made at him with the rope s end and cursed him for a little blood-thirsty imp. I took the treasure-box and let it down, and then slid down myself, having first left the sign of the four upon the table, to show that the jewels had come back at last to those who had most right to them. Tonga then pulled up the rope, closed the window, and made off the way that he had come." "I don t know that I have anything else to tell you. I had heard a waterman speak of the speed of Smith s launch the _Aurora_, so I thought she would be a handy craft for our escape. I engaged with old Smith, and was to give him a big sum if he got us safe to our ship. He knew, no doubt, that there was some screw loose, but he was not in our secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you, gentlemen, it is not to amuse you, for you have not done me a very good turn, but it is because I believe the best defence I can make is just to hold back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I have myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the death of his son." "A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes. "A fitting wind-up to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat." "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe at the time." "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that." "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably. "I think not, thank you,"<\|quote\|>my companion answered.</\|quote\|>"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humoured, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two inspectors downstairs. I am much obliged to you both for your assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to you." "Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small. "You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room. "I ll take particular care that you don t club me with your wooden leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman Isles." "Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after we had set some time smoking in silence. "I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective." He gave a most dismal groan. "I feared as much," said he. "I really cannot congratulate you." I was a little hurt. "Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my choice?" I asked. "Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have been doing. She had a decided genius that way: witness the way in which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father. But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment." "I trust," said I, laughing, "that my judgment may survive the ordeal. But you look weary." "Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be as limp as a rag for a week." "Strange," said I, "how terms of what in another man I should call laziness alternate with your fits of splendid energy and vigour." "Yes," he answered, "there are in me the makings of a very fine loafer and also of a pretty spry sort of fellow. I often think of those lines of old Goethe," Schade dass die Natur nur _einen_ Mensch aus Dir schuf, Denn zum w rdigen Mann war und zum Schelmen der Stoff. "By the way, _ propos_ of this Norwood business, you see that they had, as I surmised, a confederate in the house, who could be none other than Lal Rao, the butler: so Jones actually has the undivided honour of having caught one fish in his great haul." "The division seems rather unfair," I remarked. "You have done all the work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the credit, pray what remains for you?" "For me," said Sherlock Holmes, "there still remains the cocaine-bottle." And he stretched his long white hand up for it.	made off the way that he had come." "I don t know that I have anything else to tell you. I had heard a waterman speak of the speed of Smith s launch the _Aurora_, so I thought she would be a handy craft for our escape. I engaged with old Smith, and was to give him a big sum if he got us safe to our ship. He knew, no doubt, that there was some screw loose, but he was not in our secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you, gentlemen, it is not to amuse you, for you have not done me a very good turn, but it is because I believe the best defence I can make is just to hold back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I have myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the death of his son." "A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes. "A fitting wind-up to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat." "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe at the time." "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that." "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked the convict, affably. "I think not, thank you,"<\|quote\|>my companion answered.</\|quote\|>"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humoured, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two inspectors downstairs. I am much obliged to you both for your assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to you." "Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small. "You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room. "I ll take particular care that you don t club me with your wooden leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman Isles." "Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after we had set some time smoking in silence. "I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective." He gave a most dismal groan. "I feared as much," said he. "I really cannot congratulate you." I was a little hurt. "Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my choice?" I asked. "Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have been doing. She had a decided genius that way: witness the way in which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father.	The Sign Of The Four
"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,"	General Tilney	sir, as you came in."<\|quote\|>"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,"</\|quote\|>he continued, without leaving his	beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in."<\|quote\|>"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,"</\|quote\|>he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, "has	might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?" "I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in."<\|quote\|>"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,"</\|quote\|>he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, "has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se nnight. A letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope of	very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known this before" "Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you would be so good it would make me very happy if" The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?" "I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in."<\|quote\|>"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,"</\|quote\|>he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, "has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se nnight. A letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit	quitting Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment. Catherine s countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney s concluding words, "By the end of another week!" "Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home." "I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known this before" "Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you would be so good it would make me very happy if" The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?" "I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in."<\|quote\|>"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,"</\|quote\|>he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, "has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se nnight. A letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as yours but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond expression. Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither by amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as	her acquaintance with the Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance. Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense, and everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should be taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to produce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney made but a small part of Catherine s speculation. Once or twice indeed, since James s engagement had taught her what _could_ be done, she had got so far as to indulge in a secret "perhaps," but in general the felicity of being with him for the present bounded her views: the present was now comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for that period, the rest of her life was at such a distance as to excite but little interest. In the course of the morning which saw this business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had she expressed her delight in Mr. Allen s lengthened stay than Miss Tilney told her of her father s having just determined upon quitting Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment. Catherine s countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney s concluding words, "By the end of another week!" "Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home." "I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known this before" "Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you would be so good it would make me very happy if" The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?" "I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in."<\|quote\|>"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,"</\|quote\|>he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, "has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se nnight. A letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as yours but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond expression. Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither by amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain and unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable." Northanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine s feelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her company so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her acceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma s approbation, was eagerly given. "I will write home directly," said she, "and if they do not object, as I dare say they will not" General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her excellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of his wishes. "Since they can consent to part with you," said he, "we may expect philosophy from all the world." Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities, and the affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this necessary reference to Fullerton would allow. The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine s	was a young woman so beloved as you are by everybody that knows you; and I dare say when Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child but do not let us distress our dear Catherine by talking of such things. Mr. Morland has behaved so very handsome, you know. I always heard he was a most excellent man; and you know, my dear, we are not to suppose but what, if you had had a suitable fortune, he would have come down with something more, for I am sure he must be a most liberal-minded man." "Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do, I am sure. But everybody has their failing, you know, and everybody has a right to do what they like with their own money." Catherine was hurt by these insinuations. "I am very sure," said she, "that my father has promised to do as much as he can afford." Isabella recollected herself. "As to that, my sweet Catherine, there cannot be a doubt, and you know me well enough to be sure that a much smaller income would satisfy me. It is not the want of more money that makes me just at present a little out of spirits; I hate money; and if our union could take place now upon only fifty pounds a year, I should not have a wish unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have found me out. There s the sting. The long, long, endless two years and half that are to pass before your brother can hold the living." "Yes, yes, my darling Isabella," said Mrs. Thorpe, "we perfectly see into your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the present vexation; and everybody must love you the better for such a noble honest affection." Catherine s uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured to believe that the delay of the marriage was the only source of Isabella s regret; and when she saw her at their next interview as cheerful and amiable as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a minute thought otherwise. James soon followed his letter, and was received with the most gratifying kindness. CHAPTER 17 The Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and whether it should be the last was for some time a question, to which Catherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with the Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance. Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense, and everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should be taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to produce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney made but a small part of Catherine s speculation. Once or twice indeed, since James s engagement had taught her what _could_ be done, she had got so far as to indulge in a secret "perhaps," but in general the felicity of being with him for the present bounded her views: the present was now comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for that period, the rest of her life was at such a distance as to excite but little interest. In the course of the morning which saw this business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had she expressed her delight in Mr. Allen s lengthened stay than Miss Tilney told her of her father s having just determined upon quitting Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment. Catherine s countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney s concluding words, "By the end of another week!" "Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home." "I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known this before" "Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you would be so good it would make me very happy if" The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?" "I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in."<\|quote\|>"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,"</\|quote\|>he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, "has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se nnight. A letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as yours but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond expression. Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither by amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain and unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable." Northanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine s feelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her company so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her acceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma s approbation, was eagerly given. "I will write home directly," said she, "and if they do not object, as I dare say they will not" General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her excellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of his wishes. "Since they can consent to part with you," said he, "we may expect philosophy from all the world." Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities, and the affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this necessary reference to Fullerton would allow. The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine s feelings through the varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they were now safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture, with Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she hurried home to write her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland, relying on the discretion of the friends to whom they had already entrusted their daughter, felt no doubt of the propriety of an acquaintance which had been formed under their eye, and sent therefore by return of post their ready consent to her visit in Gloucestershire. This indulgence, though not more than Catherine had hoped for, completed her conviction of being favoured beyond every other human creature, in friends and fortune, circumstance and chance. Everything seemed to cooperate for her advantage. By the kindness of her first friends, the Allens, she had been introduced into scenes where pleasures of every kind had met her. Her feelings, her preferences, had each known the happiness of a return. Wherever she felt attachment, she had been able to create it. The affection of Isabella was to be secured to her in a sister. The Tilneys, they, by whom, above all, she desired to be favourably thought of, outstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures by which their intimacy was to be continued. She was to be their chosen visitor, she was to be for weeks under the same roof with the person whose society she mostly prized and, in addition to all the rest, this roof was to be the roof of an abbey! Her passion for ancient edifices was next in degree to her passion for Henry Tilney and castles and abbeys made usually the charm of those reveries which his image did not fill. To see and explore either the ramparts and keep of the one, or the cloisters of the other, had been for many weeks a darling wish, though to be more than the visitor of an hour had seemed too nearly impossible for desire. And yet, this was to happen. With all the chances against her of house, hall, place, park, court, and cottage, Northanger turned up an abbey, and she was to be its inhabitant. Its long, damp passages, its narrow cells and ruined chapel, were to be within her daily reach, and she could not entirely subdue the hope of some traditional legends, some awful memorials of an injured	unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have found me out. There s the sting. The long, long, endless two years and half that are to pass before your brother can hold the living." "Yes, yes, my darling Isabella," said Mrs. Thorpe, "we perfectly see into your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the present vexation; and everybody must love you the better for such a noble honest affection." Catherine s uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured to believe that the delay of the marriage was the only source of Isabella s regret; and when she saw her at their next interview as cheerful and amiable as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a minute thought otherwise. James soon followed his letter, and was received with the most gratifying kindness. CHAPTER 17 The Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and whether it should be the last was for some time a question, to which Catherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with the Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance. Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense, and everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should be taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to produce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney made but a small part of Catherine s speculation. Once or twice indeed, since James s engagement had taught her what _could_ be done, she had got so far as to indulge in a secret "perhaps," but in general the felicity of being with him for the present bounded her views: the present was now comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for that period, the rest of her life was at such a distance as to excite but little interest. In the course of the morning which saw this business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had she expressed her delight in Mr. Allen s lengthened stay than Miss Tilney told her of her father s having just determined upon quitting Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment. Catherine s countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney s concluding words, "By the end of another week!" "Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home." "I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known this before" "Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you would be so good it would make me very happy if" The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?" "I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in."<\|quote\|>"Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland,"</\|quote\|>he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, "has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se nnight. A letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as yours but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond expression. Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither by amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain and unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable." Northanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine s feelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her company so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her acceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma s approbation, was eagerly given. "I will write home directly," said she, "and if they do not object, as I dare say they will not" General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her excellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of his wishes. "Since they can consent to part with you," said he, "we may expect philosophy from all the world." Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities, and the affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this necessary reference to Fullerton would allow. The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine s feelings through the varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they were now safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture, with Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she hurried home to write her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland, relying on the discretion of the friends to whom they had already entrusted their daughter, felt no doubt of the propriety of an acquaintance which had been	Northanger Abbey
"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"	Catherine Morland	the same kind for you."<\|quote\|>"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"</\|quote\|>"I will read you their	ten or twelve more of the same kind for you."<\|quote\|>"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"</\|quote\|>"I will read you their names directly; here they are,	would not have come away from it for all the world." "Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you."<\|quote\|>"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"</\|quote\|>"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time." "Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure	be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina s skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world." "Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you."<\|quote\|>"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"</\|quote\|>"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time." "Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?" "Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is netting herself the	window in Milsom Street just now very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?" "Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the black veil." "Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?" "Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me I would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina s skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world." "Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you."<\|quote\|>"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"</\|quote\|>"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time." "Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?" "Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it." "Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?" "Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night,	pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine days, is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of the delicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which marked the reasonableness of that attachment. They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five minutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, "My dearest creature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at least this age!" "Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?" "Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half hour. But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy ourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place, I was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off; it looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do you know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in Milsom Street just now very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?" "Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the black veil." "Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?" "Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me I would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina s skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world." "Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you."<\|quote\|>"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"</\|quote\|>"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time." "Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?" "Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it." "Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?" "Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for _you_ are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men." "Oh, dear!" cried Catherine, colouring. "How can you say so?" "I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly I am sure he is in love with you." Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella laughed. "It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody s admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you" speaking more seriously "your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is	to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers. And while the abilities of the nine-hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the man who collects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper from the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogized by a thousand pens there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them. "I am no novel-reader I seldom look into novels Do not imagine that _I_ often read novels It is really very well for a novel." Such is the common cant. "And what are you reading, Miss ?" "Oh! It is only a novel!" replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. "It is only Cecilia, or Camilla, or Belinda"; or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language. Now, had the same young lady been engaged with a volume of the Spectator, instead of such a work, how proudly would she have produced the book, and told its name; though the chances must be against her being occupied by any part of that voluminous publication, of which either the matter or manner would not disgust a young person of taste: the substance of its papers so often consisting in the statement of improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics of conversation which no longer concern anyone living; and their language, too, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea of the age that could endure it. CHAPTER 6 The following conversation, which took place between the two friends in the pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine days, is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of the delicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which marked the reasonableness of that attachment. They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five minutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, "My dearest creature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at least this age!" "Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?" "Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half hour. But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy ourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place, I was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off; it looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do you know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in Milsom Street just now very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?" "Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the black veil." "Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?" "Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me I would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina s skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world." "Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you."<\|quote\|>"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"</\|quote\|>"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time." "Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?" "Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it." "Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?" "Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for _you_ are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men." "Oh, dear!" cried Catherine, colouring. "How can you say so?" "I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly I am sure he is in love with you." Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella laughed. "It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody s admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you" speaking more seriously "your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend your feelings." "But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr. Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again." "Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so!" "No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very much pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina s skeleton behind it." "It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before; but I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels." "No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself; but new books do not fall in our way." "Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume." "It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very entertaining." "Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable. But, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head tonight? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you. The men take notice of _that_ sometimes, you know." "But it does not signify if they do," said Catherine, very innocently. "Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say. They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with spirit, and make them keep their distance." "Are they? Well, I never observed _that_. They always behave very well to me." "Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited creatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance! By the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always forgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you like them best dark or fair?" "I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both, I think. Brown	let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy ourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place, I was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off; it looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do you know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in Milsom Street just now very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?" "Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the black veil." "Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?" "Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me I would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina s skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world." "Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you."<\|quote\|>"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"</\|quote\|>"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time." "Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?" "Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it." "Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?" "Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for _you_ are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men." "Oh, dear!" cried Catherine, colouring. "How can you say so?" "I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly I am sure he is in love with	Northanger Abbey